Page 54 of Triplets for the Rival MC

King looks up at her, something in his expression shifts, as if finally accepting he’s lost. “You’d rather die than come home?” he asks, his voice small and sad.

“The Raging Bulls was never my home. You made sure of that,” she replies without sadness, just acceptance, stating a fact. The words hit like a final nail.

He studies her. Really studies her. His gaze lingers on her swollen belly before meeting her steady expression. “You look like your mother,” he says hoarsely, and the rage drains from his face. “She was brave, too.” He exhales sharply, like something inside him finally gives way. “I underestimated you.”

Flint keeps him pinned, not wanting to fall for a trap laid by hollow, too-late apologies.

King’s eyes flick to his men, realizing that none are stepping forward to help him. None of them is willing to defend him. He’s alone. He looks back at Tori, his expression a mixture of emotions as he wrestles with the stubborn beliefs he’s held for so long and the reality he now faces.

Police sirens wail faintly in the distance. Someone must have called in the gunfire, one of the cars that turned and sped away when they spotted the fighting, no doubt.

King stops struggling, but Flint releases him only when officers flood the scene. The remaining Bulls who didn’t escape in time offer no resistance. As the police cuff him, King looks at Tori one last time. His expression is no longer filled with hatred. It’s not quite proud either, but he’s aware that he’s lost, not just the fight, but her.

The sirens fade as they haul him away. The rest of us briefly explain what happened, and all of us will have to go down to the station for questioning, but the Raging Bulls don’t deny that we’re the victims.

The road is littered with shell casings and shattered glass. Our bikes are scratched but upright. The SUV’s windows are blown out, and the interior is dusted with safety glass. Officers begin working the scene.

I rush to Tori, who sits in the back of an ambulance, paramedics checking her over. Cyrus is beside her; he presses his hand to her stomach, breath shaking.

“You okay?” I ask, cupping her face carefully.

She nods, though her eyes are glassy with adrenaline. “They’re moving,” she whispers, holding her stomach. The relief that the babies are okay is overwhelming.

Flint moves to join us, knuckles bloody, chest heaving. “It’s over,” he says quietly.

And I know he’s right, the war is finally over. Not because we crushed them or won by force, but because of Tori’s bravery, King showed his own men exactly who he was, and they chose not to follow.

I wrap my arms around Tori carefully, feeling the steady kicks of our babies letting us know they’re okay beneath my hands. These babies are fighters, just like their parents. I tell Tori how incredible and brave she was, how she ended this war, not us, and the guys echo my words. We hold one another tightly, savoring the brief stillness and moment alone before the mundanity of police interviews and hospital checks will temporarily separate us.

War doesn’t always end in victory parades. Sometimes it ends on the side of the road with a father realizing too late that he lost everything the moment he pointed a gun at his own daughter. Sometimes it ends with a new family, bonded by strife, holding each other and knowing that, as long as they have each other, nothing can stop them.

Chapter 29

Cyrus

The clubhouse is steady these days. Scarred, patched, but steady. The war ended two months ago without more bloodshed thanks to the fractured loyalty of the Raging Bulls and Tori’s bravery. King got dragged away in cuffs, bleeding and screaming, and his empire collapsed like rotten wood.

The Raging Bulls don’t exist the way they used to. Some of their guys scattered. A few approached us about neutral territory. A couple even asked about prospecting. Flint shut most of that down, at least for now. There are a couple we might consider, those who stood up for what was right.

After that night, we breathed a collective sigh of relief that it was finally over. But then King made bail. Ever since, the air’s felt… unfinished. Tonight proves why.

I’m leaning back in the booth, one hand spread wide over Tori’s stomach, feeling the rhythmic shift of one of the babies pressing outward. We’re downstairs eating dinner, our one night a week date night for all four of us. At eight months pregnant, Tori’s just waiting for it to be over. I guess all women get like that toward the end, but with triplets it’s probably worse. The babies are still technically a month away, but her OBGYN said that they’ll probably come sooner.

I hear the rumble of engines approaching. I don’t know why, but something makes me look out of the window to see who it is. It’s then that I realize they’re not ours. Flint and Hunter have the same realization, almost at the same time, as if we’re of one mind. The room changes instantly. It’s like someone flipped a switch from background noise to combat readiness. Flint’s already on his feet. He shoots Tori a look of concern, perhaps hoping she hasn’t noticed what we’ve already realized.

“That’s him,” Tori says quietly, putting her fork down and pushing her plate away from her. Her voice doesn’t shake. She doesn’t sound afraid, merely resigned. We knew this day would come, that King would come back to finish what he started.

I automatically move closer to her, as if my presence can shield her from what’s to come. She looks ready to burst at any moment, and likely she will, yet she still looks like she could take on the world. That doesn’t stop the surge of protective instinct that claws up my spine.

The engines cut outside. Silence follows.

Screw limps toward the door, cracking his knuckles. “Back for more?” he mutters.

Hank shifts near the window. Red and Smoke fan out subtly. There’s no panic, everyone moves calmly, but we’re ready for whatever comes next. Tori starts to stand, using the table as support to try to heft herself upright with the considerable added weight of three babies inside her.

“Tori—” I start.

“I’m not hiding,” she says before I finish. Of course she’s not. Even now, so heavily pregnant, we know better than to refuse her. We should let him inside. It would be safer for her to stay seated, but when I suggest this, she shakes her head. “He doesn’t deserve to come inside these walls.”