“Your heartbeat didn’t show up on the machine,” Adrain adds. “Granted, I figured out it was faulty, and forced the hospital to get rid of it, but still. For all intents and purposes, youdid die. Dr. Stewart isn’t my favorite doctor, yet even he can tell the difference between a patient that’s alive or dead.”
“Doesn’t feel like he can,” I grumble.
I’m nowhere near healed. I can’t raise my arms over my head without effort, firing a weapon brings tears to my eyes from the pain, and my chest is going to be a mess of scar tissue once it’s all said and done.
But I’m alive.
“I have no idea if Marie is back from visiting my brother,” I sigh.
“It’s hard to call people as a dead man, huh?” Adrain replies.
“You’re a dick,” I groan.
“Yep. But he’s our dick,” Wilhelm says, amused.
“You’re going to need people to help you rehabilitate,” Adrain says. “People that aren’t me or mine preferably. You can’t just show up like a bull in a china shop, Lore. You’ll give someone a heart attack or get shot for being a ghost and ruin all my hard work.”
“Wouldn’t that be a shame,” Cyrus drawls.
Fuckers.
“I’ll go to the house first,” I grumble.
Hell, I don’t have keys, a cell phone, or anything else that’ll be even kind of helpful. I do have contacts, and I rode hard to dig up the dirt I needed on Lyker. He fucking knew that Chester was planning to screw us over and he said nothing.
That’s essentially a death sentence in my book for him and his entire club. If I can’t trust any of them, then I’m not keeping them alive. I had a contact who dug up Lyker’s bank statements, and they were dismal.
The entire club is less than worthless. I had the contact transfer money from my pack’s finances to help the widows and their children since I’m responsible for killing their packs, and then called it a day.
I’ve spent the time since then making sure none of this will affect the people I care about. I pretended to be a faceless, nameless Anarchist and visited the outlying chapters. The presidents were all very helpful telling me all about what they thought about Lyker’s betrayal once I got some drinks into them, and the consensus is that you shouldn’t fuck around because you’ll always find out.
My club and Devon’s won’t have any issue for this execution. It’s never good business when chapters are beefing. It’ll always lead to bloodshed and cops breathing down the collective chapters’ throats. No one wants to be concerned that they’ll be wiped off the face of the earth due to a passing shitstorm or insult.
It’s a dance that weaker men than I have failed to grasp, which is why I went underground to get shit handled.
“Thank you for everything,” I finally add, once I realize I’ve been silent for too long.
It doesn’t seem to affect Pack Royal because they merely nod as I stand up. I have more weapons strapped to me than I should need, but I’m feeling twitchy after my near miss with death.
Gingerly standing, I watch as Adrain’s lips press together until they pale from the strain. I shouldn’t be doing fuck all other than laying in bed while someone plays nursemaid, preferably my omega.
Something tells me that may not be the welcome I receive, though. There’s too much uncertainty between us. I left with promises I couldn’t keep, Grim Reaper or not responsible for it.
All I can hope for is that she and my pack will be able to forgive me for my decisions after the shooting. I have a lot of explaining to do.
Maybe I’ll even be able to do it without any more bullet holes too.
Thankfully, I have my cut because Adrain managed to see it and recognized it may be important to me, or it would be a hell of a lot harder to move through the world as a one percenter. The cut signifies that I’m a brother, even if I’m not giving my name out.
You’d think it would be easy for people to recognize me, but my facial hair is out of fucking control. Apparently almost dying has made my body kick start into action to heal, and it’s made my hair and nails grow faster too.
My beard is full, even if it’s messy because I can’t get the effort up to groom it. The hair on my head is longer too, and a pain in my ass. I don’t look like myself, which is a blessing and a curse, and my balaclava simply adds to the mystery.
I’ve been a passing nightmare moving through the clubs, before continuing on to haunt someone else. Lyker called me a ghost, even though he recognized me. I brought my hammer out of retirement just for him, though it’s not the same one I used to keep with me when I needed people to take me fucking seriously.
While theatrical, it did the job.
Pack Royal bought me clothes and provided me with medical care when they didn’t need to, despite Adrain’s oath to care for others. Not once did any of them complain about the cost either, and that means something.
