Page 22 of Monk

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. “He what?”

“You heard me.” Trigger exhaled sharply. “Montana tried to talk him down, said this was bigger than Pence, bigger than the club. Kansas told him to get the fuck out or he’d put a bullet in him too.”

Jesus Christ.

“Where’s Montana now?” I asked, my voice low.

“Gone. He and Reaper left. But, Monk—” Trigger paused, and I could hear the weight in the silence on his end. “This is bad. Real bad. Kansas just severed us from the Federation. We’re on our own now.”

I stared at the empty highway stretching ahead of me, the sun hanging low and mean on the horizon, setting the whole sky on fire in shades of orange and blood-red. Heat still shimmered upoff the asphalt, turning the distance into a wavering lie. No cars. No people. Just the whisper of wind over dead grass and the first dry chirp of evening crickets. The kind of silence that made a man hear too much.

We were on our own. No Federation protection. No backup. No safety net. Just us against the world. And the world was going to come for us.

“Monk?” Trigger’s voice pulled me back. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’m here.”

“You coming back?”

I should have. I should’ve turned the bike around, ridden back to the clubhouse, and stood with my brothers in the wreckage.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

“Soon,” I said, and ended the call.

I rode for another hour with no destination in mind, letting the road choose for me. The sun bled out. Orange gave way to purple, then indigo, and by the time I crossed back into Lawton, the streetlights were flickering awake one by one. The city opened around me in streets I knew too well, familiar as old scars.

I should have gone home. Checked on Abigail. Made sure she was safe. But my hands turned the handlebars on their own, guiding the bike down streets I hadn’t ridden in years.

And then I saw it—the apartment complex. Two stories of faded brick, with a rusted fire escape clinging to the side like old bones. The same building. The same second-floor unit with the crooked window that never sealed right, the one that let in winter cold and summer heat like the place itself wanted you uncomfortable.

The one where I’d lived with her.

I should have kept riding. Should have left her ghost in the past where it belonged.

But I didn’t.

I pulled into the lot across the street, killed the engine, and sat there staring up at that window. Streetlights threw long shadows over the cracked pavement. The sky was bruised and beautiful, streaked with the last scraps of daylight. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barked. A car door slammed.

And then the past opened its mouth.

She was beneath me, her body arching off the bed, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood.

“John.”

My name on her lips was a prayer and a curse, breathless and desperate as I drove into her harder, my hips slamming against hers, the headboard cracking against the wall with every thrust. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, raw and primal, mixing with her gasps and my ragged breathing.

“Fuck, Lina,” I growled, my voice rough, barely recognizable. “You feel so fucking good.”

Her pussy clenched around my cock, tight and wet and perfect. I could feel every inch of her, the way her body gripped me, the way she took everything I gave her and begged for more.

“Harder,” she gasped, her head thrown back, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. “Please, John. Harder!”

I gave her what she wanted and pulled almost all the way out, just the head of my cock still inside her, and then slammed back in, burying myself to the hilt. She cried out, her back bowing, her thighs trembling around my hips.

“That’s it,” I rasped, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Take it. Take all of me.”

She was so fucking beautiful like this. All flushed and wild, her lips swollen from my kisses, her tits bouncing with everythrust. I leaned down, capturing a nipple in my mouth, sucking hard, and she moaned, her fingers tangling in my hair.