KNIGHTS OF HELL

Except this time she was all the more corporeal, solid enough that her name had dropped from his lips without thought. Still calling out to her despite how many of his calls and texts had gone unanswered when she'd bolted from town like they'd always talked about. Only he'd seen it as more of a dream but she'd made it her reality without even a glance in his direction.

At the time there'd been nothing but pain, an open wound that only she could have stitched up for him. But in her absence he'd had to heal it himself, watching it calcify and harden into a nasty, jagged scar as he embraced fury and rage instead of sadness. They were much more productive emotions than wallowing in the depressing darkness that had tugged at him without her light.

"Hey?" Word was spat back almost mockingly, sneer curling onto his lips as he gave into anger rather than pain. "When the fuck did you get back?" There was too much unsaid between them and there was a temptation to let it all out, come barbed comment about how he wasn't surprised she hadn't told him. She'd stopped telling him things years ago.

So she steeled herself, chin tipped up in defiance to Marcos’ harsh tone.  “Oh, I’m sorry, is that not how people in Reno greet each other anymore? My bad.” She turned from him slightly, pretending to browse the shelf to her right.  She knew her choice of greeting wasn’t what he was taking umbrage with, but what did he want her to do? Ignore him?  Fall on her knees the second she realized it was him?  

“A couple weeks ago.” She answered, all blaise-like, although she knew that answer would probably earn more ire than her casual ‘hey’.  But to be fair, the first week was spent in a fugue state.  She spent half her time cleaning out the absolute hoarder’s dream of a trailer her parents had left her, and the other half sleeping and practically catatonic.  It felt like the moment she landed in Reno, she could barely keep her eyes open half the time.  She knew medically, her nervous system was absolutely fucking fried, and this was it’s response.  But for a day there she was seriously concerned about cataplexy.  

Eager to get the topic off her return, in case the question of ‘why?’ was asked, she made an obvious point to take all of Marcos in, eyes lingering on his cut.  “Well, even if greetings have changed, I guess some things haven’t.” Was it disdain? Judgement? Or just a way to pick a fight?

There was a heaviness in his limbs that wasn't the familiar weight of exhausting but more like a reluctance to prepare him for the job ahead. He had a loose routine, altering it depending on the time of day that he was needed but the vague motions remained the same. Check his gun, shower, check his gun again. But as he reached for his cut it felt like a lead weight in his hands. For years it had been like his wings, freeing him and allowing him to reach highs that were only rivalled when he was with his wife. But since the change in leadership the club that he had known so well, that had been as much a part of him as his heart or lungs, began to feel foreign. The Sons that he had been such a proud member of no longer existed, in their place an unrecognisable group of men who he felt had abandoned honour and loyalty and replaced them with greed and vanity.

As he checked his gun again, clicking something into place, he heard footsteps behind him. Where some men might have chosen to keep their worries to themselves, silently bearing an unspoken burden, Salvador had never had any such notions. Lourdes had married him knowing all of him, he wasn't about to start keeping things from her or shifting into someone he wasn't. Besides, he had already voiced his concerns over the new president and the shift at the Sons, his words would hardly be shocking. "Something just ain't feelin' right about this job." The admission was uttered but it was nonetheless out there, hovering between them. For weeks he had tried to convince himself that he was overreacting but now that the feeling had life and was acknowledged by someone else, he was only more convinced something would happen. "You know where all the stuff you'll need is, right?" His will. The deed to their house. The box of club things that would need destroyed. All things she had been well briefed on a dozen times over but he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to make sure that all his affairs were in order.

They were sombre words and ones he couldn't take back, nor did he feel as though he could lighten the mood. Any attempts at a joke would only seem flippant and he wanted to leave space for them to both consider what his suspicions could mean. For him the only thought on his mind was that it might be the last time he got to look at the love of his life. Hand reached out absent-mindedly to take hers, tugging her round into view having spoken his doubts without fully turning her way. A hand was placed on her cheek, eyes taking in each and every one of her features as though he could sear the memory of them into his mind enough that he could take it with him to whatever afterlife waited for him. Except that wasn't good enough. He wouldn't be satisfied with their time together being cut so short, not when he'd crawl back to her if he had to. He says as much in the vow he uttered next. "Whatever they pull I'm coming back to you."

Walking quietly up behind him, Lou listened to his words.  They sent a chill down her spine.  She tried to chase them away with the warmth of his body, arms wrapping around his waist, her chest to his back, chin resting on his shoulder.  “In what way do you mean?” she asked, voice hushed as she tilted her head to the side so she could get a better look at him.  “You don’t feel good about what you’re doing? Or something feels off?” She wanted to get a clearer sense of what he was talking about, in hopes that she could set his mind at ease, give him a clear head for whatever he was walking into.  It was how she could make sure he came home safe.  There was so little she could control

If someone were to be poetic in their description of Luisa they might have described her as a force of nature - powerful, unchangeable, and at times merciless. Those that were less charitable might reference her stubbornness or bluntness, painting a more negative picture. She'd even heard herself referred to as a raging bitch before - a badge she still wore with honour and amusement rather than shame. There was nothing to be embarrassed about standing up for herself and those she cared about, in her mind it was cowardly to do anything but, and so if she ruffled a few feathers in the process it was a trade off she was happy to make. It had been made clear to her too many times that if she didn't fight that fight no one else would. Too many too happy to turn the other way and deem it none of their business. Luisa had never been able to view life so clinically, any trouble of her friends or family immediately becoming her own. Meddling as she might be, she tended to get results.

This time her crusade felt all the more important, fighting for someone's memory and the justice that they had been robbed of. The case had consumed her, all but crashing out when the case had been thrown out on a technicality and she'd had to watch the smug smirk of her roommate's ex-boyfriend as he'd been acquitted. Image burned into her mind it haunted her enough that she hadn't had a good night since, determination calcifying until it was the most unwavering it had ever been. Even filled with anger she knew that she was out of her depth - organising a protest or a fundraiser was easy enough but tackling a court case would take someone with real experience. So she'd done her research and ended up outside a particular firm. An appointment had seemed an elusive thing and there was a part of her that didn't want her name on record until she decided whether or not she trusted this lawyer. After all, she was levelling the accusation of corruption at a lot of people, she wouldn't be surprised if her case got turned down.

