The Duplicity Trilogy: Books 4-5 - Ebook

Seizing Control: Heartbreak is book three in the Duplicity Trilogy.

The first two books, Tempting Fate and Making Choices, must be read beforehand to understand the overarching storyline. Do not read this blurb if you haven’t read the preceding books, as it contains spoilers.

You have been warned…

The main caveat of the Trinity’s new alliance with the Black Shamrocks MC is clear.

My union with Slash must bear fruit, or Zeke will die.

This requirement is the motivation behind my wedding vows.

The reason I endure the Trinity’s horrific ritual.

My justification for continuing to uphold the promises I made to the two men I love, even as I acknowledge that I’ve been set up to fail them both.

Until the news of Zeke’s untimely demise is announced, and my reason for marrying Slash dies with him.

Now, I am pregnant...

Paternity unknown.

Wed to a man who hates me for my inability to love him most, while our family’s survival hinges on our capacity to make the Trinity believe that our broken marriage is real.

• Death of a parent (off page, mentioned in passing)
• Sexual assault against women (present day, on page, descriptive)
• BDSM elements (consensual non-consent)
• Self-harm (off and on page)
• Drug use (past, off page)
• Violence against women (off page and on page, present day, descriptive)
• Emotional manipulation/emotional abuse
• Miscarriage/pregnancy loss (present day, on page, descriptive)
• Stalking
• Love triangle (readers may feel some events constitute cheating)
• Abduction
• Addiction
• Mental health issues (undiagonsed and diagnosed)

Prologue 
Ezekiel 
Aged: Nineteen

“Hit ’im again,” my president tells me in his raspy, smoker’s voice. Leaning against the concrete wall of the underground bunker hidden beneath the main building inside the Black Shamrocks MC compound, Brutus is a formidable sight. As always, on the rare occasion he looks me directly in the eye, the brute of a man sneers at me, then quickly hides his dislike beneath a façade of resigned counsel. “Use the studded knuckle dusters. Make ’im bleed.” 

“Not sure how much blood he has left.” 

I’ve been working over the two half-naked men for hours so far without knowing what he wants out of them. So far, he’s been content to watch them squirm, beg, and bleed under my ministrations. Can’t say I care all that much about his reasons, since this scene is satisfying my need for violence after three days of outrunning my feelings. 

Stumbling out of the strip club, pissed off as I finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t going to be successful in my mission to drown my emotions in alcohol and pussy, the last thing I’d wanted was to accept a call from my president. The only problem with that was my status as a prospect and my rapidly deteriorating relationship with my godfather. I couldn’t risk angering Brutus when the votes required to receive my full rocker needed to be unanimous. Luckily, his order to grab one of the Shamrocks vans and meet him at the warehouse had proven timely. 

Capturing a pair of Bishops on our turf and hauling their unconscious bodies into the bunker for interrogation was just the distraction I needed. With a smile on my face, I’d stripped them of everything but their boxers and their cuts and hung them from the chains connected to the ceiling. My prez’s demand to make them squeal had elicited a grin, then I’d set about doing exactly that. 

Except, I’m confused by his lack of urgency to extract answers... 

“You challengin’ my order, prospect?” 

Biting back my brewing retort when his curt response warns me that his mood is turning sour, I shake my head to deny Brutus’ allegation. He’s spoiling for a fight, and I’m in no shape to give it to him. Not after spending weeks sitting with my cancer-riddle mother while she impatiently waited to meet the reaper. In the forty-eight hours since her death, I’ve done my best to evade my worried friends, as they’ve tried to track me down to offer their condolences. 

I’m angry. Tired. Lost. Brimming with hurt. A tornado of emotion, some of which I can’t even name. The one thing I do know is that grief is the one thing I’m not feeling right now, so their sympathy is the last thing I need. No matter how well-meaning their intentions, I refuse to mourn the bitch who spawned me.  

The truth is that my mother was evil, and just like the man talking me through the interrogation of two bikers from our enemy club, the Bishops of Bloodshed, she hated me. I wish I could’ve met her loathing head on with a hatred of my own, but I’m not built like that. A small part of my heart still yearns for her unconditional acceptance, even though her sly pinches, harsh words, deliberate neglect, stinging slaps, and hard words should’ve killed the child inside me a long time ago. 

