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Letting out my breath in a hiss, I blink and blink until the image and the sensations fade—though the pain lingers. My fingers spasm around the handles, and my stomach cramps. I fight the urge to puke, clench my jaw so hard it creaks and accelerate again, surging down the road. Madison appears in the distance with its white buildings and green parks.
I roar my way into the city and take St. Park’s street along Lake Monona, heading toward Old Market Place. The address I’m looking for is close to the Madison Children Museum and I park my bike by the side of the old building and hurry inside. My face hurts from the cold, and I stomp my boots in the entrance to restart the circulation in my feet.
There’s an old elevator with gilt metal doors in the lobby. Right. As if I’d climb into one of those claustrophobic boxes. I climb the stairs, taking them two at a time, and reach the office.
Stan
ding in front of the heavy mahogany door, I pull off my gloves and stuff them in my pockets. ‘Connor and Maloney’ reads the shiny golden sign, and I ring the bell.
I tap my fingers on the door as I wait, and suddenly it clicks and swings inward, framing a very thin, very blonde woman in a steel-gray dress. Her hair is drawn back in a bun, so tightly my own head aches in sympathy.
“May I help you?” she asks.
“I’m Tyler,” I say.
“Tyler Devlin?”
I nod, even though I don’t go by that name anymore. I have no right to it. My father isn’t Jake Devlin. That’s Ash’s dad. It bugs me that I don’t know my real dad’s family name. I feel like driftwood, belonging nowhere.
“Come on in.” She gestures, and I enter, my rough biker’s clothes standing out against the dark wood furniture and lush carpets. She turns and ushers me into another large room with a gigantic desk and shelves full of books and folders. It has big windows that let in the light. “Now we’re all here.”
“All?” I echo, frowning, and glance around.
Oh fuck. Asher is sitting in one of the leather armchairs, his pale eyes shooting daggers at me. And no matter how I’ve managed to convince myself I should talk to him, make amends, make him forgive me, the stark hatred in that gaze nails me to the spot.
“Have a seat,” the woman says, her voice far away. “Mr. Connor will be with you in a minute.”
“Ash,” I say.
My brother’s eyes flash, and he pushes himself to his feet. His hands clench at his sides. I just stare at him, shocked at how tall and strong he looks. Last I saw him it was at Dad’s funeral, and he’d still been hunched over with pain, his face bruised.
“Tyler,” he spits out my name like a curse, and his fists are white-knuckled.
Dammit.
“We should talk,” I say. “Ash...”
“Nothing to talk about.” He vibrates with anger, his gaze flicking to the office door.
Movement catches my eye.
A heavy-set, middle-aged man with a goatee is standing at the door, watching us. He brushes his chubby hands down his dark suit. “I am Ian Connor. The Devlin brothers, I assume?”
Asher nods, and I force myself to follow suit. It’s been too long since I considered myself a Devlin.
Connor clears his throat and walks behind his desk. “I will need you both to sign several papers. I’ve highlighted the spots.” He glances up, his small, watery eyes moving from Asher to me. He extends a pen, and Ash grabs it before I even move. He bends over the desk to sign.
“So you’re Tyler Devlin.” Connor gives me an inscrutable look. “The one who ran away.”
So that’s my stigma. Aside from being the bastard one, of course. Born out of wedlock, branded and erased from the family records.
Ash finishes and instead of passing me the pen, he throws it on the desk and stalks away. As I grab the pen before it rolls off the edge, I realize he’s heading to the door.
“Ash,” I call, just as Connor says, “Mr. Asher Devlin.”
Ash freezes, then turns around. “What?”
“Mr. Devlin, you need to stay a while longer,” Connor says.