Figuring that her usual way of strong-arming someone into something by either badgering them enough that they'd do anything to shut her up or guilting them or calling in a favour, she knew she had no choice but to try charm. She waited until her mark left the building, slowly sauntering over as he approached his vehicle. Low appreciative whistle left her lips, prepared to play the femme fatale if it got him off-guard enough. "That's a nice set of wheels." Most men she knew were proud of their car or bike, that was bound to win him over, right? As she moved around the car gaze was drawn to the flat tire, privately wishing that she'd thought of that to keep him there long. "Ooh, unlucky." For him at least. But now she was thinking that maybe luck was on her side. "I can give you a hand to change it if you want? Wouldn't want your suit to get all messed up." Words were light, playful and her gaze flirtatious as she allowed it to drift over his shoulders and torso.

But first, he had to take care of his own growing (but organized) pile of briefs.  Whenever he felt overwhelmed, he just had to remember what the pile looked like when he was still with the ADA.  Cue sigh of relief.  He quickly notated some, stuck reminders to follow up on others, and passed off a few small-time cases off to some of the non-partners.  His time was limited as a partner, and he wondered why some of these cases were still ending up on his desk.  But that’d be a stern discussion for another time, when he wasn’t already running late.

Suit jacket and briefcase were grabbed in a whirl of movement before he was out the door, eyes trained on phone, answering emails in the two minutes it took from leaving the office to get to his car parked out front.  Elevator, hallway, front door.  Tap, tap, tap.  Bright day, sunglasses on, — A voice? Nice set of wheels.

He looked between his Audi Q7 and the peanut gallery, a woman perhaps a few years younger than him (or perhaps that’s just how he felt these days) with a raised brow. He had gone to the Audi dealership and asked for the safest car.  That was about the extent of his knowledge and or interest in it.  He was going to give a simple nod of thanks before getting in and speeding off, until her second bit of narration.  His eyes followed hers and he cursed in some sort of frankensteined English-Turkish language that was prevalent among his family and something he especially felt the need for currently, as no one language would be able to convey his rising temper and growing frustrations.

He took a step closer, and he was able to see the very distinct rip in the tire, just about the width of a hunting knife. Another curse, a bigger sigh. Perks of the job.  He snorted at her last bits of commentary whilst he removed his suit jacket and eyed her perilously high heels, answering her without saying a word, as he began to grab the needed tools from his trunk.

“You didn’t happen to see who did this while you were loitering about, did you?”

While her relationship with her younger sister didn't exactly fit neatly into the mould of a stereotypical older sister, Ferah had at least always been protective of the younger Turhan. She disliked her little Ayda's association with the Knights, worried that it might pull her into a more dangerous life, and she had remained aloof on any of the brief run ins that had occurred with them while she was in her sister's company. It wasn't snobbery, she convinced herself, she didn't look down on them or even think herself better. They'd simply made a life choice she wouldn't ( somewhat of a rarity when she was constantly making what some would deem poor choices ) and she wanted no part in their way of life. There was no denying that she was a risk taker, always plunging head first into whatever gave her a dopamine fix that week, but there was some moral line she'd personally draw about breaking the law. Pushing boundaries and bending rules was one thing but it turned out her recklessness had a limit - not her own safety but the fear of a court room.

It wasn't like her to reflect on her decision making, generally trusting her gut enough that when her mind was made up it was impossible to change. Her snap judgements might have been arbitrary or even harsh at times but she was yet to feel as though she'd been wrong. Although now she was a few whiskies deep and her gaze couldn't help drifting over to the man across the bar so clearly wearing a Knights of Hell cut, making her wonder if she'd been just a little too hasty in dismissing them all. A guy who looked that good couldn't be that bad, right? Getting impatient with her own internal argument Ferah once again made a snap decision - his character hardly mattered if it was only for one night, then the notion of good or bad would take on an entirely different meaning. One she was determined to find out.

Shot was tossed back and she ran a hand through her hair, tempted to slick on a little more lipstick before deciding she undoubtedly already looked good enough. There was no need to try too hard when the cowboy boots and Daisy Dukes she still had on from work made all the effort for her. With a quick whisper in her friend's ear they'd headed over to the group of men, her demeanour friendly and warm for once. Drinks were bought, laughs were had and the whole time she'd made a point of catching the road captain's eye at every moment. When she was satisfied she had him captivated enough she made her way outside, claiming to need some air and expected him to follow. Hopping onto the bike she thought was his she waited for him to appear, slow grin spreading over her lips when she saw him exit the bar. "Why don't we just cut the unending game of eye tag we're doing and skip to the good part?" Brow raised expectantly, giving him her best bedroom eyes but just in case he hadn't gotten enough of a hint, blunt question fell from her lips. "You gonna take me home or what?"

But as he locked eyes with her he realized there was something of a chicken-or-the-egg situation taking place. Was she looking at him because she had clocked the weight of his protective gaze? Or had she already been looking? He couldn’t be sure. But he was fairly sure he hadn’t seen her here before, and maybe it was bold to assume, but he didn’t think it was much of her scene at all. At all the parties at the clubhouse that Ayda had attended, she hadn’t attended one, which he considered odd with how Ayda spoke about her sister, like they were often glued at the hip. So from that, he assumed she didn’t much approve of The Life. Dar por hecho, his mother would warn him, if she were here. 

And she’d be proven right, as he watched with curious eyes as—after what he could only call an intermittent stare-down—she stalked off. Even someone like Guillermo could sense her intentions. He followed, wondering if he was a cat about to be killed. The sudden quiet as he exited the bar was like a salve; his muscles loosened, shoulders dropped, brain stopped feeling as if it were on fire. But it still took him a moment to adjust, remember what he came out here for.

Her words were bold and he got the sense that was par for the course for the eldest Turhan sister. 

“That’s not my bike.” he said in response, arms folded, brow cocked and pushing his luck, knowing the response probably wouldn’t be welcome with what had just been offered.  But if he was going to take her home, she’d need to get on the right bike.

