Page 36 of Triplets for the Rival MC

I keep my face stone-cold, wearing the mask my enemies see. But inside, fury swirls as I think of everything King has done. I picture Screw lying in a hospital bed, Shelly’s face when she heard Hank had been shot, Tori’s when we told her what we found in that warehouse, what those women and children went through because of her father. I think of those women, and how they have to rebuild their lives. You don’t get over trauma like that, it sinks into the bone. We might have rescued them, but a part of them will always remain in that warehouse. King built his reputation on fear and cruelty. No matter what he has to say today, it won’t stop us from tearing it down.

I’m glad that Tori stayed home again, knowing she’s safe and waiting for us gives me the strength I need. This time, it was a lot harder to convince her to stay; she wanted to be the one to tell King to fuck off, that he doesn’t own her anymore. Her strength continues to amaze me, and part of me wanted to let her come to give her that closure. But the desire to protect her, the physical need to keep her safe from harm, even if the only harm King could inflict now is with his words and cruel indifference, won out.

I love Tori more than I believed I was capable of. I shut that thought down before it shows on my face. Men like King see love as weakness.

There’s the distant rumble of engines, and I see the Raging Bulls rolling in from the east. I see only five bikes approaching, King’s hulking form leading the pack. I’m surprised King kept his word. There’s no surprise escort, no extra muscle, but then King likes to pretend he’s fearless. Maybe he is, but that doesn’t mean he is indestructible.

He dismounts, his movements slow and deliberate, making a show of being in control, no nerves, no fear. He wears a leather vest stretched over a gut earned from years of excess, the Raging Bulls emblem across the back. His beard is more gray than black now, eyes sharp as broken glass. His right-hand man, Spike, is here. I avoid looking at him, knowing I won’t be able to stop myself from beating him to a pulp if he so much as looks at me wrong, knowing what he did to Tori, how the sick fuck wanted her when she was just a child. The thought that King was going to marry his own daughter off to a man like Spike tells me everything about the kind of father, the kind of man, he is.

“Flint,” King says, looking at me like I’m something he scraped off his boot. “Didn’t think you’d show.” His tone implies he thinks I’m too much of a coward to face him. My fist clenches briefly, I force myself to uncurl my fingers, I can’t let him see that he’s riling me.

I snort. “Didn’t think you’d ask.” I don’t need to add that I didn’t think he was capable of polite discourse, of negotiation. We don’t shake hands. That would imply respect.

His gaze flicks to Hunter, then Cyrus, but quickly moves away, as if they’re insignificant, as if he doesn’t know or care who they are. He recognizes them, of course, just as we know the henchmen beside him. If he’s surprised that I didn’t feel the need to bring any more men, that I know the three of us can handle ourselves, even outnumbered, he doesn’t show it.

“Let’s talk,” King says, jerking his head toward the diner. A nervous waitress glances over at us, sensing trouble brewing, no doubt wondering if she should turn off that open sign.

“No,” I answer immediately. “We stay outside in the open.” I don’t trust that King wouldn’t use the staff as hostages if things go sideways.

His lip curls, but he nods. He knows better than to push that point. Neutral ground rules matter, even to monsters. We both stand there, waiting for the other to speak. King is the one who called for the meeting. He can talk, can tell me why. I won’t give him the upper hand by showing curiosity in what he has to say. The silence stretches; the only sound is the wind rattling. Loose trash flutters across the cracked asphalt. There’s the distant sound of thunder. I hope it doesn’t rain yet and force us inside. I keep my gaze steady, projecting control and calm. I’ve learned to live with anger without letting it overwhelm me.

King finally speaks. “You cost me money last night.”

I smile without humor. “Those women weren’t property to sell.”

His eyes harden. “Don’t play saint. You didn’t hit my warehouses out of charity. And last time I checked, you weren’t above kidnapping women.”

“No,” I agree. “I hit them because I could, because you’re a cancer that needs cutting out.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, the only sign that I’ve got to him. He exhales slowly, finally admitting why he called this meeting. “Someone fed you that intel. Locations, schedules, security rotations. That wasn’t luck.”

I say nothing. Let him continue talking and reveal his suspicions. I won’t be the one to admit how we knew this information.

His gaze sharpens like he thinks he’s a cat, toying with a mouse. “Only a handful of people knew all of it.” He smiles, an ugly, evil smile. He knows exactly who told us, who betrayed him. “Let me guess, it was my daughter.”

Something hot and vicious coils in my chest at the possessive entitlement of that word ‘my’ as if he owns Tori. She stopped being his a long time ago. I think of Tori’s laugh when she’s relaxed, and Hunter is teasing her, the way she curls into Cyrus when she’s overwhelmed, the way she looks at me with so much love and trust. I think of the bruises she tried to hide, of the pain in her eyes when she realized her father cared so little for her that he wouldn’t try to get her back. I think of the stories she’s told us, her voice flat while relaying the cruelties and humiliation inflicted on her by King and his cronies. Her only way to cope is to act as if they happened to someone else.

I keep my voice level while inside my blood boils, and I imagine snapping King’s neck like a twig. “You lost the right to call her that.”

King laughs, as if the notion of it being a privilege to call her his daughter is ridiculous. “She’s my blood. That won’t ever change.”

“It does when you treat her like property,” Hunter cuts in, voice sharp as broken glass.

King ignores him. His eyes stay on me. “You took her. Now, I want her back.”

Cyrus shifts, just a fraction. “She chose to stay after you said you didn’t want her. Tori is a free woman.”

King’s smile drops. “She’s coming home. She’s mine.”

“No,” I say. I don’t elaborate, he doesn’t deserve explanations.

He steps closer. Neutral ground or not, the movement is like a challenge. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Hunter steps forward a fraction, daring him to try anything. King’s eyes flash with annoyance, as if Hunter is a fly buzzing by his ear.

“No, I don’t,” I reply. “But Tori does. She’s made her decision.”

His eyes flash. “Victoria is confused. She doesn’t know what she wants. She’s weak, stupid. Always has been.”