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Chapter Thirty-Two

Nicco leaned against the railing at the safe house, looking out over the Montana mountains. He was Montana born and raised, and despite setting up his club compound in Colorado, he’d always felt the draw to return home. Dante was still close, and he’d see the same sunsets he’d seen as a child.

It had been happening more, as of late, the memories of life before his mother was gone, when he could be a brother, and not both parents, when he could have hopes and dreams of his own.

Nicco nearly smiled. Back then, he’d wanted to be a writer. Dante was the artist, always doodling illustrations in the margins of his homework, drawing on his high tops and the brown paper bags they’d wrapped their textbooks in. But Nicco had loved the stories. Maybe it had been his namesake, or maybe it was simply because diaspora had a way of making people ache for a sense of belonging. In the stories, there was always a knight on a quest or a pirate sailing the high seas. Heroes won the day and villains were conquered.

But when he’d taken over Dante’s care, there hadn’t been any room for dreaming. Life in those years had been about survival, the same need to make it through what had first dragged him into MC life, without realizing what it was he had been signing up for.

He had protected Dante from the same fate, though, and that would always be his greatest accomplishment.

He could stay. If he convinced Ash to take over the club, he could stay. Fill his days with stories and catch up on the lost years with his brother.

I won’t do that, though, will I?

There was a kind of shadow that covered his thoughts sometimes. He’d always been haunted by specters, but ever since the…run-in…with his father the previous year, Nicco felt as though he was being hunted, like the shadows in the corner of his room had been getting closer when he looked away for too long. He could go all day without seeing a single one, only to pay the price when the lights were turned off and he was alone with them.

It was the voice that took the very hopeful thought of living closer to Dante and Saint and turned it into a black, gooey thing in his hand that made him wonder what road would be the very best one for his last ride.

Of course, he wasn’t going to leave his team adrift. Ash would take over eventually and they’d settle into a routine and…

Dante would be furious and heartbroken. Most days, that gave him pause, but some days…some days it didn’t.

And Ash. And Hanna.

That part felt a little stickier. Because he had seen the way they looked at each other, how they gravitated toward one another, how there was never a moment of calm in the storm of their connection, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that they were the end game. They could be some kind of twisted power couple, saving people all over the state.

And God, they would be so happy.

And I can’t stand in their way.

As much as he found himself wanting to, which was notable, because Nicco rarely found he wanted for much. But he’d wanted Ash to cross the line he’d been too afraid to step over without help. He’d wanted to see what Hanna tasted like, wanted to know what it would be like to bear the weight of their dark touches both at the same time.

The wind howled in the distance, a familiar, haunting sound. March in Montana was unpredictable and volatile, sunny and warm or blistering cold, temperamental and beautiful and impossible to predict.

Like Ash. Like Hanna.

They were each March in their own way, he realized, in the same moment he realized how much Ash and Hanna were under his skin. Hanna, she was Aries March, a warrior, the blustering winds bursting in like a lion, fearless, stubborn, untamed, and made of a fire and hard truths. Ash was Pisces March, the March of hard-won spring sunshine and bloom, where even the coldest day felt like a victory because he had survived the winter, soft, because he knew too much harshness and had decided to be happy anyway.

Nicco…

He sighed. Nicco knew he was somewhere in between, still driven by a relentless fighting spirit that had kept him alive, but yearning from the depths of his soul for something softer, a gentle place to lay his head, even if he wasn’t able to lay down his sword.

Dante had always been the artist, but Nicco felt a draw to the words and plans and strategies of his namesake, one that made it difficult to pretend he didn’t see how perfectly the three of them fit together, one that made it feel like lying to deny the truth before his eyes.

Survivors, each of them in their own ways, three sides of a triangle that each deserved a better life.

And if he wasn’t a coward about it, he might have just been willing to admit how close they were…

Even if he knew, in the end, the time would come for him to walk away. Ash had given him too much already. Nicco could give him the chance at something better with someone they both…understood.

The door slammed behind him, and Nicco felt Ash’s presence like the winds of spring, like the scent of campfire smoke filling his lungs.

“We need to talk,” Nicco said, before Ash could push one of those long-bruised buttons. Ash saw him too well, in ways Nicco didn’t want to be seen. But Hanna did too, and that mixed him up, how they seemed to know more than he told even Dante. “I want you to take over the club.”

Ash fell back against the wood of the house. He moved fluidly for such a large man, and that only served to remind Nicco of just how large he was, of how he felt, of all the ways he had made Nicco and Hanna feel as they had writhed together. He could admit, if only to himself, that it had been more than raw, animal lust.

What it was…