There was no denying that Eleni was used to being seen a certain way. If it wasn't her job that had people deciding she was cool, it was her vast swathes of approximate knowledge she'd picked up on her travels. If neither of those had won her a new friend then her dry humour did. It was something of a far cry from the girl she remembered growing up, somewhat ostracised by her daydreaming, head always too filled with designs and schoolbooks scrawled with doodles instead of any actual notes. But she'd found her niche in life soon enough and had always been too much in her own head for the distance between herself and her fellow students to ever leave any lasting marks or scars. Even if she did think it was a miracle she managed to pull off that effortless, unaffected vibe no one else seemed to. Not when she moved through life seemingly laid back enough to take whatever came.

But for all her outward appearance there was one person who seemed to see right through it. Or rather, one person that made her fall apart enough she was nothing but a mess. Eleni had been struck by Natalia since the first minute their eyes had met, instantly in awe of her and overwhelmed by the other woman's energy. She was fairly certain she'd been unable to string more than three coherent sentences together in a row, their conversations inevitably ending in some kind of inane babble from her.

After she finished for the day she gave a wave to her fellow artists, making her way out the shop and on the the street it shared with a boutique her eyes couldn't help but drift over to. Seeing the woman who so often entered her thoughts, Eleni gave herself a quick once over as the sound of high heels grew closer. But while she had done the check to reassure herself, it had the opposite effect when she noticed the ink marking her outfit. "Shit."

She was sorting through racks of clothes, choosing what would stay and what would go, when she saw her newest want through the plate glass windows. The boutique wasn't set to close for another hour, but she wasn't about to let that stop her. In something of a rush, Natalia stopped what she was doing, flicked off the lights, and grabbed her belongings before hurrying out the door. But as soon as her heeled feet crossed the threshold, her actions slowed, became almost languid, as if she had all the time in the world.

Purse in the crook of her elbow, keys jangling in one hand, phone in the other as she headed down the sidewalk, head down as if she hadn't noticed anyone or anything else, as if she hadn't closed her business an entire hour early. A faux look of surprise dawned on her face as she looked up at the muttered curse rang out in the space between the two.

The doe look didn't last for long, though, as she cocked her head to the side at Eleni, before closing the distance. Her finger tips tantalizingly picking up wetness from her mouth, before they plucked at the fabric of the other woman's body, trying to smudge the ink she was obviously swearing at, away.

"Mmmm, you're a messy one, aren't you, Vlachos?"

The Dunnes had always been an unorthodox pair, meeting in a hospital and then getting married in a flash with nothing but a prayer as their foundation. Then there'd been the years she'd been the faithful wife on the outside while he was inside, her life mostly unchanged apart from her visits to him. Of course, the arrival of TJ had changed everything but she'd developed a routine with her son and there was no denying that no matter how much she was enjoying it, having Tighe in her home - no, their home - was an adjustment. By the metric of years they were technically no longer newlyweds but with how little time they had truly spent together Roxy still felt as though they were at the very start of their relationship. Since his release, they had had so many 'firsts'. There was an exhilaration that came with their new lives together, finding herself revelling in the mundane and resisting the urge ( though mostly she couldn't help herself ) to snap a photo every time Tighe and TJ were together.

But for all the family dynamic had slotted into place with surprisingly few teething problems, even she couldn't deny that there was a tentativeness between her and her husband. She wasn't blind or as dumb as people liked to cast her - her bubble personality leading too many to dismiss her as an airhead - she knew that life after prison wasn't easy for him. That he was adjusting not just to changes in his life but life altogether. But they'd never developed a way to communicate with each other about the heavier, darker parts of life - they'd never really needed to, even when he was in hospital their meetings had been full of jokes and laughter to deal with his situation - and so she didn't know how to properly broach the subject with him now. All she knew was their usual way probably wasn't for the best but she'd always been an optimist and so chose to keep herself upbeat, hoping that he'd eventually talk to her. Or if not her then one of his brothers.

The finishing touches were being put to her outfit, one of her more demure dresses and more subtle jewelery, when she caught sight of her husband in the mirror behind her. The humming of a tune she'd caught on the radio and hadn't been able to get out of her head stopped, greeting him with the flash of a smile before she turned. "What d'ya think?" She swung her hips a little so that the skirt swished around her legs, laughter bubbling up slightly. "TJ's got that birthday party later and they live in the fancy party of town - will I do?" There was just a hint of insecurity in her voice when in truth she felt a bit ridiculous dressing in a way that was so far removed from her norm. But she wanted to make a good impression on the mother of her son's friend, hating the idea that any judgement of her might put an end to his budding friendship. The vulnerability continues into her next words, though she's confident that it's well masked behind her upbeat tone which verges into slightly more suggestive territory at the end. "I'm just dropping him off so we'll have a few hours alone later if there's anything y'wanna do." 

There was an urge to bury himself in the club, where he knew his place and knew what he could do to help and provide, and leave Roxy and TJ to their routines. But he knew that wasn't an urge he should follow, not if he wanted to keep what had served as a gleaming beacon that got him through his sentence. — So instead, he pushed through the awkwardness, through the discomfort at being so god damn useless.

Even so, he was still in that god damn doorway, lingering, one eye on TJ who was happily sat in front of Saturday morning cartoons, munching on dry cereal, and the other on Roxy. He didn't know how in the fuck he tricked that woman into marrying him, but he thanks God every day that she fell for it.

"Mmmmm" he hummed, a mischievous smile on his lips, purposefully betraying exactly of what he thought about her in that dress. "It'll definitely do—But you're going to make the other mom's jealous." He moved from the doorway to the edge of their bed, within reach of her. His fingers reached out to swish at the edges of her dress, making it swish like she had done only moments before. "Sounds like you might already have something in mind. Let me guess, bowling?"

