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He had fucked up and shown his hand. He’d laid his cards on the table face-side up.
The bite marks he left behind were temporary, in time easily forgotten. Him wanting his name permanently on her body went far beyond that. It fed into that sickness.
“I gotta go.”
Her expression held a mix of both annoyance and surprise. “What?”
“Gotta go,” he muttered again, climbing off both her and the bed before heading over to his pile of discarded clothes. He tugged them on with more force than necessary, yanked on his socks and boots, not even bothering to take the time to lace them up. Once he was fully dressed, he returned to the bed to scoop up Cujo, who did a half-assed cranky snap at him. His typical “I’m an asshole” warning.
He ignored the tiny bared teeth and also the woman, who was now up on her elbows, still temptingly naked, but quiet as she watched him, not bothering to hide her confusion.
He was a goddamn dumbass. No doubt about it.
A stupid, weak dumbass who had jumped over that fucking line and right down a deep, dark hole he knew was there. He’d done it anyway.
He tucked Cujo into his leather jacket, zipped it up, and got the fuck out of there before his disappointment turned to fury and he did something neither of them would be able to recover from.
Especially him.
But he was afraid it was already too fucking late.
Chapter Eighteen
As his brothers gathered in The Barn for a church meeting, Rook pushed toward the front of the group to be closer to Trip, Sig and Judge. The prez, VP and sergeant at arms faced the rest of the Fury members. Everyone who could be there was required to have their ass there, including the three new prospects. Only Tater and Possum weren’t in attendance since they needed to assist Stella at Crazy Pete’s. With his presence required at the farm, Dodge couldn’t be with her to help manage the bar.
They all knew what the meeting was about because word had already spread. The Shirleys, of fucking course. The only sharp thorn in their fucking sides.
Rook and the rest of them would be happy when they no longer had to utter the name belonging to that fucking hillbilly clan ever again. When the last one was gone, they needed to be forgotten forever.
Only, he had no idea when, and if, that would actually happen since even after getting rid of all the men, the women and children would still exist. But tonight’s meeting wasn’t about the Shirley breeders and spawn.
Fuck no.
It was about the remaining inbred goat fuckers. And about the recent and disturbing, but not unexpected, event Castle and Bones had only reported this morning to the three men standing at the front of the group. That event was the arrival of two vans on the mountain. This time not filled with more breeders, but men, instead.
The prospects reported seeing at least fifteen but they couldn’t get close enough to get a good count due to the lack of cover. If that number was correct, that gave the Shirleys a total of twenty-two men with the seven Rook and Easy had left breathing before winter set in.
Whether it was ten, fifteen or even twenty-two, it was one too many. It also meant the clan was increasing their numbers since the Fury had been thinning out their herd.
One van was reported to have an Ohio license plate, the other from Alabama. Knowing the Shirleys, those plates were stolen, since being a self-proclaimed sovereign nation, they didn’t register or license any of their vehicles.
Even so, Rook wondered how many more pockets of the Guardians of Freedumb existed in the world. Did they have an endless supply in which the fucked-up Pennsylvania clan could draw upon? And if they did, was getting in a war with them futile and might end up being never-ending?
In truth, hundreds—maybe even thousands—of their sovereign nation could exist, whether they were Shirleys or not. There were only thirteen patched Fury members. Thirteen. That was it. Not including the prospects, which gave them another measly five.
Rook’s stomach churned at the thought of them getting involved in an endless war. A war that would only end once the Fury was completely annihilated from being outnumbered.
He could see the stress in Trip’s and Judge’s faces. The club enforcer continually tugged at his long, bushy beard with his girl sitting at his feet. Jury was glancing up at the big man and whining softly like she knew shit was bugging her daddy.
Cujo was tucked in Rook’s cut with his little head poked out as he surveyed the activity. Any time Justice or Jury even remotely came near, the dog bared his teeth and released a ferocious, but ridiculous, growl. Rook would remind the little shit that those two American Bulldogs could eat him like a damn snack, then use his tiny-ass bones to pick their teeth.