Maybe every little boy eternally craves his mother’s love? 

I wouldn’t know since I never had it to lose... 

Nowadays, I’m less hungry for her approval because I’ve become a slave to my pride. Motivated to impress the hard man glaring at me, I live solely to ensure the innocence of his only daughter. So much so, that I can’t remember the last time I existed outside the spectre of my mother’s slander and my own need to prove her wrong. I’m stupid. Useless. Dumb. An embarrassment. Ineptitude is ingrained in my atomic makeup, to the point where I rely on my best friend to balance the books at the custom motorcycle workshop my dad gave me for my eighteenth birthday every quarter and a twelve-year-old girl to write up my quotes and finalise my weekly invoicing. 

I’m the living embodiment of incompetence. If I wasn’t good with a welding rod, a blow torch, violence, and murder, I’d be nothing more than a meat sack with a heartbeat and a steady hand with a knife. My prez regularly informs me that my lack of talent is offset by my indiscriminate homicidal tendencies. He loudly proclaims that I’m his secret weapon, a killer he can point at his enemies without question or consequence. 

Yet, as I snatch the brass weapon Brutus wants me to use to motivate our captives from the stainless-steel bench and thread my swollen and bloodied fingers through the slots, I’m not so sure anymore. Whereas I once found satisfaction in my venomous lethality, as I reach the end of my teen years I’m discovering that my bloodlust requires sufficient motivation in order to fully engage. I don’t want to kill without cause. I don’t want to be the violence behind the Shamrocks patch. I don’t want to be on the outside looking in while my fellow prospects are given bigger and better roles within the club. 

My talents aren’t cerebral like Carter’s or parasocial like Benedict’s. 

I know my aptitudes are based in the physical. 

I’m much better with my hands than my head. 

Still, going through the motions no longer interests me. 

Not when the blood already coating my hands feels permanent. A bloom of disgrace I can’t outrun. Killing comes easily to me, especially when my pride and brotherhood are at stake, or my protective instincts flare. Which is why I live with the gnawing fear that my sins will stain little Cherub’s pure soul and righteous existence if I’m not careful. Being near her is ripe with risk, even as the mere thought of being separated from her feels like a fate worse than death. 

At my core, I am a motherless son who grew into a man faithfully devoted to one girl.  

Even though that truth would get me killed if it ever came to light... 

“What ya waitin’ for... a fuckin’ invite from the Queen?” Brutus grumbles. He slaps me across the back of my head. I hunch my shoulders to absorb the blow, hissing low as my temper engages. As the dark reminder of the stakes in this game we’ve been playing since Cherub turned twelve and he decided I was his enemy swirl in my mind, I grind my teeth together to stop myself from whirling on him and jamming the sharp points in his throat—even if watching Brutus drown in his own blood would be an unexpected rainbow following the shitty few months I’ve endured. “Get a move on... the cut sluts’ll be no more than walkin’ cum dumps if we don’t get upstairs soon.” 

Rampantly cheating on his gorgeous wife is a recent proclivity. 

One that Brutus hasn’t taken any steps to hide from his club brothers. 

The cone silence that our brotherhood operates within is being tested by his latest betrayal of his family. No one likes what he’s doing, however, I have been expressly forbidden by my father, the current Shamrocks’ vice president, from telling Scarlett the truth. Carter and Benedict’s fathers, the Sergeant-At-Arms and Road Captain respectively, have laid the same decree on their sons. It goes against my nature to lie to the woman who helped raise me during my mother’s many absences. She deserves my loyalty in a way Brutus never has. At the same time, I can’t imagine a world where I am responsible for destroying Cherub’s picture-perfect childhood by revealing that her father is as faithless as he is feckless. 

Rock meet hard place. 

Whichever I turn, I lose. 

My brothers, the respect of a good woman, or the happiness of the girl I’d die to protect. 

“Ask him about the missin’ packages.” 

“Sure.” My voice is hoarse from lack of use. I swallow deep, then clear my throat. “What packages?” 

