Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"He taught you to… shoot?" My voice rises despite my effort to keep calm.
"Yeah! At the range behind the clubhouse. I'm really good now." She says this with such innocent pride. "He checks on me when Legion works late. Brings me ice cream sometimes."
Again with this 'job' thing. I can't help asking. "What does Legion do again? For work?"
Mercy scrunches her face. "I told you, I dunno. Club stuff? He comes home smelling like gasoline sometimes. Or smoke." She shrugs. "Chains drew me these cool pictures—wanna see?"
Before I can answer, she's pulling a folder from her backpack, showing me intricate drawings of flowers and animals—clearly done by someone with serious artistic talent. But they all look like tattoo sheets.
"And Butch is teaching me to make a fist the right way. See?" She demonstrates, tucking her thumb outside her fingers. "Says girls need to know how to throw a punch that won't break their hand."
"Mercy—" I start, not sure what to say.
"Oh! And Ratchet showed me how to check tire pressure and oil. Says everyone should know basic maintenance." She mimics turning a wrench. "His hands are always dirty but he's good with engines."
I sit there, stunned by how thoroughly the Badlands MC has integrated themselves into this child's life. I was here, dropping off food and clean clothes just a couple of weeks ago. She didn't know any of them. They never came with food. They never came with clean clothes.
They were not here. I was.
These men are criminals, drug runners, violent enforcers. They're teaching money math and bike maintenance to a nine-year-old girl. How to shoot and make a fist.
This is not a life for a child.
"They sound... interesting," I manage.
"They're the best!" Mercy flops back onto the couch. "Way better than those kids at school. They say mean things about Legion sometimes. Call him Demon Kane." Her voice drops. "I punched Jimmy Larson for that. I got suspended, but Brick said I did good."
The realization hits me like cold water: This is Legion's world.
Not the silo where we meet in secret.
Not the photos in the book.
This is the part of him I never saw.
The part of him he never let me see.
This trailer, this child, these dangerous men who bring math books and teach a little girl to shoot—this is his reality.
And I have absolutely no place in it.
And now that I think about it, neither does Mercy.
CHAPTER 12
The bike thrums between my legs, engine hot from the long haul back from Terry. Six hours of warehouse inventory with Ledger, counting shit that isn’t on any manifest. My shoulders ache. My brand still burns under my shirt, the healing has been worse than the actual moment of branding.
Plastic bags of Chinese food hang from my grip, swinging as I take the last turn onto our road. Got Mercy those sugar donuts she likes. The ones dusted with cinnamon that leave her fingerprints everywhere.
I almost stop the bike when I see the Range Rover, white and gleaming in my dirt driveway like some alien spacecraft landed while I was gone. Savannah's ride. I'd know it anywhere—seen it enough times on her Instagram, parked outside fancy hotels, designer shopping bags arranged just so on the hood.
I kill the engine, let silence fill the space where my heartbeat should be. The food bags crinkle as I tighten my grip.
What the fuck is she doin’ here?
Five days since the silo.
Five days since I cut her loose, really expecting it to be the end this time.
Five days of nothing but the ache in my chest and the memory of her skin.
They know I'm here. You don't sneak up on anyone riding this bike. The door opens before I can reach for it.
"Legion!" Mercy's face appears, grinning wide. "We have a visitor!"
Like I could miss the six-figure SUV parked out front.
I step inside, keeping my face blank. Savannah sits on our couch, all honey-blonde and polished in her riding clothes. Tight white pants. Tall black boots. Hair pulled back in a low bun. The ring is back on her finger, diamond catching light like it's showing off.
"Brought dinner," I say, holding up the bags. My voice sounds normal. Doesn't give away the ache in my chest.
Mercy bounces over, snatching the bags from my hands. "Chinese? Yes!" She peers inside. "Did you get—"
"Sugar donuts are in the bottom bag."
She grins, already digging for them. "Savannah came to see the new place!"
"So I see." I look at Savannah, really look at her. Something's off. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. There's tension in her shoulders I recognize—the kind she gets when she's trying not to crack.
"I was just in the neighborhood," she says. Bullshit. Nobody's "just in the neighborhood" of Kane land. We're the wrong side of everywhere.
"Nice of you to drop by." I keep my tone even. "Wasn't expecting company, or I'd have brought more food."