Unerring optimism had perhaps always been one of his defining traits. Always able to not only see the bright side but believe that things could and would be better. The glass wasn't just half full but also filled with potential, dark clouds didn't just have a silver lining but brimmed with rain that could give an entirely new life. Any obstacle he faced had been a chance to learn something new, nothing seemed impossible. Upbeat to a fault he knew that some could find such confidence in the world jarring, preferring to look at it with realism instead. It was something he had grown used to - accepted as a trade off, happy to have some dislike him if it meant he could be a light to others. But he had never expected Kahoa to be one of them. It was the only logical conclusion to draw after she'd fallen out of love with him and in love with someone altogether more dark and sullen.

But even if his shambles of a personal life might have left him with a bitter enough taste in his mouth that he was beginning to see the appeal of pessimism, that viewpoint had yet to pollute his work life. If anything it had had the opposite effect, with him pouring the entirety of his heart and soul into his lessons in the search for some kind of win. Usually his effort into his class was much more altruistic, more interested in inspiring young minds than forcing them into some kind of mold. But the acrimonious ending of his engagement was threatening to make him believe that it was all pointless, dimming his faith in both himself and his skills in the rest of his life. That maybe, just maybe, all those years of looking on the brightside had been for nothing. In an effort to keep himself from being entirely disheartened, Devon had himself convinced that even if he had to call himself a failure as a fiancé, the same didn't have to be true in all other aspects of his life.

He'd been warned about Aoife McCullough's behaviour before she'd even arrived in his class but even then he had underestimated how much of a disruption she could be. There'd been some misplaced confidence in how well she would respond to him but after a particularly tough lesson he had read through her file to see if he could find a breakthrough. An idea had sparked and a phonecall had been made, hoping that a joint approach of school and home might bring the girl what she needed. Meetings with parents still brought a small hint of anxiety with him, it was never easy telling someone their child could be challenging, but he nonetheless found himself hoping it went well. Maybe he was feeling more like his old self after all. Warm smile was settled onto his features as he opened the door after hearing a knock. "Mrs McCullough, thanks so much for coming in." Door was held open to her before he gestured to the seat he'd moved in front of his desk. Once they were both over there he held out his hand. "I'm Mr Persaud, Aoife's teacher." The temptation was resisted to tell her she could just call him Devon, never quite knowing how parents would respond to informality. "I'm hoping to talk to you about her, get us all on the same page."

When the call came through—teacher sounding polite as you please, asking if she could 'pop in for a quick chat' about Aoife—Eilis had rolled her eyes so hard it gave her a headache. She wasn’t daft. She knew exactly what that meant. A chat, her arse. It was never a chat. It was you’re doing something wrong, your kid’s a handful, maybe if there was more structure at home. Like she didn’t already know the way Aoife was hurting. Like they weren’t both barely keeping it together.

She’d dressed like she gave a damn, anyway. Tight jeans, tank top under a leather jacket that smelled faintly of cigarettes and baby wipes. Acrylics freshly done because Niamh had finally slept long enough for her to get to her cousin’s place. Lipliner darker than her lipstick, hoops big enough to fit a soda can through. Let them look. Let them judge.

When the door opened and he smiled at her like they were old mates, something in her gut twisted. Too warm. Too easy. Too kind. It made her suspicious right away.

'Thanks so much for coming in' he said, holding the door open like a gentleman in one of those romance films her ma used to watch. He looked barely old enough to be out of school himself—young, tan skin, big brown eyes that probably got him out of all kinds of trouble.

“Yeah,” she said, stepping in. “Not like I had anything else to do.”

She didn’t take his hand right away. Just stared at it like it might bite, then gave it a quick shake—firm, not rude, but not friendly either. She nodded slowly at his introduction, taking the seat he pointed to. Perched at the edge, arms folded tight under her chest like she was holding herself back from bolting.

“I know who y’are,” she said. “Aoife talks about you. Says you smile too much.” That wasn’t meant to be an insult, but it came out sharper than she’d intended. Eilis wasn’t good at softening things. “Right. Lemme guess.” She leaned back, one brow arching high. “She mouthed off again. Didn’t follow directions. Probably got bored, did somethin’ she shouldn’t’ve. She’s not exactly subtle.” There was a flicker of something in her eyes then—guilt, maybe, or pride. It was hard to tell.

“Look, if yer gonna tell me she’s disruptive, go ahead and say it. Don’t need to sugar-coat it like I’m made of glass. I know my kid. I made her.” She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose and looked away for a second, just long enough to collect herself. When she turned back, her jaw was set. “She’s angry. Her da died, and no one explained it in a way that made any fuckin’ sense. Least of all me. And now she’s stuck in a classroom bein’ told to do sums and write essays like none of it matters.”

Her voice cracked just slightly, and she hated that. Hated it enough that the next words came out colder. “So unless you’ve called me in to tell me you’re a grief counselor or a fuckin’ magician, let’s skip the dance. What d’you want me to do, Mr. Persaud?”

That had changed when he'd met Nellie. There'd been enough fire within her to make short work of whatever frost lingered within him, Cole finally feeling as though he wanted to tether himself to someone instead of something. From then on he'd wanted nothing more than to stay in her orbit, she had enough spark for the both of them. Her side was where he wanted to be - forever the moth dancing round her flame in desperation. But he'd had to leave her behind and push himself back out into the cold.

It was the worst part in all of it. The accident had taken his life away from him, feeling as though he had no other choice but to leave in an attempt to keep the peace. Of course, there'd always be some lingering sense of guilt about what had happened to Will but in truth time away had only bred selfishness not penitence. The absence of everything he'd built his life around had only made him miss it, bitterness sowing itself deeper with every day that passed with him separated from the one thing that made his life worthwhile.

A warm welcome wasn't what he had expected, not when there was so much making up to do, but even still the sharpness of her gaze stung. Still, he'd weathered her storms before, now would be no different. "What d'you think?" Word were batted back with him taking a few more purposeful steps forward to show his resolve. "I want my life back." Her. He'd waited long enough but if he knew Nellie she'd be just as likely to make him wait longer as to finally pull him out of purgatory. "I want to come home. I want - need - my wife. Let me be a better husband." Though the words might have sounded like a demand to anyone else he hoped she would hear them for what they were - a plea. Begging her to let him in again. 