“What packages?” Brutus snorts after he verbally mocks me. “Fuck, you’re a slow learner... a right daddy’s boy who can’t see past the end’a his nose.” Breathing heavily, daggers in my eyes, I scan his face for clues to his puzzling comment. When he moves to slap me again, I sidestep his outstretched palm, and he demonstrates his irritation as he scoffs, “Remember those lost—” He makes finger quotes around the last word. “—packages. I might’a found ’em, or better still, I might’a left ’em layin’ about for the Bishops to find so we could engineer this little meetin’.” 

My president’s flippant reply sends a chill down my spine. 

The only missing packages I’m aware of are the ones my fellow prospect, Benedict Cherub, was accused of losing on our latest run. He swore, black and blue, up and down, at church that he’d counted right at the start and again at the delivery spot, but Brutus still docked his meagre earnings for the “lost” packages, reduced his paid hours acting as security at the Shamrocks strip clubs, and put him on solo clean-up duty for a month in the compound. Carter and I helped him out when no one was looking, and we did our best to spread the blame between the three of us since we were all responsible for the safe passage of the recent weed crop to our Nullarbor chapter. We deflected the old timers censure from him with logic. Tried to make them understand that we’d triple counted before leaving, again at the end of each night’s camping, and when we’d handed over the packages. 

Our explanations fell on deaf ears because our word was at odds with our president’s. 

Brutus Mayberry is king in our world. 

Sure, the Shamrocks are technically a democracy, but everyone knows we live under one man’s rule. Normally a benevolent ruler, it now appears that my president set up my good friend to fail. It’s enraging. Grates on my sense of fair play. Pushes me closer to the edge. Where I once hero-worshipped Brutus, I have grown to resent my godfather’s callous hypocrisy in recent months. 

First, he tries to limit my time with Cherub. 

Then, he lies about Benedict to the club. 

I should turn the homicidal tendencies he lauds so loudly on him. 

It’d be a well-deserved slice of karma... 

“Knew you were bent, didn’t realise your moral compass was all the way broken,” I muse loud enough for our captives to hear. They’re displaying keen interest in our conversation, likely out of some stupid hope that they’ll live to pass on any nuggets of information they glean to their president, Wolf. If they had more than one braincell between them, they’d know that their meeting with the reaper was cemented the moment I captured them at gunpoint this evening. “Next week at church’ll be fun.” 

“Sure will,” he tells me with a snort. “’Cause your stoner buddy’ll be scramblin’ to explain how the Bishops got their hands on the packages he lost.” My president shrugs, then angles his head to the side. “Unless...” 

It’s clear that he’s angling for something. 

Rather than drive myself crazy trying to guess his next move, I ask outright, “What the fuck do ya want?” 

Brutus jerks his chin toward the two men hanging from the bunker roof. “Them.” 

Following his gaze, I remind myself that the underground room is soundproof. I have no alibi to this situation, and I lack a witness to Brutus’ admission about the lost packages and his threat to Benedict. Cutting a deal with him is the smartest move. 

I think... 

With my brain moving a million miles an hour, I stare at the ceiling like it holds the answers. As I blindly scramble to determine what Carter would do in this situation, I imagine the party getting started in the main bar above us. My best friends will be setting things up, stocking the fridges, and kowtowing to the demands of the old timers who ascribe to Brutus’ treat ’em like slaves ethos when it comes to prospects. No doubt, they’ll be slipping off every now and then to check for updates about my whereabouts, worried as they’ll be that I’m out in public fucking up my life in response to my mother’s death. 

They have no idea that I’m dancing between the devil and insanity. 

Trapped underground with our (maybe) dirty president. 

I have two options. 

Cut a deal with a maniac with an agenda. 

Storm upstairs and out his double cross to my club brothers.

Do I sell my soul for mine, Carter, and Benedict’s full rockers? 

Or should I lay my honour at the feet of men who’ve already fallen victim to his lies?  

My choice is made when I enquire, “What do you want from them?” 

“I want them to confess to the theft of our weed.” The big man snickers when our captives protest his allegation. Delight at my impending compliance dances in his cerulean gaze as he tells me, “Then I want them dead.” 

