Page 40 of Iron and Ivory

Letting go is an empty beginning.

"For fuck's sake, Savannah," I mutter. "You're so goddamned dramatic today, you should write a poetry book. Title it—Boo Hoo."

I'm just about to go into the dining room to wait for dinner to be served, when the low rumble of a motorcycle echoes in the distance.

I look at the front window, walking quickly over to it, and even before the dust clears, I know it's Legion.

Of course it's Legion. Who else in the known world would roll up the private drive of the Ashby mansion on a machine that sounds like it was dragged, screamin' and spittin', straight out of the mouth of hell itself?

My first thought is… Oh, God. What's happened now.

It's not even a question when I think it. It lands flat, certain, the way you say of course when something terrible confirms what you already suspected. Because a drop-in visit from Legion comes attached with statements like I killed thirty-six people this morning.

I rush to the door, throw it open, and run down the stone walkway toward the drive. His bike materializes through the rolling cloud of dust like the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. Matte black on matte black. It's not a machine that wants to be seen. It just is—existing without apology, taking up exactly as much space as it wants.

And on top of it, Legion.

Black skullcap helmet. Mirrored sunglasses that catch the late afternoon sun and throw it back like a dare. Three days of stubble on his jaw. And his blond hair, which is past his shoulders now, catching in the wind at the edges of the helmet, bright as wheat in July.

When he sees me, he grins.

It is, genuinely, the most unfair thing about him. The way that grin happens—slow on one side first, like it's climbing something, before it gets all the way up to his eyes.

My whole world flips right-side up.

Just like that. The mourning, the melancholy, the pity party I was throwing myself—gone. Evaporated. Like it was never real to begin with, or maybe like it was real but it doesn't matter anymore.

I smile back.

I can't help it. I never could.

I slow my pace as I approach him, because nothing is wrong. My life is not depressing. My life is, actually, perfect.

Legion rolls right up alongside me. He's got something folded in his lap—black leather—and he lifts it off with one hand and holds it out.

"Put this on," he says, "and slide your legs around me."

It's a cut. A real Badlands cut. I take it, feeling the leather in my hands. It's heavy and real in a way that most things in life aren't anymore.

I turn it over in my hands and read it the way someone walkin' behind me might. There are three patches on the back. On the top it says Badlands in Old English font. Below that, the logo. A skull wrapped in barbed wire, rising out of cracked earth. And below the skull is a single word that makes my breath catch.

MINE.

My smile is immediate and big. I look at Legion, he's still grinnin'. "What is this?"

"What the hell do you think it is? It's a fuckin' statement, that's what it is."

I'm gigglin' like a stupid teenager when I turn it to the front. There are just two patches here. On the left side it says DEMON in the same old english font, but below that it says, NOT MINE.

The name everyone in the club has to call me.

A nameplate and a warning sewn into law. No Property Of. No Old Lady. Nothing that explains itself to anyone who isn't already standing inside the code.

"Go on," Legion says. "Put it on."

I slide my arm in, then the other. It's still warm from his body heat, from having it folded in his lap for the whole ride over. It settles on my shoulders when I pull the front closed. I just stand there for a second, pressing my hands flat over the jacket. Wondering what this all means for me.

I look up at him. He's still wearing the grin. Still watching me from behind those mirrors that show me back to myself—flushed, happy, and drowning in his cut. "Get on," he says, sliding a helmet off his handlebars and handing it to me. "Let's go."