She stood, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world to deal with this particular brand of bullshit. “You want your life back?” she echoed, dragging the words out like they tasted bad. “Well, shit, Cole. Why didn’t you say so sooner? We could’ve had balloons, maybe a cake. ‘Welcome home, sorry about all the bad blood.’”

She circled the desk, heels sharp against the floor, her stare pinning him in place. “You don’t get to waltz in here after a year off playing Lone Ranger and act like this is some dramatic reunion special. You fucked up. You left. And I didn’t get the luxury of checking out while I decided how guilty I felt.”

Her finger jabbed his chest, hard enough to make a point. “I had to look Svara in the face. I had to hear club business whispered like maybe I was the next to fall. You think you felt lost? Try being the one holding the whole damn bag and still expected to smile pretty while the world caught fire.”

She stepped back, arms crossed now, chin tilted just enough to look defiant instead of tired. “So yeah, I bet you do miss your life. It was a good one—had a job, a patch, and a wife who loved you stupid. But things change, Cole.” And then, softer, more bitter than broken: “You left a mess, and now you’re back with a mop and a damn prayer like that’s gonna fix it.”

She let the silence stretch, eyes fixed on his like she dared him to flinch. Then, with a shrug that was all bravado and none of the ease, she added “Well? You said you wanted to be better. Show me something.”

As the curse slipped out under his breath at the sight of the 'Out of Order' strung haphazardly across his building's one elevator, Bryce found himself vowing not for the first time that he'd find himself somewhere new to live. Usually his words were practically promises, so few of them spoken that they carried their own weight, never saying something he didn't plan on following through with. But this was a promise he was almost certain he would break. Attachment lingered to the place even though he knew he could afford better, it had been the first place he'd found when he'd moved back to Reno after the deaths of his family, tour finished but any sense of accomplishment overshadowed by his grief. He hadn't been picky then, simply taking the first place that looked passable. So even though as he trudged up the stairs he regretted the decision he knew as soon as he opened his door the resolve to move would evaporate.

His exasperation, though, that would last a little longer.

Realising that he'd not checked his mailbox he made his way back down the stairs he'd just climbed. There was always a silent prayer to a god he didn't believe in that he'd be lucky enough to avoid all his fellow residents. But just as he began to put his key in the lock the sight of someone approaching caught his peripherals, silhouette outlined in the frosted glass. Sigh fell from his lips before he studied the figure a little more close to discern if he should try to make a sharp exit. He knew everyone who lived in the building, committing them all to memory somewhat obsessively just so he could quickly identify them all. For most he would have kept his head down and feigned ignorance, pretending to be too engrossed in his task to see them coming. Played at being anything but the painfully observant man he knew he was. But the petite stature and strawberry blonde hair meant that he'd found one of his few exceptions, with him hitting pause on his task so he could close the distance between himself and the door.

Door was held open for her wordlessly, only waiting until she was just over the threshold before he went back to his mailbox. "Elevator's out again." Words were spoken without looking up from the mail in his hands, flicking through the envelopes before deciding that there was nothing truly important contained within them. It was only then that he glanced up, immediately catching sight of the brown paper bags in her arms. A slight nod is given in their direction knowing that there were still several flights of stairs between her and her apartment. "You want a hand with those?" He often felt that there was too much blood staining him and too much grief darkening his soul for him to ever be a true knight in shinning armour. He's under no illusion that small acts of courtesy will do anything to undo what he'd already done but his mother had raised him to be polite and it seemed rude not to offer. 

When he spoke—actually spoke—her brows lifted slightly. It still threw her off when he did that. She didn’t expect it, not because he was rude, but because her neighbor was the type of man who didn’t waste words. Her gaze flicked over his face as he looked up from the mail, then down to the bags cradled against her chest. That offer—quiet, casual, but sincere—made something tighten in her chest in a way she didn’t quite understand.

Most men offered help like it was currency, something they could cash in for your number or your time or a favor later on. But Bryce’s offer wasn’t transactional. It felt like... consideration. Just a simple kindness. She’d forgotten what that felt like. Still, her instinct was to deflect. To say she had it. She always had it.

But she didn’t lie to herself—her arms were burning a little, and the stairs were already laughing at her from the corner of her eye. So instead, she let out a soft breath, then nodded once. “Sure. If you don’t mind.” There was a flicker of a smile—not much, barely there—but something softened behind her eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or just relief that for once, someone was walking beside her instead of bleeding in her backseat. "Might even be some kung pao chicken in it for you."

So when she sees the whisky in his hand and the expression on his face, her chest tightened. The whisky was taken from his hand, replacing the glass by slipping her hand into its place and finishing off the burning liquor with the other. As she tangled her fingers with his, getting lost in the sight of his hand in hers while she places the glass down. Gaze lingered on his hand, unable to resist claiming his free one with her own. They were hands that she always wanted on her. Hands that she knew had hurt so many but would never hurt her. The thought moved her, emotion always clawing at her throat when it came to him and leaving her mute. So she'd always relied on actions instead, hoping that he knew her well enough by now to find a deeper meaning in them instead of dwelling on everything she leaves unsaid.

While the tender thoughts may never get voiced Reina doesn't hesitate to turn them into an act, lifting his hand to her lips and brushing a soft kiss over each knuckle. Knuckles she'd seen bloodied and bruised but still managed to brush over her skin with gentle care. But for all she'd seen him in a way she knew others would never, the same rang true with him. No one else got to bear witness to her softer moments, the hardened exterior she'd let calcify around her out of necessity so rarely cracked by anyone else. But with him she'd always felt wide open.

She looked up at him with a gaze that would have been pleading if it weren't for the countless other emotions lingering her eyes dark depths, clouding and cloaking her feelings. "You getting soft on me, Reu?" Words are almost a whisper, lacking the sardonic crack that they'd have possessed if she'd aimed them at anyone else. There'd always been too much to say between them and so she says nothing, instead showing that she didn't want him to go just yet. One hand tugs his to her waist, placing it there so she could free her own to move to his neck and pull him in for another kiss.