“Fine.” With my right leg bouncing erratically, hitching my stride, I circle the first of the men hanging from the bunker roof. The chain securing him jangles and clanks when he skids on his tiptoes in a feeble attempt to escape my reach. I glare at him, focusing the rage I feel over Brutus’ deceit and my mother’s final desertion on the bleeding Bishop. He makes a whining sound when I jam the studded knuckle dusters under his chin. “Tell me how you got your hands on our weed?” 

“C—Come on, man.” The stringent scent of urine fills the small, cold space. I glance at the floor to make sure his piss isn’t splashing my boots. “I know nut-tin’... I’m bein’ straight. I know nut-ting about no packages.” 

The bounce in my leg, a sign that my control is about to slip, picks up pace. I rake my hostile gaze over his swollen face, noting that he’s slightly older than me. The patch on his left lapel identifies him as an enforcer. It’s shiny state telegraphs that he’s new to the role. His pale ink-covered skin and the diamond stud in his ear lobe denotes him as one of Wolf’s favoured brothers. Most of the Bishops live pay-cheque to pay-cheque, extravagances like tattoos and jewellery out of their reach. 

“Tell me—” I drop my gaze to the patch with his road name. “—Prickles... why were you hangin’ around our warehouse?” 

He breathes heavily through his mouth, recoiling when I jab the studs through his skin. Blood wells, then it runs down his neck. The streaks of claret colour his heaving chest. A squeal that’d embarrass a pig emanates from his quivering lips. 

“Venom...” Prickles pleads. 

I shoot a look at Brutus. “Why’s he callin’ me that?” 

“You know why,” my wily president replies evenly. His bright eyes gleam with satisfaction. “I named you as an eight-year-old hothead.” In my head, I mentally correct him. The “Venom” moniker was christened when I was seven and little Cherub was nine months old. Her only cousin, Benedict, had dropped her while horsing around, and I’d lost my shit on him. Fists and angry words, I’d punished him for hurting my sweet girl with his stupidity. “Told ya then... told ya hard-headed father the same bloody thing... once I found your trigger, you’d be my best weapon. That ain’t changed—” He screws up his nose and regards me like shit stuck to his shoe. “—Despite your inability to learn ya place.” 

Once again, I let his hostility slide. 

Although I match his venom, I don’t completely understand his motivation. 

I’ve done nothing to him. His affections turned on a dime a few months ago. To the point where he feels comfortable sabotaging my nomination to patch into the Shamrocks. I don’t necessarily respect his personal choices, and his moral code is lacking in my opinion, but I would’ve walked into a hail of bullets to protect him and everything the patches on his cut stand for. The club I want to belong to is worth dying for, and that meant sacrificing myself for my president if it came to that. 

But that ends now... 

My allegiance is to the brotherhood I’m trying to join. 

No one man stands above that allegiance. 

“Venom.” The second Bishop of Bloodshed chooses now to offer his input. I redirect my attention from Brutus to the bleeding man. The name on his cut states “Thorns”. His forehead is screwed up. Pain clouds his gaze. There is an absence of guile in his features when he tells me, “Me and my brother were sent to watch the warehouse by Wolf—he told us that Brutus was sendin’ us a—” 

Bang. 

The gunshot echoes off the walls of the bunker. 

“What the fuck?” I exclaim. Seeing that Brutus is about to send Prickles to the reaper before he can finish his brother’s sentence, I surge forward to catch hold of his wrist. My aim is true, but my timing is off. Prickles crab-walks on his tiptoes to get out of the firing line, just as my president pumps a bullet into the second Bishops’ forehead a second before I snatch the Glock out of his hand and knock him to the concrete floor. As I sight him up with his own weapon, he flops prone on his back in the puddles of blood slowly circling the drain and glares up at me. “You’re a fuckin’ rat... you told them about the warehouse.” 

Panting hard, my president grins. “Nah... I wouldn't've done somethin’ like that.” 

“It wasn’t a fuckin’ question,” I shout at him. 

I see his next move the moment the thought enters his head. With the knuckle dusters hampering my grip, and the Glock held in my non-dominant hand, I’m slow to react when he sweeps his leg out. The impact buckles my knees. I go down like a sack of potatoes. The air is knocked out of my lungs. I groan as pain ricochets through my head and shoulder blades. 

