The clubhouse smelled like motor oil, leather, and something Marcus couldn't name. Maybe belonging. It had been four days since Reaper found them in that frozen maintenance room, and Marcus still wasn't sure if he was a guest or a prisoner. The difference might not have mattered to most kids, but Marcus had learned the hard way that walls and warm beds didn't always mean safety. He sat on the edge of a worn leather couch. couch in the common room watching Lily color at the long wooden table across from him, she'd drawn the same picture three times.
Now a stick figure boy with messy hair holding hands with a smaller stick figure girl. Every version had a sun in the corner, bright yellow with a smile. She hadn't let him out of her sight since they arrived. You hungry? A gruff voice asked. Marcus looked up. The biker they called Wrench stood in the doorway, arms covered in tattoos that crawled up past his rolled sleeves. He was shorter than Reaper, but built like a brick wall, with a scarred jaw and eyes that missed nothing. I'm okay, Marcus lied. Wrench snorted. Kid, I've been around long enough to know what 'okay' looks like. That ain't it. He jerked his head toward the kitchen. Come on. Eggs don't cook themselves. Marcus hesitated, glancing at Lily. She's fine, Wrench said.
Reaper's in his office right down the hall. Nobody's touching that girl. Not here. Not ever again. There was something in the way he said it. Not a promise, but a fact, that made Marcus believe him. He stood and followed Wrench into the kitchen, a surprisingly clean space with industrial appliances and cabinets that actually closed all the way. Wrench cracked six eggs into a pan without asking how many Marcus wanted. You did good out there, he said, not looking up. Most kids would have kept walking. Well, most adults would've. Marcus didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Reaper hasn't slept since we got you two back, Wrench continued, flipping the eggs with practiced ease. Man's been chasing ghosts for four days straight, trying to figure out who took Lily in the first place.
Marcus's stomach tightened. Did he find out? Not yet. But he will. Wrench slid the eggs onto a plate and handed it to Marcus along with a fork. When he does, God help whoever responsible. Marcus ate standing up, the eggs warm and buttery in a way that made his throat ache. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first bite. wrench watched him with an expression Marcus couldn't read— something between approval and sadness. You got people. Wrench asked anyone we should call Marcus. He shook his head. 'Just me,' he said. 'What about your dad?' Never met him. Mom said he left before I was born. Wrench's jaw tightened. And your mom. Dead. Cancer. The word still felt like swallowing glass. She tried to hide it from me for a while, but I knew.
She got thinner, slept more, then one day she just didn't wake up. Foster care for about three weeks, then I ran. Marcus set the empty plate down, avoiding Wrench's eyes. The guy they put me with had two other kids already; he didn't want me. Said, 'I ate too much So I figured I'd do everyone a favor and leave. Wrench swore under his breath: 'You're 12, almost 13— still 12.' Wrench turned away, gripping the counter like he wanted to snap it in half. This world's a mess. Before Marcus could respond, heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. Reaper appeared in the doorway, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. His beard was unkempt, his eyes bloodshot, and there was a tension in his shoulders that made him seem coiled, ready to explode.
Marcus, he said, voice low. My office. Now, Wrench shot Marcus a look that might have been reassurance, but it didn't help the ice forming in his chest. He followed Reaper down the narrow hallway, past walls covered in old photographs of bikers and motorcycles, past closed doors with muffled voices behind them. Reaper's office was smaller than Marcus expected, a desk buried under papers, a filing cabinet with a dented corner, a leather chair that had seen better days. On the wall behind the desk hung a photograph of a younger Reaper with his arm around a woman holding a baby. Lily, Marcus guessed. Reaper closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed. For a long moment, he just stared at Marcus, and Marcus stared back, refusing to flinch. You scared, Reaper-asked. Should I be?
A faint smile tugged at Reaper's mouth. There and gone in a second. Most kids would be. He moved to the desk and pulled open a drawer, retrieving a manila envelope. I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that? Marcus nodded, throat dry. What was your mother's full name? The question caught him off guard. Nina Chun. But she went by Nina Grant sometimes. Grant was her mom's name. Reaper's hand tightened on the envelope. Nina. Not Sarah. Marcus frowned. No. What? Reaper didn't answer right away. He opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers, his movements slow, deliberate. When you told me your mom's name the first night, I thought. He stopped. Shook his head. Doesn't matter what I thought.
I needed to be sure. Sure about what? Reaper said, 'A piece of paper on the desk and turned it toward Marcus.' It was a lab report. DNA paternity test.
Marcus's name was at the top, alongside another name. James Reaper Calloway. Marcus's heart stopped. The results were clear. Probability of paternity, 99.97%. That's impossible, Marcus whispered. I thought so too, Reaper said quietly. But the science doesn't lie, kid. He pulled out a photograph from the same envelope and placed it beside the report. It showed a younger Reaper, maybe 25, with less gray in his beard, standing next to a woman Marcus had never seen before. She was Asian, beautiful, with long dark hair and a cautious smile. Her name was Sarah Chun, Reaper said. We were together for about six months, 13 years ago.
