Jethro had finally admitted the truth.
And I had no idea what it meant.
TWO DAYS PASSED.
Two days where I avoided Nila, took copious amount of drugs, and tried my utmost to swim back into numbing fog.
The meeting at Diamond Alley with Killian and Nila in an enclosed space had been sheer fucking hell.
Both of them were so opinionated and strong willed. When Kill asked Nila if she loved me and Nila had fractured into pieces of grief, I’d almost snapped.
Almost.
She must’ve guessed what I was by now.
I couldn’t seem to keep it a secret.
I was at the point where if she asked me again, I would tell her. I would spill every sordid detail and bullshit diagnosis. I couldn’t hide it anymore.
The night after dropping her back at Hawksridge, Kestrel and I had dealt with a dispute with one of our traders on the black market. They wanted more stock for less money. We wanted more money for less stock. The age-old upsets between businesses.
The negotiations hadn’t gone smoothly.
The tension between both sides drained me of my rapidly dwindling energy, and by the time we returned home, I wanted nothing to do with people and fled.
I’d hidden until the moon rose and I could escape without consequence. I needed fresh air. And I needed it now.
I revved my bike down the long drive, heading away from Hawksridge. Turning right off the estate, I leaned into a corner, speeding up until inertia became an enemy trying to steal me from my vehicle.
The rumble of the machine soothed me. The cool wind on my cheeks gave me room to breathe. And the power from the engine made me invincible.
But it was lacking.
I miss it.
I gritted my teeth.
You miss nothing.
I refused to admit that I missed my fucking horse.
I hadn’t ridden since Nila paid the Second Debt. I doubted I would ride again. Not now I was the perfect son and life stopped playing me for a fool.
Every mile I travelled, the fog I craved wisped behind me until I was clearheaded for the first time in weeks. Out here with only squirrels and owls for company, it didn’t matter. I sighed in relief as I reached the outskirts of Buckinghamshire and pulled over onto a verge.
I wasn’t far from home, twenty minutes at most. But the rock walls and overhanging trees of the country lanes could’ve been centuries ago—so far removed from humanity and technology.
Killing the engine, I took off my helmet and fumbled for the pills in my leather jacket. I had no intention of going home without more drugs barricading my system.
“Goddammit,” I growled, unable to open the bottle with my gloves on. Biting the middle finger of my glove, I yanked it off with my teeth.
The two tattoos of Nila’s initials shone in the moonlight.
They sucker-punched me in the gut.
Fuck.
Everything I’d kept buried rose up unhindered on the desolate side of the road.
You’re ruining everything.
I’m ruining nothing.
I was protecting my sister, my brother, myself. I was walking the line I’d been born to walk. I couldn’t do any more than that, and if Nila expected more from me, then tough shit. I had nothing left to give.
A rustle and twig snapped in the field behind the mossy rock wall I’d stopped beside. My ears twitched for more; my eyes tried to see through the darkness.
I couldn’t see a thing.
Ignoring the noise—putting it down to a badger or fox—I tipped a tablet into my hand and tossed it into my mouth. Already, my head pounded and hands shook. Withdrawal was a fucking bitch.
I went to swallow.
I never had time to swallow.
Something hard and brutal struck the back of my skull. I slammed forward, crunching my nose on the handlebars, gushing with blood.
“Shit!” I didn’t know which pain was worse—my nose or the back of my head.
“Travelling on your own, motherfucker?”
I stiffened. This was why we didn’t go for midnight excursions alone. This was why I had bodyguards and ran a fucking biker gang.
Thieves and vagrants.
Blinking through the pain, I shoved off my handlebars and glared into the night.
Three bikers from the Cannibal Chainmen MC climbed over the wall and landed on the road surrounding me.
Every muscle tightened.
“You.” These assholes had ambushed our deliveries for years. They knew never to step foot in Buckinghamshire. This was our fucking territory. They belonged in Birmingham—dirty scum.
“Get off our turf,” I snarled, drinking blood and wiping the remainder on the back of my hand. Swinging my leg off my bike, I stood in their circle, turning slowly to inspect each one. “You know the consequences.”
They were lowly ranked members, patched in, but held no position of authority.
“Oh, we know the fucking consequences, alright.” A guy with a shaved head and knuckles wrapped in red tape sneered.
“Messing with the Black Diamonds is a sure way to die.” I spat a wad of blood on the ground, wishing the throb in my skull would fade. “I suggest you fuck off. Our turf. Our rules.”
The biker laughed. “Ah, but if we take out the Vice President of the Blacks, then doesn’t that make it our turf?”
That doesn’t even make sense. Fucking idiots had to take out Cut for that to become a possibility. And that would never happen.
They continued to circle. Even though I was trapped in the centre, I guided them toward the middle of the road—away from the wall and my bike.
I needed open space to win.