Fit, despite being in his forties, my president springs back to his feet. After driving the toe of his boot into my ribs, he easily disarms me. Brutus laughs when I jerk away from his foot after he feints another kick. He aims the muzzle at my face. Slapping the cement beneath me with both palms, I refuse to look away as I wait for him to send me to the reaper as well. 

The bullet never comes. 

Instead, Brutus holds out his hand to me. “You’re gonna make a good fuckin’ biker.” 

“Fuck you.” He flicks his fingers when I refuse to accept his assistance. Resolutely remaining on the floor, I ask, “You gonna act like I didn’t hear what I just heard?” 

“This was a test... you heard what I wanted you to,” my president tells me. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to take his hand, Brutus wanders over to the bench that contains the tools we use on our enemies. I clamber back to my feet, ignoring the stabbing pain that flares in the back of my skull. After selecting the thin wire that we use to garrotte our captives, he ambles over to the dead men. “This’ll be ya callin’ card, Venom.” 

In silence, I watch him desecrate both corpses by drawing the wire between their lips and slicing until they’re left with an artificial smile curling from either side of their lips. Arms crossed over my chest, I arch an eyebrow in a request for him to expand on his previous remark. 

Brutus grins. “It’s called a Glasgow Grin. My Pa used to dole ’em out.” He examines his handiwork, before turning back to me. “Every time I see one, it warms the cockles of my heart.” 

“Not sure why you expect me to take up the mantle.” 

“Told ya that you’re gonna be my best weapon. That means I getta shape ya skills.” 

After working saliva into my suddenly dry mouth, I ask, “What if I want more than that?” 

“Then we’re gonna have a problem...” Although he trails off to drive home the seriousness of his point, Brutus doesn’t wait for my response to his veiled threat. “You’re free to go. I’ll have Angelis get his enforcers to clean up this mess. 

With a sharp nod, I accept his dismissal. 

The only exit from the underground bunker is a retractable ladder. 

I jump with one arm extended to catch hold of the bottom rung so I can unfold it. 

The last thing I want to do is see my friends, even though I know the time has come to face them. They’ve been tracking me for two days, and I’ve been doing my best to evade them. Their sympathy is unwarranted. It’s also the sole certainty in my near future. My brain is scrambled with thoughts that my president is dirty. Caught between my reticence to accept his excuse about this fiasco being a test, I need the firm footing the presence of my best friends provides. 

My preference would be to visit Cherub. 

But, I’ve already escaped death once tonight, so I’m loath to push my luck. My president didn’t shoot me after pulling a gun on him. Doubt he’ll extend the same grace if he finds me in his daughter’s bedroom in the middle of the night. 

Innocent as my intentions toward her may be... 

“Excusin’ ya from prospect duties tonight,” Brutus announces. Waiting for the other shoe to drop since he isn’t known for cutting his noms any slack, I continue pulling the ladder down without acknowledging his declaration. “In light’a ya mumma’s death and all.” 

“She wasn’t my mumma... just the bitch who birthed me.” 

“Ain’t that a fact.” Brutus’ droll response follows me up the steps. “Bitch won’t be missed, that’s fo’ sure.” 

When I emerge from the hole in the floor into the deserted laundry room, I allow myself a moment to breathe. My nerves are rattled, a circumstance where I’d cut out my own tongue before admitting out loud. I need a break. From my life. From my friends. From the club. From my own head. 

I need something sweet to offset all the bitterness flooding me. 

Exiting into the hallway that connects the various extensions to the original building, I take one look at the rowdy crowd in the main bar, then I spin on my heel. Despite my urgency to get out of here, I take a few minutes to wash up in my private bathroom. Once I’m clean, I quickly dress in fresh jeans and a new Shamrocks t-shirt. My knife is strapped to my calf. The shoulder holster I habitually wear follows a second later. 

I slip my cut over my shoulders as I enter Carter’s bedroom. 

His neat and tidy space, filled with the baby books and parenting guides he’s currently devouring in preparation of his kid’s birth, is dimly lit by his bedside lamp. While I’m not a pig by any means, my room always looks a mess when compared to his. It’s a physical manifestation of our contrasting personalities. 

