Blaze parks behind me and climbs out of the van. “You coming?”
I nod once and force myself off the bike.
Inside, heads turn.
Not because I’m the president of the Sinners.
Because theyknow.
They know I just put Sophia on a plane. They know what Tracker was to me. They know I’ve been holding myself together with rage, obligation, and not much else.
Jasmine looks up first from behind the bar. Her expression softens for half a second before she covers it with something tougher. She slides a glass toward me without a word.
I don’t sit down.
The room smells like whiskey, leather, stale smoke, and food no one’s really tasted. Half the brothers are posted around the main room pretending to drink, pretending to talk, and pretending this is just another night.
It’s goddamn-well not.
Quill is at the table near the back with Hawke and Luke. Luke looks like hell. His face is still bruised, one arm is in a sling, and his eyes are as hard as stone. At least I’m not the only one carrying this.
I walk over.
“She make it on the plane?” Luke asks.
“Yeah.”
He nods once, like he understands there’s nothing else to say.
Quill leans back in his chair, watching me carefully. “And now?”
There it is.
The question under the question.
Now that Sophia is gone. Now that the promise is handled, at least for the moment. Now that there’s nothing left keeping me pointed in one direction instead of the other.
Now what?
I brace my hands on the table and look at each of them in turn. “Now we deal with the El Pasos.”
Silence.
Not shocked silence.
Just the kind that comes before men start discussing war.
Luke’s jaw ticks. “I’m in.”
“No shit,” Hawke mutters.
Quill doesn’t move. “You’re not ready.”
My eyes cut to him. “The fuck did you say?”
“You heard me.” His tone stays even. “You’re hurt. You’re pissed. And right now, you’re thinking with the part of you that wants blood, not the part that keeps people alive.”
“They took my brother.”