Page 32 of Iron and Ivory

I nearly laugh. Nearly. Because that's the moment it lands—he's never been patched in. Never sat in a closed room while the men around him voted on things that could get somebody killed. He's still a prospect. Still furniture, technically. But he's my furniture now, and the rules that applied yesterday don't all apply today.

"Sit your fuckin' ass down, Dusty."

He smiles. "Yes, sir."

And I can respect that smile. Genuinely. It ain't the smile of a man who's scared—it's the smile of a man who just got told he belongs somewhere, and he knows what that's worth.

I know what that's worth. Took me thirteen fuckin' years to earn my own seat at a table like this one, and even then I had to go to prison first, had to eat three years of silence in a six-by-eight box while Brick sat right where I'm standin' now and ran things without me.

In my defense—and I'm always in need of one—I was tangled up with Eleanor Ashby for most of those years.

Not tangled the way people think. Not like that.

Tangled the way a man gets when someone powerful decides they have a plan for him and he's too young, and too broke, and too goddamn hungry to argue.

She was a formidable force. Formidable opposing force.

But that grin on Dusty's face—wide and a little disbelieving, like he can't quite trust that the door just opened—that pulls me back.

Because I remember bein' exactly that.

Standin' outside somethin' I wanted so bad I could feel it in my soul, just hopin' nobody changed their mind before I could get inside.

I've always wanted to be part of Badlands. Since before I had the words for it. Since I knew that belonging to something mean and permanent was the closest thing to safety a man like me was ever gonna find.

Diesel and I take our places at the tables. This is when it hits. All the other officers are dead. Diesel is the last one standing.

He lets out a long breath, like he's tired of this day. This whole fuckin' shit show that never quite seems to end. "We need to vote on a bunch of shit, actually."

I nod.

Indeed we do.

Diesel calls it. "Church is open. First order of business—Butch."

No preamble. No speech. No here's what happened, here's what we know, here's what we think. Just the man's name dropped in the middle of the room like a bomb.

Butch doesn't react. Which tells me he knew this was comin'. Probably been knowin' it for nineteen days.

"All in favor of Butch remainin' a patched member of Badlands MC⁠—"

Nobody moves.

Not one hand.

Not one.

The silence goes on long enough to become its own kind of answer, and I feel it in my stomach before I feel it anywhere else—that specific sick drop, the one that comes before something irreversible.

I don't dislike Butch.

That's the thing.

I genuinely, actually, do not dislike this man.

He runs the range. He's ex-marine, he's capable, and if the vote comes back no… he's not gonna fold his hands and wait for it.

I can't see a weapon on him. But I'd bet my life there's a gun under that cut. He doesn't go anywhere without iron on him. Which means if this vote goes the wrong direction, somebody in this room is gonna get shot before it's done.