I’m chaos. He is calm. Together, we’re unbeatable. 

As much as I want to avoid him right now, I still don’t want him to worry. Smiling, I toss his pillows on the floor and short sheet his bed, to let him know that I'm still alive and kicking. Then, after moving the bookmarks in the book he’s in the middle of, I let myself out of the side door leading to the parking lot. 

Carter is the only brother with an external access. 

It’s a boon that we don’t take for granted as we make our way through the rotation of fresh strippers and new cut sluts that we like to share. Prospects aren’t supposed to fuck the whores that flock to the compound before the full patches, so the side door offers plausible deniability and freedom for the women to come and go without question.

Since my Harley is still parked at the strip clubs, I slide into the driver’s seat of a club van. 

The drive from the port-side suburb that houses the compound to the suburb where most of the old timers live passes by in the blink of an eye. I should be worried about getting caught, but I’m not. I’m borderline manic. In need of a circuit breaker before I explode. My need for sweetness is stronger than my sense of self-preservation. 

Especially when the truth is as crude as it is simple. 

Brutus will spend the night balls deep in a cut slut. 

I’ll be free to savour every second I have Cherub to myself. 

She is my reason for breathing. 

The only thing keeping me sane. 

My busted knuckles start bleeding again as I pound on the heavy wooden door. Leaning heavily against the wall, I shift from foot to foot as the frantic urge that drove me to visit my president’s home in the middle of the night tries to goad me into smashing a window to let myself inside. The front light blinds my bleary eyes when it’s switched on. White spots burst in my vision. 

Muttering to myself, I shield my face with my hand, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” 

“Oh, sweetheart. Come on in.” Scarlett Mayberry’s expression fills with worry when she pulls the door open to find me standing on her front porch at midnight. Her eyes dart past me, scanning her front yard for signs of danger, then return to my battered face and my busted hands. The bruises are courtesy of the fights I’ve picked whilst drunk. The grazes on my knuckles from torturing the Bishops tonight. “You’re a mess.” She ushers me in with a frantic hand motion. When I don’t immediately move, she grabs me by the front of my shirt and pulls me inside her foyer. “Everyone’s been looking for you... let me check you over.” 

“I’m fine.” 

With one of her patented eye rolls, Scarlett flicks the lock back into place, then lays the handgun she’s holding on the side table. Her concerned gaze tracks from my bruised jaw down to the split knuckles. I reopened them when I pounded on her front door and they’re now dripping blood on her floor. “You certainly look fine...” 

“You should see the other guys,” I joke. 

My attempt at humour falls flat when Scarlett purses her lips before she says, “So they’re alive to tell the tale?” 

“No.” 

“Did Brutus send you to deal with them for the Shamrocks, or was it personal?” 

“Bit’a both,” I hedge the truth rather than inform her that I suspect her husband’s intentions have nothing to do with the safety of the club and more to do with some game he’s playing with the lives of his prospects. When Scarlett’s eyes fill with scepticism, I’m forced to admit, “Can’t really tell, nowadays.”  

“Sweetheart.” Scarlett sighs. Her fingers wrap around the cherub pendant she wears around her neck. It’s one of the few pieces of jewellery that I’ve been satisfied enough with to gift to one of my loved ones. My dad wears a sceptre and horn of plenty designed in the same style. She caresses it, then tucks it back inside her top collar. “I really wish you’d speak to Hades before you allow my old man to use you as his attack dog. Times are changing. Violence isn’t always the answer.” 

“Violence is the only thing I’m any good at.” 

“That’s not true.” The pretty blonde sighs a second time. “You’re good at lots of things.” 

