A chorus of voices answers as one. “Yes, Prez.”
He raises his hand, the firelight turning his outline into shadow and command. “Then gear up. War’s come home.”
For a second, nobody moves. Then the brothers do quietly, deliberately, and lethally. Dagger shrugs into his cut and slings it over a smoke-scorched shoulder. Torch wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and mutters a prayer that sounds like a threat.
Trigger snaps a mag home with accountant precision and dead eyes. Bones shoulders a crate like it’s a wounded friend. Derange, soot-streaked, jaw set, checks the tail gun and grins like a dare. Aftermath hauls the long case to Capone without being asked. Blayze posts at the gate, counting exits and enemies in the same breath.
Red looks up from his screens, eyes burning with purpose, already tracing routes to retribution. Knight, our prospect, sprints ammo to the line and doesn’t flinch at the heat. Seth stands beside him, jaw tight, silent until it’s time to strike. Pretty Playboy cracks his knuckles and wipes ash from his tattooed throat, smiling like a man who’s missed the chaos.
Jax flips his knife once, catches it, and says nothing, the calm before violence. Tiny tightens his gloves, shoulders squaring under the weight of what’s coming. Every single one of them knows what’s next, and not one of them even thinks about stepping back.
Tiny’s thumb brushes my cheek. His voice, low, steady, heartbreak in every syllable. “This time, we don’t run.”
Smoke paints the sky in thick black streaks. The war isn't coming. It’s already burning.
14
TINY
Morning crawls in under the guise of soot and smoke. The burn across my back screams when I move, but I grit through it. Pain’s familiar, predictable. Easier to deal with than the memory of Syvannah’s scream echoing through the garage when the flames took the ceiling.
My room smells like smoke and antiseptic. Someone, probably Derange, patched me up while I was half-conscious, muttering something about “dumb giant instincts” and “stop trying to die for everyone.”
I push myself upright, careful not to rip the bandages.
Everything hurts. But none of it’s as sharp as the image of Syvannah flinching as my hands reached for her last night. That first tiny flinch in the garage, and then the second, worse one, later, after the fire. I swallow hard and scrub my face. I can’t think about that yet.
My cut hangs over the chair. Smoke-stained. Melted in some spots.
I pull on a T-shirt, grit my teeth, and head to see Syvannah.
Her door is cracked open. Peanut sits outside it like a furry guard dog, tail whipping like she’s offended the world burned her favorite garage.
I knock lightly.
“Syv?” My voice comes out soft, too soft for a man who nearly lost her twice in one night.
She turns her head at the sound. She’s curled up on her bed, wrapped in a blanket, hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed from smoke and exhausted tears. A sketchbook lies beside her, open to a half-drawn outline of the garage. Not destroyed. Rebuilt. Her hands tremble as she closes it.
I take a step inside, slowly. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Her smile tries to form, but collapses halfway. “You okay?”
Lie. Breathe. Lie better. “I’m good.”
Her eyes flick to my bandages peeking under my shirt. She moves before she thinks. Her hand reaches to touch my back, then freezes an inch from me.
She doesn’t pull away. She hesitates. It guts me more than if she’d flinched again. “You’re hurt,” she whispers.
“I’ve had worse.” It sounds casual, but it isn’t.
Syvannah’s throat works. “I keep thinking about last night.”
“Me too.”
“I don’t like that you put yourself in front of the fire for me.”
“Too bad.” I try to smile. “I’d do it again.”