She got pregnant. I wanted to do right by her, but she didn't want this life for a kid. She disappeared one night. No note. No forwarding address. I looked for months, but she was gone. On. Marcus stared at the photo, his mind racing. That's not my mom. I know. Reaper's voice cracked slightly. But look at the scar on your eyebrow. The shape of your nose. The way you stand with your weight on your left foot. He pointed at the DNA results. And look at this. Marcus couldn't breathe. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in. You're saying you're my father.
I'm saying the test says I am. Reaper sat on the edge of the desk, suddenly looking exhausted. But your mom's name was Nina, not Sarah. Which means either Sarah changed her identity after she left me, or— Or what? Marcus demanded, anger flooding through the shock. Or someone lied to one of us. Before Marcus could process that, Reaper pulled out another paper. A police report, the edges worn like it had been read a dozen times. He hesitated before handing it to Marcus. The lab tech who ran your DNA flagged something in the system, Reaper said. Sarah Chun, the woman I knew, was found dead eight months ago in Boulder. Murdered. The case is still open. Marcus's hands shook as he scanned the report. Victim, Sarah Chun, age 38. Cause of death, blunt force trauma.
No suspects in custody. Why would someone kill her? Marcus whispered. That's what I've been trying to figure out. Reaper stood and moved to the window, staring out at the row of motorcycles parked in the lot. Sarah was careful, quiet, she didn't make enemies, but the detective's notes mentioned she'd been asking questions about someone in the weeks before she died. Someone from her past. You think it was because of you? Because she knew you? Reaper turned, and for the first time, Marcus saw something raw and unguarded in the man's face. Face. I think she was trying to protect you, and I think it got her killed. The words hung in the air like smoke. Marcus felt his knees weaken. He gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself.
If you're my dad, why didn't you know about me? Why didn't she tell you? Because I was dangerous, Reaper said simply. I still am. This life, the club, the enemies we make, it's not safe for kids. She knew that. Maybe she thought keeping you away from me was the only way to keep you alive. Marcus wanted to scream, to punch something, to run until his legs gave out. But instead, he just stood there, staring at the face of a man who was supposed to be a stranger, but whose eyes looked exactly like his own. What do I call you? Marcus asked, voice barely audible. Reaper's expression softened. Whatever you're comfortable with. Not dad. Fair enough. They stood in silence for a long moment. Then Reaper cleared his throat.
There's one more thing you need to know. The detective listed Sarah's last known address. It was in Boulder. But the weird part? Her neighbors said she lived alone. No mention of a son. Marcus frowned. That doesn't make sense. I lived with my mom my whole life. Exactly. Reaper picked up the police report again, tapping a line near the bottom. Which means either you weren't living with Sarah Chun, or a sudden knock on the door interrupted him. Wrench stuck his head in, face pale. Boss, we got a problem. Reaper stiffened. What kind of problem? Lily's window. Someone tried to open it from the outside. Colt caught them on the security camera before they ran. The temperature in the room dropped 10 degrees. Where is she? Reaper's voice was pure ice. Safe.
Locked in the den with three guys watching her. Reaper was moving before Wrench finished the sentence, shoving past him into the hallway. Marcus followed on instinct, his pulse hammering. They burst into a side room, line with monitors showing grainy black and white footage from cameras positioned around the clubhouse. Colt, a wiry man with a shaved head and nervous energy, rewound the footage and hit play. The screen showed the side of the building where Lily's room was located. At 3:47 p. m., just 20 minutes ago, a figure in a dark hoodie approached the window, glanced around, and reached for the latch. The person's face stayed hidden, but there was something about the way they moved—fluid, confident, familiar with the property. Zoom in, Reaper ordered. Colt tapped a few keys.
The image pixelated but sharpened enough to catch a detail— Marcus's trained eye spotted immediately. A tattoo on the person's wrist. A snake coiled around a dagger. Reaper went completely still. No. What? Wrench asked. You know that, Ink. Reaper's fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white. Yeah, I know it. He turned to Colt, rage simmering just below the surface. Pull up every camera from the last two weeks. I want to know if he's been here before. Who? Marcus asked. Reaper didn't answer. He was already moving toward the door, shouting orders to the other men in the hallway. Nobody leaves. Nobody comes in. I want eyes on every window, every door, every damn crack in this building. Marcus grabbed his arm. Who is it?
Reaper looked at him, and for the first time since they'd met, Marcus saw something close to fear in the man's eyes. Someone I trusted, Reaper said. Someone who's been in this club for 15 years. He pulled his arm free and stormed out, leaving Marcus standing alone in the security room, staring at the frozen image of a traitor reaching for Lily's window. Outside, an engine roared to life and tires screeched against pavement. Marcus ran to the window just in time to see a single motorcycle disappear into the fading daylight, the rider's snake and dagger tattoo visible even from a distance. And on the desk behind him, the DNA report sat open, the name Sarah Chun staring back at him like an accusation he couldn't yet understand.