Page 9 of Always My Fate

He was gone long before an ambulance could have even got there.

Blackie had stayed on his knees after, hands covered in his brother’s blood, staring at nothing. He ran the intel and situation through his head again and again, trying to find a pivot point that would have the night ending differently. He couldn’t find it. That fight had carved something permanent into him—the brutal reminder that one wrong move, one moment of distraction, and the people in his influence, those he was brothers with and loved, could pay the price.

He stood at Trick’s graveside the next week, fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood. “Never again,” he swore under his breath. “I protect what’s mine. No matter what it fuckin’ costs.”

Blackie blinked, pulling himself back to the present. Peaches slumbered next to him, her soft breaths coming with reassuring regularity. The fear from earlier hadn’t left, it probably never would, but it had sharpened into a thing much fiercer.

A vow.

He pressed a slow kiss to her temple, breathing her in. “I got you, baby,” he whispered against her skin. “Both of you. Ain’t losin’ anyone else. Not while I’m still breathin’. I swear it.”

Peaches stirred slightly in her sleep, pressing closer to him. Blackie tightened his arm around her, eyes fixed on the ceiling once more.

The past had taught him the cost of failure. This time, he wouldn’t pay it again. Not with his woman. Not with their family. Not with his brothers, and not with the club. Never again.

***

Roscoe

The abandoned house smelled like piss, mold, and the ghost of whatever the last meth-heads had cooked in the kitchen sink. Roscoe Langdon hunched on a sagging couch that probably had more needles in its pads than a fucking pincushion, boots propped on a milk crate, and nursed a warm bottle of whatever cheap shit he’d lifted from the gas station on the edge of town. The squat had no power, no running water worth trusting, and a roof that leaked when it rained even slightly, but it was off the grid and close enough to Belle to keep tabs on those damned Freed Riders without them breathing down his neck.

Footsteps crunched across the warped floorboards. Roscoe didn’t bother pulling the piece from his waistband. If what was coming was trouble, it’d already be too late.

“Boss.”

Trey—skinny little weasel with a busted front tooth and a habit of showing up when he had something useful—hovered in the doorway like he was afraid to come all the way in. Smart man.

“What?” Roscoe took another drink from the bottle, the burn doing nothing to cut the sour taste in his mouth.

“Blackie’s at the hospital. ED. Rolled in maybe twenty minutes ago. One of the sweetbottoms who works intake saw the whole thing—him and that big ugly prospect hauling ass through the doors.”

Roscoe’s hand tightened around the bottle until the glass nearly groaned. Hospital. Blackie. The words didn’t compute right away. His brother was built like a goddamn tank and meaner than anyone realized. He didn’t do hospitals unless someone was dying or he was putting them there.

“No shit,” Roscoe muttered, lips peeling back from his teeth. “What the fuck would bring the great and mighty President of the Freed Riders to the emergency room like a civilian?”

Trey shifted, eyes darting. “Didn’t say. Just that he looked pissed. Not hurt, though. Walked in under his own power.”

Roscoe barked a laugh that echoed off the peeling walls. He reached for the half-empty fifth of rotgut on the crate and sloshed some into a dirty coffee mug. “Alright. Drinking game. My favorite kind when it comes to my big brother.” He lifted the mug in a mock toast. “First guess—some dumbass prospect got himself shot trying to play hero. Drink.”

He took a healthy swallow, the liquor burning all the way down.

“Second guess—Blackie finally lost his shit and beat one of his own boys half to death. Another drink.” An additional swallow. The warmth spread, but it didn’t touch the ice in his chest.

“Third—maybe one of those pussy support clubs finally grew a pair and tried something. Means he’s there patching up his own mess.” Swallow. The room tilted a little.

Trey hovered, unsure whether to laugh or run.

Roscoe’s eyes narrowed, the anger he kept banked most days flaring hot and vicious. “Or maybe...maybe that pretty little thing he’s been keeping close finally wised up and left. Or got hurt. Or—” He cut himself off, because the next thought tasted too much like hope, and he refused to give his brother even that.

He drained the mug and slammed it down so hard the crate wobbled.

“Doesn’t matter,” Roscoe growled, voice low and venomous. Fucking Blackie. The golden boy. Always the one who gets whatever he wants. Doesn’t matter what it is. Be it the club, the respect, or the life that should’ve been mine. The fury that lived in his blood like a second heartbeat surged forwards, hot and familiar. One day I’m gonna be the reason he gets rolled into that hospital. And then I’m gonna make sure he doesn’t walk back out.

He grabbed the bottle again, lips curling into something ugly.

“Keep your ears open, Trey. Whatever the fuck is going on with my brother? I want to know first.”

Chapter Five