He closed his eyes. Sank into it. Just for a moment. Because her mouth was home and purgatory all at once. He pulled back a fraction—not enough to break contact, just enough to breathe. His forehead rested against hers, and his voice came out low, gravel-thick. "Yeah," he said, answering her question, even though he knew she probably didn’t expect him to. "Think I been soft when it comes to you for a long fuckin’ time." The words tasted like confession and punishment both.

He didn’t look at her, not yet. Just breathed her in. Let her hand stay on the back of his neck, fingers warm and familiar. It was the familiarity that hurt the most. The way his body knew hers like muscle memory. Like prayer. Like sin. His hand slipped from her waist to her hip, holding her there—not tight, but firm. Like if he let go, he might float off into the goddamn void. "You want me to stay?" he asked, quiet, unsure if he was asking her or asking himself. The question hung between them like smoke, curling, waiting. "Or you just don’t wanna be alone tonight?"

It wasn’t an accusation. Just a truth. He wasn’t sure which answer would hurt more. He kissed her again before she could respond—not rough, not needy, but reverent. Like she was a wound he was trying to kiss better, knowing full well it would never heal.

And then he said nothing. Just let the silence stretch between them while his thumb brushed slow, absent circles against her hip, grounding himself in the feel of her. Knowing that when he left—and he would—he’d carry the ghost of this moment like he always did. Another piece of her he didn’t deserve. Another piece he’d never stop taking anyway.

So when his wife's voice drifted through their house to him he was in motion before the word 'Babe' had even finished. Practically sprinting through the house he skid to a stop, overshooting the door slightly as his socks carried him further than the frame. Laughter was quick to burst out but it faded fast as Alma became his sole focus, like she always was. "First things first." Grabbing her hand he tugged her closer and stole a kiss, smile on his lips the whole time. Once he convinced himself he could pull away ( despite having their whole lives ahead of them, he could never get enough ) he lifted their joined arms and moved to twirl her in front of him. "Okay, now let me see." Low wolf whistle left his lips, always equal parts playful and serious when there would always be a part of him that couldn't quite believe he got to call her his wife. It was still a miracle to him that she'd said yes to leaving everything she'd ever known behind for him. "Looking so good, babe."

He spun her half a turn more, stopping as she was facing away from him so he could snake his other arm around her waist to pull her into him. Hands moved to rest on her belly, chin nestling into her shoulder as he heaved a dramatic mock sigh, head shaking. "Can't believe this lil guy is robbing me of having the hottest lady in town on my bike. They're lucky I love them already."

She heard that wolf whistle and rolled her eyes, grinning like an idiot anyway. He always did that—acted like she’d hung the moon just by waking up in the same room. She never said it out loud, but sometimes when he looked at her like that, it made her want to cry a little. Just a soft, full kind of ache. Like she still couldn’t believe this life was hers. When he pulled her back against him, she melted into it without hesitation, her hands coming to rest on his as they cradled her belly. She let out a happy sigh, letting her head lean back slightly onto his shoulder. “Hey, I’m still hot,” she murmured, teasing, “I just come with a sidecar now.”

She let the quiet settle for a beat, heart beating steady under her ribs, her smile softening as her fingers drifted lightly over his where they rested against her skin. “You know,” she said quietly, “I think I’m always gonna miss riding with you. But it feels… nice, letting someone else be the wild one for a while.”

Her eyes flicked to the mirror, catching their reflection—her, glowing in a way she could finally admit to herself; him, just behind her, arms wrapped around her like a shield. It made her heart squeeze. Alma turned her head just enough to speak over her shoulder. “We make good people, you know?” She didn’t just mean Salem. Didn’t just mean the one on the way. She meant them, too—the weird, wild little family they’d made from nothing. From a stolen night and a motorcycle ride and a choice that had changed everything.

Most of the time he was so hyper-focused on the screens in front of him it would have taken someone several attempts to get his attention. But he'd been alert to the world from the moment he'd heard her voice in the other room. Immediately tuning in to her frequency as her voice acted as a kind of siren song to pull him from the screens he lived in back into reality. Hesitation stilled his movements, wondering if he should go join the masses in an effort to see her or wait it out and hope she'd swing by. His decision paralysis was ended the moment he heard footsteps approaching, the mere thought of her approaching presence acting as a balm.

Turning slowly he chuckled at her action, gaze softening. But the inaccuracy niggled at him, head shaking slightly as his laughter faded. "Uh, no." The words seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, his inability to not lay things out plainly meaning he couldn't let her joke stand, as endearing as it had been. It dawned on him that he should say something else, maybe explain himself. "Most of it's keeping people out, actually." But she already knew that, probably, if only from her proximity to him during their time working on the clinic's technology. So all he'd succeeded in doing was dampening the mood and pointing out the obvious. Way to continue the conversation, Bishop.

Throat cleared slightly, wondering what had brought her to his door. It would hardly be for his scintillating conversation skills. "I didn't think we were due to go over your account yet this month?" To others the words might have been a simple statement, him drawing a boundary that their meeting hadn't been a planned one. But with her it is more of a question, soft curiosity in his tone instead. Brow furrowed only moments later as he continued to work his way through explanations for her appearance, settling on the most logical one. "Is there something wrong at the clinic?"

Still, she couldn't help but smile when he clarified—Most of it’s keeping people out, actually. A flash of something warm stirred in her chest at that. It didn’t matter if he’d only meant it as a factual correction. He had answered her. That counted for something, didn’t it?

"Well," she said, slipping further into the room, her voice softer now, "you’ve clearly never seen a heist movie. First rule of hacking is saying something dramatic like 'I'm in,'" She mimed cracking a safe with an exaggerated twist of her wrists, then glanced at him to see if maybe—just maybe—she’d coaxed even the smallest hint of amusement from his face. "Although considering you're definitely not the nerdy sidekick, maybe we can come up with something better."

At his next words—I didn’t think we were due to go over your account yet this month?—she hesitated, one hand coming up to tug at the end of her sleeve. It would’ve been easy to make up an excuse about the clinic or a new payment. But something about the way he said it, the way he looked at her—curious, not closed-off—made her pause.

