Was it a coincidence Tag had left Indulge right before the fire started?
Had he helped set it?
Or had he truly only gone outside to grab his phone from his truck?
Was his mother even sick?
Did he even have a mother who was still alive?
The more questions I asked myself, the more confused I became, realizing I didn’t know Tag all that well. But my gut still told me he wasn’t a bad guy. My instincts told me he wasn’t a Reaper like Marek believed.
I pulled a breath deep into my lungs before releasing it. “What makes you think he’s a Reaper?” I asked, careful to keep my tone calm. Marek was wired to blow, and while I didn’t want my simple question to be the reason everything went to shit, I had to ask. The guys were set on killing Tag, their resolve to end his life disturbing. The least our leader could do was give us some sort of justification.
“I know he is.”
“How?” I pushed my luck, but I had to in order to be able to live with myself afterward. I’d never been involved in ending someone’s life, let alone cold-blooded murder, and I wasn’t about to start now. My inner voice screamed at me to shut up, to trust Marek and the other guys, including my ol’ man. That they wouldn’t do something like this, take such drastic measures unless they felt they had to.
Kaden and I had heard stories about life in the club before the war ended between us and the Reapers, but the tales were edited. I suspected they’d done some bad shit, but whenever we asked them about it, they’d simply say “We handled it” or “We did what we needed to.” They never admitted to killing anyone, and while Kaden and I could only assume that’s what their coded talk meant, we didn’t know for sure.
“Let’s get on with it, Prez,” Hawke shouted, gathering his dark hair and tying it back, his features more prominent without the shield of his strands, the look in his eyes unwavering. Then I looked at Cutter, who was dressed in all black and wielding a large knife, his stare laser-focused. Jagger stood next to him, a look of worry traveling over his face before he looked to my father. They both glanced in our direction, specifically at Marek, before turning their attention back to each other, sharing a look of apprehension. It was like they feared what our leader would do, but more so for his safety, if that made any sense, which it sure as hell didn’t to me.
Kaden grabbed Marek’s arm as he moved to turn away from us. “Dad. What’s goin’ on?” His voice was eerily quiet, but I had a sense he didn’t want to fuel his father’s fury. To add to the direness of the situation, Kaden never called his ol’ man Dad while in the company of the club members. He either called him Prez or occasionally Marek. I adopted the same habit, only referring to my father as ol’ man, Dad or Pops while at home and away from our brothers.
“I told you. He’s a Reaper. He infiltrated our club, and you two”—he looked to me quickly before focusing back on his son—“let it happen.” There was a shroud of rage in Marek’s eyes, but it was more than that. I thought I detected a spark of desperation as well, but I couldn’t be sure because he averted his stare and looked to the ground. His chest rose and fell several times before he picked his head up again. “You need proof?”
Kaden swallowed hard, nodding but appearing unsure if that was the right response.
Marek reached into the inside pocket of his cut and pulled out a picture. He unfolded it and shoved it in his son’s face, his hand shaking with barely controlled anger.
“This is how I know,” he barked, flipping the picture over and jabbing at the words written on the back. I leaned in close to see.
Mom, Dad, Tag.
“I’m not gettin’ it,” I rushed to say, my need to understand this entire situation rushing out of me before I could stop the flow of words.
“Me either.” Kaden reached to touch the picture, but Marek snatched the photo back.
He flipped the picture around and pointed to the man. His sandy-brown hair and lean build made him look like any other guy, but when I examined him closer, I saw the expression on his face, in his eyes, and something disturbed me. He looked disturbed. He wasn’t smiling and stood at least two feet from who appeared to be his woman and baby.
“This bastard right here,” Marek yelled, his finger resting over the image of the man, “tortured your mother.”
2
I didn’t have time to react before Kaden ripped the photo from Marek’s hand, scrutinizing the man in the picture.
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about? Who is this?” he asked, his restraint being slowly plucked apart with every second that passed in silence.
Growing up, Kaden would often tell me that whenever he asked how his parents met, they’d often ignore the question by changing the subject. And on the rare occasion when one of them answered, his mom, Sully, would say she didn’t exist before Marek walked into her life, still refusing to give any other details.
“That,” Marek said, his voice low and tense, “is Vex.” His blue eyes turned to black while he struggled to find an ounce of composure.
“Who is—”
“Vex tortured and abused your mother in every way possible from the time she was fourteen until I rescued her from their clutches.” My focus bounced from Marek to Kaden to everyone else in the fuckin’ room. Cutter, Jagger, Hawke, and my ol’ man shared a look of rage, their body language coiled tightly
