Page 110 of Priest

“Careful,” I say.

Her fingers tighten around the blanket. “I only meant she must know how much you want her. That’s all.”

“You meant to make her sound like she’s playin’ games,” I say, voice level. “And you said it in my clubhouse, in front of my brothers, about the woman carrying my child.”

Color rises in her cheeks. Around us, the room holds still.

I step closer, quiet enough that she has to listen. “Blue is my Old Lady. You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to understand it. You damn sure don’t get to disrespect it.”

Sadie swallows.

“That goes for every woman in this house,” I continue, letting my gaze move through the room before landing back on her. “My Old Lady gets respect. My kid gets respect. Anybody who struggles with that can pack their shit and find a different roof.”

The silence that follows says the message landed exactly where it needed to.

Sadie looks down at the baby, her mouth pressed tight. “I wasn’t trying to disrespect her.”

“Then show respect.”

Her mouth closes.

I feel the shift in the room, the subtle understanding of distance and lines drawn in permanent ink. My family isn’t standing at this bar.

My family is out there.

“Call if you need anything handled while I’m gone,” I add, glancing over my officers. “Club business runs as usual. That’s all.”

Then I walk out, boots echoing against hardwood, leaving Sadie with her stitched-on claim and a baby who deserves better than the lies circling him.

36

Ghost

Ghost hadn’t slept right in days. Not the kind of sleep that reset anything—just shallow stretches of dark before his brain kicked him back to the surface again. He felt it in his bones, in the dull ache behind his eyes, in the steady pressure sitting just beneath his sternum like something lodged there that refused to move. The clubhouse wasn’t quiet; it never was. But tonight it felt tight, as if the air itself was waiting.

He sat in his room upstairs with the door half-closed, laptop open, the blue glow washing over bare walls and worn floorboards. An empty energy drink can tipped on its side near his elbow. He hadn’t eaten since noon. He hadn’t even noticed until the tremor in his fingers made the cursor jump across the screen. He flexed his hands, cracked his knuckles, and rolled his neck once before forcing his focus back to the data.

Lena.

He didn’t want to believe what the patterns were suggesting. He didn’t want to follow the line all the way to where it might end. Ledger loved that woman—not quietly, not casually, but loud and open, like she was the one thing in his life he never questioned. If Lena was stepping out, that would break him. And if Ghost was the one to confirm it, he wasn’t sure who it would destroy more.

But patterns didn’t lie.

Lena had been pricing rental properties under her maiden name—two-bedroom townhouses in quiet subdivisions miles outside Saints territory. Places with trimmed lawns and neighborhood watches. Places that didn’t hum with engines at all hours of the night. He’d traced repeated calls on her phone to a real estate agent in another town and cross-referenced the GPS data. She’d driven out there twice last week and met the same man at a café. They’d leaned over paperwork, close enough to look familiar, and when they parted she’d hugged him. Quick. Polite. Still.

Ghost had watched from across the street with the engine off and his hands tight on the steering wheel, telling himself he would leave if it crossed a line. He hadn’t left.

She’d also requested enrollment packets from private academies outside the county line—tuition breakdowns, transfer policies, applications partially filled and saved. Ledger talked about prospecting. Lena was researching private schools. There were small withdrawals into a separate account opened under Lena Vaughn. Nothing dramatic. Nothing reckless. Just steady and intentional.

He stared at the screen until the numbers blurred.

Affair or exit plan—either way, she wasn’t telling Ledger.

Earlier that evening, before Ghost had retreated upstairs, the bar had been loud with its usual rhythm. Music low. Men leaning over pool tables. Old Ladies gathered in their corner booth. Lena had been standing at the bar when Ledger came up behind her and slid an arm around her waist like it was instinct. He kissed her temple and murmured something low enough that Ghost couldn’t hear it.

“You good?” Ledger had asked.

“Yeah,” she’d said, a little too quick.