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"If you've got something to say to me about Destiny, then just say it."

"OK." I look him straight on again. Dead center. No flinch, no courtesy, no social lubrication of any kind. "I will. I think you're a piece of shit for takin' advantage of my teenage sister. I think the only reason you're still alive right now is because she thinks she loves you. And I think that could change, should she ever feel otherwise."

He nods. Fucks with his line a little, adjustin' his grip on the pole like he needs somethin' to do with his hands while he figures out how to say what he's gonna say.

Then he looks me straight back. Eye to eye.

Credit where it's due—he doesn't look away.

"I think that's fair. And I appreciate you sayin' it out loud and to my face. But I'm gonna say somethin' here too." He pauses. Not for drama. Just to make sure I'm listenin'. "I love her. I don't expect to stop lovin' her. I expect to have several more babies with her. I expect to grow old with her. And if all you've got to offer us is threats, then we don't need you, Legion."

I sit with that a second. Roll it around. Let it land where it lands.

Is that a threat? I decide it is.

"That's fair too." My voice comes out even. Not because I'm calm—I'm not calm—but because I've spent three years in a cage learnin' how to make myself sound like I am. "She's never needed me. That's not why I'm here. Savannah is the one who needs you. Savannah is the one who wants you to come home. And I hope you do. I hope you have more babies with my sister. I hope the two of you are happy and grow old together and all that shit."

I mean it. Some part of me that's still got a pulse under all this scar tissue means every word of it.

"But I don't like you, Colt. I like Cash just fine. Feel like we're already somethin' close to friends, him and me. Wyatt doesn't bother me either—I don't care about Wyatt. He stays out of my face. He doesn't walk around wearin' what he got away with like it's a fuckin' belt buckle." I lean forward, just enough. "But you. You don't look sorry to me. You don't look like a man who carries regrets. You look like a man who thinks the statute of limitations is the same thing as bein' forgiven. And that’s not the same thing. Not even close. You look like a smug piece of shit, Colt, and I don't know how to unsee that."

To Colt's credit, he doesn't even blink. He just looks at me with those too-white teeth and those PR man eyes and says, "Do you want to hit me?"

"Yes, Colt." I let the word sit there a second before the rest follows. "I want to beat the fuck out of you. I want to take every piece of that rage and anger that built up in me over three years and I want to lay every last fuckin' bit of it on your face. I want to blame you for everything because you're convenient. Because you're standin' right here in front of me and you're smilin' and you don't carry a goddamn thing. I want to make you sorry for what you did."

I want him to know what sorry feels like in his body. Not his mouth. Not some practiced apology he rehearsed on the drive over. In his ribs. In his jaw. In the place where the breath goes when someone who means it hits ya.

"So do it." He drops his pole and spreads his arms wide, like he's offerin' himself up. Like he's bein' generous. "Just… take your shot. Let's get it over with."

And there it is. There's the move. Because Colt Ashby knows if I swing, I lose, and he's already countin' on me to be exactly the animal he's decided I am.

"Why should I?" And I mean that. Swingin' on Colt Ashby gets me nothin'. Less than nothin'. "All that does is hurt my sister and make me look like the animal you already decided I am. So I'm stuck."

That's the truth of it. That's the whole ugly weight of it—I'm stuck, and he knows it, and that smile on his face tells me he's been countin' on exactly that.

"You're in my life because I love my sister. Because I love your sister. And both of those women want me to be better than you."

I let that land. I let it sit there between us.

"And you know what's funny, Colt Ashby? I am better than you. That isn't anger talkin' either. That isn't three years of built-up shit lookin' for somewhere to go. That's just the fuckin' truth. I am better than you."

"Says the outlaw biker from Badlands." And he spits that like it settles somethin', like the name alone is the verdict and the sentence both. "You have any idea the rumors that are⁠—"

"Do you have any idea what happens in that private cattlemen's club in Miles City?" I say, cuttin' him off before he can finish buildin' his little courtroom. "Forget about Badlands for a minute. I've been gone three years. Three years inside, and I only patched in a few months ago—after I'd already bled for it, already paid for it, already stood in a room and took what was mine because I earned it the hard way. But you and your family? You've been lookin' the other fuckin' way for decades. Decades, Colt. That isn't ignorance. That's a choice made comfortable by enough money to keep the smell off ya. So fuck you and your judgment. You don't have moral superiority here. You don't have any high ground at all. Not one square inch of it."

I let that breathe. Let him feel it.

"And I'd bet Destiny would be just as disappointed in you as she's ever been in me, should she ever find out the truth. Maybe more."

"I'm not a part of that," he hisses. Quiet and sharp, like a man who's rehearsed denyin' it.

"Well, I'm not a part of what Badlands is doin' either." And I mean that down to the bone. "In fact, I'm right in the middle of cleanin' it up. Takin' care of shit that was already rotten before I walked back through the door. So what the fuck are you doin'? Hm? What are you actually doin' to clear the demons out?"

I take one step closer, just one, not to swing—just so he can see my face and know I mean every goddamned word.

"You're out here in Jackson playin' house with my sister and my niece, actin' like your hands are cleaner than mine. They're not. You just wash them a little better than I do."

For the first time I can recall, Colt goes still. I mean still. His face goes flat, and that smile of his—that smug, money-drenched smile—just drops.