"No," she admitted with a small shrug. "Nothing’s wrong at the clinic. For once." Her eyes drifted to the nearest monitor, watching the flickering lines of code, the grainy camera feeds. “Everything’s working exactly how you set it up.”

“I was just passing through and thought I’d bring food,” she continued, nodding vaguely toward the door. “And maybe see if you wanted some before the guys inhaled it all like rabid wolves.”

She didn’t mention how she’d lingered longer than necessary in the main room, hoping for a glimpse of him. Or how her heart had done that stupid thing when someone pointed her toward the Bat Cave. Or how it always did that thing around him, no matter how often she told herself to grow up. Instead, she stood there, still and awkward in the silence that followed, picking at the edge of her sleeve again.

“…You don’t have to,” she added quickly. “Eat, I mean. Or talk. Or…” She made a vague hand gesture, vaguely encompassing the general act of human interaction. “Just thought I’d offer.”

Element of surprise gone and the one chance she'd had to even up the fight pinned to the bed, as he yanked her forward she was jerked to the painful realisation that the only thing left to do was to go along with it and see how it all played out. Once again her agency had been stripped from her and her fate was in the hands of a man. Except the last on had become a stranger to her, she didn't think she'd ever set eyes upon the man with the gun to her head before.

She swallowed thickly, heart feeling as though it was beating rapidly in her throat. The hand that wasn't in his grasp was raised slowly in the universal signal for surrender. Voice shook slightly as she forced out her next words as calmly as she could. "About what?" Dark eyes were widened, taking on a doe-like quality in the hope that he might believe that she was playing along already.

But there was something in the erasing of the most traumatic moment of her life that caused a fire to spark within her. Maybe it was the days of being on edge and the adrenaline taking over from being shell-shocked but she suddenly felt angry enough that it emboldened her to speak. Whether of not that was the right move given the gun under her chin was yet to be seen but if these were to be her last moments she wasn't about to go without one final say.

"Which part? That they promised me and dozens of other women a chance to better themselves but it turns out there were strings attached? Or the part where the man I loved, who was supposed to love me, led me into a full of men room to be used as their plaything?" Words were a hissed whisper with a venom behind them she wouldn't have believed she was capable of. But the last week had been filled with her doing things she'd never dreamt of before.

There was a pause as she sucked in a breath but she was merely refuelling. She wasn't done yet, the man in front of her stoking as much ire and in her mind just as deserving of it in that moment. Doe eyes flashed with defiance her gaze boring into his. "And you, you seemed so, so -" Words tumbled out before she could fully translate, searching her brain for the right one to describe the sharpness his voice had taken so she could continue her tirade. "-offended that I thought you were robbing me but surely the reality is worse? That you're just a man who does someone else's dirty work? You threaten the victims so that the villains can continue?"

No one in the Knights would’ve ever greenlit that. No way in hell. Flesh trade was a hard fuckin’ line in the sand—the kind of line you bled over if you crossed it. And he'd bled a few who had, in the past. He’d seen what that kind of hell did to people. So then why the fuck had they sent him to silence her?

His jaw clenched, muscle twitching. The muzzle of the gun hovered just beneath her chin, still there—but it wasn’t pressing in anymore. He was looking at her now. Really looking. The fear in her hadn’t vanished, but there was heat behind it. Steel. Not the kind of fear that came from guilt, but the kind that came from surviving something you shouldn’t have. The kind that didn’t lie. Victims. Villains. She didn’t look like someone making up a story to save her own skin. Didn’t sound like it either.

Which meant someone had lied.

Shannon’s breath came in through his nose, slow and sharp, dragging over the back of his teeth like he needed to keep it from becoming a growl. This wasn’t a mistake you could walk back with an apology and a bouquet of fuckin’ flowers. Someone had tried to use him. Set him up as the reaper for a girl who’d already been dragged through hell. His gaze dropped for just a second, toward her bag under the bed. The one she’d offered him like some desperate out, like he was the worst she’d have to deal with that night. That sat wrong. Real wrong. The barrel of the gun dropped an inch. Still in his hand. Still between them. But it was no longer aimed at her.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her—watching her face, watching the way she held herself, as if she'd dared herself to survive just one more moment. He could almost hear the voice of the brother who’d once told him: You can tell the truth by how it clings to a person. Doesn’t need proof. It shows in the shaking and the staying both. She was still here. That counted for something.

Finally, his voice came low. Gravel-slick and quiet. Almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. “…who told you to meet them?” He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to—not now. He already knew it was worse than what he’d been told, even if nothing more than what she had said happened. Worse than anyone should've let happen on club turf.

And someone was going to pay for that.

But almost predictably she'd managed to get in over her head when tailing a guy she suspected of some especially unsavoury dealings. She knew better than most that sometimes the law just didn't cut it or that the reach of law enforcement could be so easily limited. Her only intention had been to help, maybe gather a little evidence she could slip to one of her friends on the force. At worst she'd expected to be challenged by the guy, not to have to watch him get his brains blown out. She hadn't meant to gasp at the shot or to create any noise as she'd stumbled back but she was too horrified by what she'd just seen to want to do anything but get out of there. Her haste came at a price, however, as she forgot herself and soon enough came face to face with the barrel of a gun.

If there'd been panic in her eyes it lessened slightly when she realised who it was, hoping that she'd be able to reason with him. Dark eyes narrowed sharply and suddenly the horror she'd just felt vanished, replaced by anger. "Don't ask that like you don't already fucking know. Asshole." The words fell from her lips before she could stop them, irritated by the fact that they both knew he was too smart and too in the know to be asking it for any other reason but to point out her failure. It's only once the frustration subsided slightly that the enormity of the situation sinks in - they weren't just exchanging barbs outside a courtroom now. Way to go, Leone, curse out the guy pointing a gun at you.

He didn’t lower the weapon, but he didn’t fire either. Not yet. Instead, he took one slow step closer. His boots scraped the concrete floor, the sound echoing between them in the silence that followed her question. Her voice had bite, like it was wired with the last bits of defiance she had left. That was the problem with smart people—they didn’t always know when to shut the fuck up.

