I glance over at him, wincing at the bright red handprint that’s still glowing on his face. Damn, Snow got him good. "What?"
"Snow. Got a place for her bakery. I know we wanted the club to set it up, but I want to do this for her. Personally. She'll believe it's the club’s business, though. Keep it clean."
I shrug, respecting the play. "You know I don't give a shit who pays for it. It's a good idea. But we'll need to bring it to Pope."
"Don't really give a shit what he says," Butcher grunts. "I’m doing it. I’ll back it. Need you to get on the paperwork for me."
"Will do."
Butcher nods and strides out to meet Pope. They exchange a few low words, Butcher standing like a stone, until Pope finally shrugs, claps his shoulder, and they return to the group together.
"Arson," Pope says, his voice flat. He doesn't need to state the obvious. The smell of accelerant is still hanging in the air. "You find anything, Cypher?"
"Nothing concrete yet. Whoever it was blended in with the crowd. Professional. I’m going over every frame. Something will pop."
Pope nods, folding his arms over his chest. His eyes find mine, and I see the regret from the chapel still simmering there. "Don't know if this shit is connected to Marigold or not. Tomcat, do you know anything about this proof she was talking about?"
"Just a picture with writing on the back. Same style as the note from tonight. Generic block letters. Honestly, the threats could be directed at me or at her. Or both. The picture tells her to stay away from me."
"You piss off anyone recently?" Pope asks, his tone purely tactical.
"All those ladies he’s been fucking... there's bound to be some that aren't happy about the new arrangement," Savior adds, his voice dry.
"I never made promises to any of them," I snap, my patience wearing thin. "I was clear. If they read something into a one-night stand, that’s on them. As my little shadow pointed out, wearen't responsible for anyone else’s actions." I shove my hands into my pockets, thinking back through the faces of the last few months. "It's possible. There were a few who didn't like that I didn't stick around, but none of them have caused problems."
"That you know of," Malice states.
"That I know of," I confirm, the weight of the night pressing down on my shoulders. "Marigold said she’s had a few of the sweetbutts try to mark territory, but I don't think that's about them wanting me. They’re just protecting the only home they have. They know the code. Once we claim an Ol' Lady, the game changes. Most of us don't cheat."
"That doesn't mean shit to some of them," Cyanide mutters, and he’s not wrong. Scorned pride is a hell of a motivator.
Pope groans, scrubbing a hand down his face as if he’s trying to wipe away the headache of the last few hours. "For fuck's sake. So we could have anyone out here. Scorned lovers and potential ghosts back from the dead. Guess shit was starting to get too quiet around here." A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face. "Maybe we’ll finally get some play time."
"You telling me you don’t get enough of that with your kids, Pres?" I tease, trying to cut through the grim atmosphere.
It works. That hulking, unbreakable force of nature softens instantly at the mention of his kids. The transformation is always a trip to watch.
"I’ll never get enough of them," Pope says, his voice losing its edge for a split second. "Missed too many years." He clears his throat, snapping back into leader mode. "Right. We hit the ground. Find out what our people know. Tourists are here every day, but if someone like Damon Katzis is walking our streets, someone will know. You can't ignore the stench of evil that lingers on a man like that."
We spend a few more minutes plotting our next moves before we roll out. Butcher veers toward the hospital, as expected,while the rest drift toward the clubhouse. Every front demands attention tonight.
But for me, there’s only one front that matters. My little shadow.
She's left the porch light on.
I can't explain why something so small hits so hard, but it does. That porch light is more than a bulb. It’s a signal, a lighthouse guiding me home. She’s waiting for me, and it feels impossibly good, like I’m getting away with something I never deserved. The clubhouse has always been my real home since I patched in. My own place? Just a storage unit for my stuff, a bed to crash in when the club was quiet. I never cared about someone waiting up, never wanted to be responsible for anyone. After everything I’ve survived, control meant keeping everyone else out of the equation.
Marigold has shattered all my calculations. She’s the wild card I never anticipated, the storm I would have run from if she hadn’t caught me in her gravity the moment our eyes met.
It’s hard to move away from something when your soul keeps leaning toward it. When their darkness knows how to find yours in a crowd.
The door opens before I’ve even kicked the kickstand down. She’s leaning against the frame, a beautiful, haunting silhouette against the soft glow from inside.
We lock eyes for a heartbeat as I swing off the bike. She stays rooted, but I see the tension coiled in her legs, ready to bolt. Some reckless part of me wants her to run, just so I can chase her and feel that wild spark again. But that’s not what either of usneeds. After the fallout at the chapel, I need to know she hasn't completely checked out on us.
Pope and the others have not apologized yet, but I know my words hit home. I saw the shame in their eyes. They'll find their way back to her. Apologize. Make it right. I have to trust that. What I'm less sure about is whether she'll let them. Whether the walls will already be up by the time they get there, whether this loss will stack on top of all the others and become something she decides she already knew was coming.
That's what worries me. Not whether they'll reach out, but whether she'll still be reachable when they do.