Scarlett’s attempt at explaining away my killer tendencies feels like a thousand thumbtacks being jammed under my fingernails at once. I’m not in the right headspace to ward off the poison that immediately floods my head as a protest to her kindness. A solitary word echoes in my skull. Stupid. It’s a familiar refrain. One I’ve heard since my earliest days at school—a label my own mother has tossed my way more than once. As thoughts of the woman who finally deserted me for the last time begin to curdle my blood, Scarlett closes the distance between us. The hug that she engulfs me in makes my skin burn with shame. My right leg starts to bounce, and a tell-tale prickle of rage breaks out over my scalp. As my temper, the oversized pit of lava that endlessly bubbles in the space between my heart and my gut, begins to catch fire, the tall and graceful blonde holding me immediately notices. I try my hardest to temper my dark side, aware that it’s a fight I’ll lose if she doesn’t stop offering me unearned sympathy and understanding. 

“Zeke,” Scarlett says my name in the same tone she uses on her own children whenever they are upset. “It’s late, and the kids are already in bed, but there’s room for you up there too... as long as you’re happy on Lily’s floor.” 

A few months ago, that caveat wouldn’t have been needed. 

Now, thanks to Brutus’ paranoia, my every move is watched. 

“Thanks, Scar,” I reply as evenly as I can manage. 

“No thanks needed. I know you’ll always look after that sweet child of mine.” 

“Always.” 

“And that’s why you’re welcome here, any time.” Although I’m aware that’s not necessarily true, I still take advantage of Scarlett’s vow. After the past three days of abstaining, I need to bask in little Cherub’s sweetness or I’m going to find myself in lockup. Moving fast, a little apprehensive that she could rescind her offer at any time, I have one foot on the stairs when Scarlett adds. “I’m so sorry about Chantal. It wasn’t a shock, still I know it can’t be easy. Your mother was so very proud of—” 

“Her looks. Her dancing. And the number of zeroes in her latest fuck buddy’s bank account. But never me... I was her biggest disappointment.” When Scarlett looks as if she’s about to argue, I angrily shake my head as I turn back to face her. She frowns, and the weight of the guilt that hits me in the wake of that pitying look quickly becomes too much to bear. “I apologise... shouldn’t’ve have spoken to you like that.” 

“You’re forgiven. Three days without sleep will put anyone out of sorts.” 

“You and I both know my bad temper’s kinda permanent by this point.” 

Shock ripples through me, slowing the lit fuse of my rage a little, when she replies with a sharp laugh, “Ain’t that the truth.” My lips quirk and Scarlett’s smile widens, and she makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Now off you go, get some sleep. I’ll keep my old man—” A ripple of revulsion shakes her shoulders when she mentions my president. “—at bay while you catch some much-needed zeds.” 

The reminder of her hot-headed husband—the man who nominated me to the Black Shamrocks MC nearly eight months ago, then immediately began to cut me down—forces me back into motion. I take the stairs three at a time and bound down the hallway toward the Mayberry twins adjacent bedrooms, expertly skipping the squeaky floorboards so I don’t wake up the five kids sleeping under this roof. 

For the first eleven years of their lives, Lilianna and Lysander shared a room with their Irish twin, Everett. The threesome was inseparable until late this year when little Cherub decided that she wanted her own space. Always eager to indulge his only daughter, Brutus ordered his prospects to build a dividing wall down the middle of the giant room. 

With Carter and Benedict, I’d worked my arse off to make Cherub’s bedroom perfect. 

Blue. Airy. Safe. 

It’s her sanctuary. 

My sanctuary. 

Cherub’s scent envelops my senses when I slip inside her dark room and quietly close the door behind me. It’s a fruity vanilla perfume that reminds me that she’s growing up too fast. No more Impulse body spray for Lilianna Mayberry, nowadays she wears the expensive perfume Scarlett helped her select as her “signature scent.” It was a major milestone apparently, one that had ended with me acting as her test dummy in the middle of the department store, so that she could start high school early next year smelling like a woman and not a kid. 

A woman. 

Fuck me, she’s only twelve. 

I’m already conscious of the ticking time-bomb brewing between us. I don’t need everyone around us harping on about the speed with which she’s growing up. Logically, I know that the fuss with the perfume was just another way for them to drive home the approaching end date of mine and Cherub’s friendship. 

They think I’m stupid. 

Maybe, I am. 

But, not about this. 

I know that Cherub will be grown within a few years. 

She’ll head off to university, and I’ll be relegated to the shadows where I belong. 

The future is clear. 

Lilianna is a shooting star. 

I’m a black hole.