The woman—Shay—shakes her head. “That’s bullshit, Rebel, and you know it. You can’t keep us in the dark, and you can’t bring random women—”

“I SAID SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH, SHAY!”

I nearly jump out of my skin as Rebel explodes. His face, completely colorless for the past five days, is suddenly bright red. His body is shaking, shoulders tensed, hands clenched into fists. “Today has been a seriously shitty day. Do not make it worse,” he hisses.

Shay blanches, the hostility falling away from her. She looks very much like a frightened little girl, which I’m betting is a rare event. I’m also betting it’s not very often that Rebel loses his cool; nearly every single person in the clubhouse looks stunned. Shay slowly sits down, and everyone else keeps their lips tightly sealed, clearly waiting for Rebel to speak.

Eventually he does. “This morning, Hector Ramirez sent us a very clear message. Carnie discovered the body of a woman hanging from a tree on the dirt road into town. It was Bron, Keeler’s girlfriend. She’d been decapitated, her hands and one of her feet removed. Her body had been hung upside down from the tree.”

The room explodes into sound. Forty people start shouting at once, the sound of their anger deafening. The obvious club members, the men with Widow Maker tattoos and leather cuts, are the angriest. In the corner of the room, a tall, skinny guy with long blond hair jumps out of his seat and rushes forward, limping ever so slightly. “Where the fuck is Keeler? And where the fuck is Ramirez? We have to kill the bastard. He’s gotta fucking pay, Rebel.”

Rebel blows out a deep breath. “Keeler’s just taking a beat, Brassic. And Ramirez is holed up in a farmhouse on the other side of town. He was arrested this afternoon, as was I.”

He goes on to explain that Ramirez showed up at their tattoo shop after Cade left and made some poorly veiled threats, at which point he’d laid into him with a baseball bat. I stand beside him, listening in horror as he goes through the motions of describing how he was then shot with a Taser and taken down to the local sheriff’s department. Cue one very angry DEA agent, ten hours of very aggressive questioning, and then he was allowed to call Cade who came and got him. The tension in the room is at boiling point by the time Rebel finishes his story.

Brassic, the tall, blond guy who asked about Keeler, slams his palm down onto the table in front of him, sending an empty glass shattering on the floor. “When are we going after him, Rebel? We can’t let this stand.”

“And we won’t. I know you’re all angry. I’m angry, too. But we need to be smart. If you can come up with a solid plan of attack that doesn’t end up in most of us dying and the rest of us in prison, I’d love to hear it. If not, then we need to take some time to figure this thing out. That DEA agent was intent on getting answers out of me. I’m sure she was the same with Ramirez. She told me plainly that she was in town with a crew, and that they weren’t leaving until they get what they came for. That includes Hector Ramirez on charges for drug trafficking and murder, and the Widow Makers locked up for the LA shooting at Trader Joe’s.”

“We were cleared of that, man! The cops arrested the guys the Desolladors hired to frame us. They admitted everything!”

“I know that. You know that. Lowell knows that. She’s pissed, though. Anything she can pin on us is a win for her. We’re living under a microscope right now, guys. If we put one foot wrong, we’re all fucked.”

Rebel’s words don’t seem to have any effect. Or certainly not the one he’s clearly hoping for, anyway. From the snatched words I overhear from people’s conversations, it sounds like no one cares if they get caught, sent to prison, shot or killed. They just want revenge.

“You still haven’t told us who she is,” Shay repeats. She moderates her tone this time, but it’s clear she’s furious over my presence. Rebel fixes her in an artic stare.

“She was witness to my uncle’s murder in Seattle. Hector and Dela Vega kidnapped her and we had Julio arrange purchase of her. She’s my guest here, Shay. That’s all you need to know.”

“So Hector and Raphael found out you had her and came here looking for her, right?” A rumble of dissent goes up amongst the crowd. Shay can hardly keep the hatred from her face as she locks eyes on me. Rebel does something that surprises me next. He steps in front of me, blocking me from her view. “You look at her again like that, Shay, and you and me are gonna have problems. In fact, best not to look at her at all, you read me?”

“She’s put us all in danger, Rebel. And you brought her here without telling any of us,” she spits. “Don’t you think we had a right to know about this? Don’t you think it would have been smart to tell us if you were bringing danger to our doorsteps?”

“It sounds very much like you’re questioning my judgement.” Rebel’s voice is all gravel and hard edges. He sounds like he’s about to go off at the deep end. Cade places a hand on his shoulder but Rebel shakes it off. He looks around the room—I can’t see the expression on his face, but I’m betting it’s terrifying. “This is not a democracy,” he says slowly. “This is not a fucking day spa. You don’t get to question me or go against my wishes. I’ve always done my best by you guys. I’ve always done my best to keep you safe. As of this moment, if any of you are unhappy with my leadership or think the threat Ramirez and his men poses is too great to your safety, I invite you to leave. No repercussions. No hard feelings. However, if any one of you so much as thinks of stepping out of line and putting this club in further danger, I’ll strip the motherfucking ink out of your backs right here and now.” I can see the hairs on the back of his neck slowly rising. The silent pause that follows is uncomfortable to say the least. Half the Widow Makers are looking at their feet when Rebel continues. “And should any one of you so much as think about making life here difficult for Sophia, you’re going to have to deal with me personally. Old or young. Man or woman. You’ve trusted me for the past five years, followed me through hell and back, so trust me now when I say this: you have never seen me pushed to my limit. Do not fucking test me. It will not end well.”

NINE

SOPHIA

When we get back to the cabin, Rebel puts me in his bed and tells me he’ll be back, and then I watch him through the half open bathroom door as he strips down to his boxers and methodically washes the blood from his body. He’s constructed beautifully, the planes of his muscles twisting and shifting in unison as he moves carefully around the bathroom. I can tell his side is still bothering him. And now he has two angry looking purple bruises planted in the middle of his chest where the prongs of the Taser made contact as well. There’s a lot of grunting and wincing as he cleans himself up. Sloane would tell him to sit his ass down so she could help him, but Rebel…he probably wouldn’t comply. He’s fiercely proud. He’s used to this—I can tell. If I try and interfere, he’ll probably shut down and instead of making progress we’ll be backtracking. I leave him to clean his wound and replace his bandages himself. He throws back what I’m assuming are more pain killers and antibiotics, and then he braces against the counter and stares at himself in the mirror for what feels like a very long time. He doesn’t seem to like what he sees.

When he comes to bed, I’m still intimidated by his performance back at the clubhouse. Intimidated enough that I pretend to be asleep. He sees through the ruse, though, pulling me to him without fear of waking me. He doesn’t say anything. He just strokes his hand over my hair, breathing deeply in the darkness, and I listen to his heart charging underneath his ribcage. He’s running a fever, his skin burning against my cheek as we lay there. I wonder if he’ll be a little better by the morning. Probably not. I mean, it’s going to take longer than a few days to recover from a serious injury like that, especially if he keeps moving around, attacking people with baseball bats and getting shot by DEA agents. I get the impression that tomorrow will be more of the same, somehow.