Page 90 of Priest

“She’s got gravity,” I say. “Could feel it.”

His jaw tightens just a fraction. “She always did,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

I lean back against the wall, folding my arms. My mind drifts where it shouldn’t, to Blue, to rules I thought were protection until they started looking a lot like walls that trapped me inside while my entire world was on the other side out of reach.

“Sometimes,” I say quietly, “you think leavin’ feels like the only way to keep from ruin’ someone.”

Deacon doesn’t argue. Doesn’t look at me. “Yeah,” he says.

Silence settles in around us, heavy with things neither of us is ready to touch.

I glance once at the closed door before pushing off the wall. “You get some rest,” I tell him.

He nods.

As I step out into the hallway, I know one thing for certain: waking up was the easy part.

29

Priest

Church fills fast.

Men come in with relief still riding their shoulders, though none of them say it out loud yet. Leather creaks. Chairs scrape. Boots settle under the table. The room carries the same tension it has since Deacon went down, but tonight it has a pulse under it.

I don’t make them wait.

“Deacon’s awake.”

For half a second, the room suspends. Ledger closes his eyes and bows his head, hands pressed flat to the table like he’s steadying himself. Nomad exhales slow, one palm braced against the wood, his mouth curving like he’s trying to keep the relief from taking over his whole damn face. Rook’s smile barely shows, private and quick, the kind of thing he gives away so rarely it feels earned when it happens. Ink nods once, sharp and contained, but the tension in his shoulders eases like a knot finally cut.

“Took his damn time,” Ghost murmurs, voice low from his place near the end of the table. He keeps it measured, but pain sits under it. Deacon has always had a special connection with Ink and Ghost, our two quieter brothers. Maybe because silence means something different when it comes from men who know how much damage words can do.

A few quiet huffs pass for laughter, and relief settles into the bones of the room. Real relief. The kind a man feels before he remembers the fight waiting outside the door.

“He’s stable,” I add. “Docs say he’s on the mend. Long road ahead, but he’s walkin’ it.”

That lands deeper. This is more than a man waking up. It’s one of ours clawing his way back from the edge.

I let it breathe for a moment, then flatten my hands on the table and pull us back where we live. “Celebrate later. We still got work.”

The shift is immediate. Relief tightens into focus, and the men around this table turn it into something useful.

Days have gone by since we seeded the fake routes, and from our side of the fence, one of them should’ve stirred something by now. We didn’t move bikes. We didn’t put product on the road. We didn’t give anyone a real target. The bait existed only in conversation, tucked into the right corners of the clubhouse and left there to breathe.

One of those stories should’ve traveled. A scout. A shift in chatter. A little pressure from the wrong direction. Even a cautious club twitches when good information lands in its lap.

Instead, everything sits still.

Ghost leans forward first, forearms braced on the wood, his gaze moving from face to face as if he’s measuring how much truth the room is ready to hold. “We’ve done everything right so far,” he says. “Laid the groundwork. Controlled the noise. Let the lies sit where they were meant to. Right now, all we’ve really done is wait, and waiting only works when the other side moves the way you expect.”

Ink shifts beside him, recalibrating rather than restless. His eyes stay on the table, already running patterns the rest of us haven’t caught yet. “They’re moving dirty,” he says. “Or careful. The intel’s reaching someone, but it isn’t landing with enough weight to force a decision.”

Rook leans back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, brow creasing as he works through it. “So the problem ain’t the information. It’s the lack of consequence.”

Ink finally looks up, nodding once. “Exactly. Right now, it’s all paper. Routes talked about. Plans hinted at. Nothing they can see with their own eyes. We need something that looks like commitment, even if it’s hollow.”

Nomad taps one finger against the table, thoughtful, eyes narrowing like he’s seeing the road unfold in front of him. “Decoy movement.”