“How are we playing this, Razor?” Oz asks.

“We say pretty please when we reach the door?”

I snort, because I can’t remember the last time Razor used the words pretty or please. I’m sure that, until this moment, the combination has never been used by him before.

“Hitting brothers is out of the question,” Oz says.

Razors laughs. It’s brief, it’s dark and it caused the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. “You worry too much about rules.”

“You don’t worry enough.”

We’re halfway through and the conversation that had been taking place in the clubhouse has died. Near the pool table, two guys straighten from the shots they were lining up.

Dust places his pool stick on the table. He’s a good guy. Two years older than me, but he’s one of those guys who you know is an old soul the moment you meet him. Seen too much, and from what Dad had mentioned, Dust had done too much to solve his seeing too much.

Dust’s dad owned a car parts place a county over and Dust used to help my dad with installation. But when I see Dust, I’m back at the funeral home. Tears streamed down my face and I couldn’t make them stop. He handed me tissues. Only man to do that. It was a simple gesture and one I’ll always remember.

“Hey, Violet,” Dust says. “Your mom’s in the kitchen.”

Nothing from me, Razor or Oz. We just keep going and he slides into our path.

“Your mom said you shouldn’t be on your leg. Why don’t you sit and I’ll find her for you, or if there’s someone else you want, I’ll try to get them.”

Try.

Yep, for me it’s always a try.

Razor guides my elbow and changes places with me so I can maneuver around a table to avoid Dust and possibly duck through to the stairs. In front of Dust, Razor stops, slouches and shoves his hands into his front pockets. Nothing about the way Razor’s eyes bore into Dust’s suggests he’s casual.

“Don’t want problems,” Dust says, “but you know the rules. She’s not allowed in Church.”

I’m still going, and when the next person in line tries to block my path, Oz becomes the human shield.

Chairs crack and bar stools squeak as guys rise to their feet. Their job is to make sure the rules aren’t broken. Doesn’t matter if I’m dropped to the ground and shattered as long as the rules stay intact.

“Any of you touch her, talk to her or attempt to stop her and I’ll kick your fucking ass,” Razor says like he’s ordering off a dollar menu at a fast-food restaurant. Like it’s not a big deal he just risked himself for me. “She’s had way too many people manhandling her for any of us to give her shit.”

The air in the room is heavy with tension with each continued step of my good leg and drag of the bad. I reach the door of the stairway and I glance back. Football plays on the TV over the bar, fallen leaves scratch and scatter on the concrete outside, but otherwise it’s silent.

No one is happy. I’ve gone rogue in their eyes, but not one man has the balls to stop me. I should be happy, but I’m not. I shouldn’t have had to be kidnapped to finally earn some respect.

Another scan of the room and my stomach churns. That’s not respect in their eyes. It’s empty pity—even Oz and Razor.

I’m the girl who was kidnapped, the girl Chevy had to give himself up for to protect. I heard the men from the club whispering as they stood outside my hospital room door. Funny how when you don’t talk, people think you can no longer hear.

Screw them all.

The staircase is longer and steeper than I remember, but I make it, and when I reach the second floor, I breathe in and out several times to catch my breath and stare at the locked door. My hand falls to my chest and the comfort I’m searching for—my father’s cross—it isn’t there. Just like my bracelets aren’t. Just like I’ve lost any sense of safety and security. The Riot stole all that from me because of the Terror.

There’s protocol for them to open that door and I don’t know what it is. It’s more than a knock. More than a series of knocks.

But I want in this room and I won’t be ignored.

CHEVY

CAN I HANDLE THAT? I’ve been hurting Mom for years and Violet for months over making the club happy. Am I all in with the club? I don’t know, but can I handle keeping my mouth shut so I can learn what’s going on with the Riot? Hell... “Yes.”

Eli does a sweep of the table and each man nods in agreement with whatever he’s asking.

“Then we’re trusting you,” Eli says. “Giving you a chance to be your own man during this. If it wasn’t for the fact I promised Mom before she died that we wouldn’t patch you in until you turned eighteen, you’d be walking out of this room with a cut on your back.”

“We’re proud of you.” My grandfather’s voice is rough. “For protecting Stone, for protecting Violet, for standing strong when other men would crumble.”

One by one, like dominoes on the downfall, the men gathered around hit their fists against the table. It’s a show of support, a show of brotherhood, and my chest feels tight. Too many emotions flood me and I have to lean back in my chair to keep myself under control.

This moment right here—it’s what Mom doesn’t understand. Doesn’t get that I’ve watched this type of solidarity my entire life and all I’ve craved is to be a part of it. To be more than Cyrus’s grandson, Eli’s nephew, James’s ghost in living flesh. More than just being a blood destiny. I’ve wanted to belong because of who I am, because I’m wanted...and now it’s happening.