AJ tilted his head, just slightly. "You always talk this much when you're standing over a fresh corpse?" He let the question hang there, heavy. The tension felt like a live wire pulled taut between them. Another beat passed, and finally, he lowered the gun. Not all the way—just enough to show he was thinking about it. Weighing options like weights on a scale.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. He hadn’t even realized she was in the building—just some cleaner, hired to scrub the floors of a warehouse he’d borrowed for a meeting he already knew would end in blood. A fluke. An oversight. And now it was his problem to fix. She was a liability. No way around it. A former ADA who once tried to bring down the club, now standing in the aftermath of a murder—his murder. That was the kind of risk that normally earned someone a bullet and a shallow grave.

But she’d lost her badge trying to nail them. Lost everything. And now she was cleaning floors for a paycheck. Desperate. Sharp. Dangerous in a very specific kind of way. He could kill her. Wouldn’t lose sleep over it. But there was another option clawing at the back of his mind, whispering. Use her. “I don’t like loose ends, Leone,” he said finally, voice low and calm, like they were discussing business and not her potential execution. “You being here? Seeing what you just saw? That makes you a liability.”

He let his eyes drag across her, not in a leering way—more like he was appraising a weapon. Gauging how useful it could be before deciding whether to holster it or toss it in a ditch. “But maybe... you don’t have to be.” He watched her face closely for any shift. Any flicker. The decision wasn’t made yet, but the seed had been planted. Now he just needed to see what kind of soil he was working with.

In all her years of drifting and not knowing herself Eleni had always felt glad that her one constant in life had been born with her. She'd never truly been alone and that thought had been an endless source of comfort, one she could only hope had helped her brother in his lowest moments too. But he'd had to face far worse than her, his grief making her anxieties seem endlessly frivolous. Her name was supposed to be torch but she wasn't vain enough to think even her light burned bright enough to battle all against his darkest hours. It didn't stop her from trying though, pleased that they were back in the same place so she could drop in on him whenever or coax him in to meeting up with her. This time she'd lured him with the promise of trying out the new Greek place in town. Best case they'd get a trip down memory lane, nostalgia making the food taste incredible. Worst case they'd leave hungry but have plenty to criticise. Either sounded like a win to her when she loved a good moan.

Sigh left her lips, she should have known better than to expect anything other than the word 'fine' in reply to her asking how he was. "Oh thanks, super descriptive there Nik." Words were laden with sarcasm, eyes practically rolling at his predictable response. She supposed he had more right than most to lean towards the sombre but that didn't mean she wanted to see her brother never crack a smile for the rest of his life. Happiness shouldn't be a one time deal, something to have once and never again. It was meant to be frequent, maybe fleeting but never finite. And if whatever god or power that was in charge of it all disagreed then she'd have something to say about it. Well, probably not but her twin was the one person she'd consider attempting to move heaven and earth for. But for now she'd settle for moving the muscles on his face, continuing her probing. "Now I know my company is more than enough reason to stick around but please tell me you've found something else worthwhile in this town? I've heard there's plenty to like at the Avalon."

But then she mentioned the Avalon, and that easy front threatened to slip. Niko kept his grip on it, let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth like she hadn’t just thrown a live grenade onto the table between them. He wasn’t sure what she’d heard, how much she knew—if anything—but Eleni was sharp. Even in ignorance, she was dangerous.

"Plenty to like at the Avalon, huh?" He echoed her words with an easy smirk, playing along, even as he debated how much to give her. "Can’t say I’ve been rating motels the way you seem to think I have, but hey, the water pressure’s good, and the sheets are clean. What more could a guy ask for? — Why, you looking for a room?"

People had been the highlight of his life for a long as he could remember. Spending time with others had always exhilarated and excited him, an endless curiosity about those around him shaping the way that he interacted with the world. In his childhood his parents had thought it might have been something he grew out of in his teen years or if not then then the mundanity of adulthood would make him more world weary. But such a day never came, not even college or work dulling his lust for life finding himself rejuvenated the more social events he went to rather than exhausted. So when the chance had come for him to have a roommate, it had been one he'd taken eagerly. There was no place he'd rather be than Reno but the one thing he missed from his college days was someone to share his space with, first a roommate and then his frat brothers. He'd volunteered his spare room before even knowing who it was for, surprised when it had been Dilan that had moved in and not another Knight. Still, he was glad of the company and it would never hurt that she was easy on the eye, even if such thoughts were banished from his mind for the sake of harmony between them.

The jingle of keys caught his attention, eyes immediately swinging to the door to greet his roommate with a grin. "Dils, Dils, dump all that stuff." Hand waved to suggest she should just drop the bags where she stood and get over to him, he'd help her with them later but for now food was his priority. And it was so good he figured it should be hers too. Another bite was taken, unable to resist the flavours, an appreciative grunt given with eyes briefly closed before he started to speak again, words half lost in his mouthful. "You gotta try this." After forcing himself to swallow he continued to speak. "I think it might be the best thing I have ever tasted and that's not just because I skipped lunch." Grin was flashed he was but he soon decided that she wasn't moving fast enough for him, standing up so he could close the distance between them. Hands were placed lightly on her shoulders from behind, steering her towards the assortment of dishes that almost qualified as a feast. "Dig in, I got enough for two. Figured I could just keep some for you but since you're here now." He moved a hand over the spread dramatically, childlike pride on his features as he enticed her to sit down.

“Bash,” she groaned, resisting just enough to make a show of it but not enough to actually break away. “Can I at least put my bag down? Or is this a hostage situation?” The words were still heavily accented, and even more so as they so often were when she was tired, but after all the time the two had spent together, she knew he understood.

But then she caught sight of the food spread across the table, and her stomach, traitorous as ever, twisted in interest. Whatever he had picked up smelled good—annoyingly good. She sighed, setting her bag down in the nearest chair and letting him guide her the rest of the way.

“If you poisoned this, just know I’ll haunt you forever,” she muttered, though the corner of her lips twitched with amusement. She reached for a bite, shooting him a narrowed look as if daring him to gloat before she had the chance to admit it was good.