Inked Babies (Inked Brotherhood 6)

“And are you sure? That he doesn’t?”

I open my mouth and forget to close it. Huh.

No, I am positive.

Okay, pretty sure.

I mean, I’ve argued with myself plenty of times that it’s for Dylan’s own good.

So I’m certain. -ish.

Oh God, I don’t know.

“Tess?” He’s peering at me from a face that looks so much like Dylan’s it’s crazy. “Do you want it or not?”

“I do,” I blurt out. “I love your brother so much. And you guys, too.”

“Good to know,” he mutters and saunters away to join Jax and Teo.

What was that all about?

Chapter Twenty

Dylan

Finding the old oak tree in Wausau wasn’t hard. Rafe had saved the coordinates in his GPS, and now we’re cruising down the street, looking for the house Zane described.

Tension is thrumming inside the car. The silence is so thick I can taste it on the back of my tongue. Sharp. Bitter. Cold.

It tastes of fear. Zane’s, or ours, impossible to pull apart. To pull us apart. We’re one, and we stare out of the car, our hearts thumping in unison, racing as a white house comes in sight and Zane thumps his fist on the window.

“This,” he rasps. “This one.”

Rafe steps on the brake and parks the car. We all stare.

White house, check—though it’s brown in spots. Humidity? A maple tree in the yard, check. Double garage in the front, tiled roof, and…

“You sure it’s this one?” Tyler is sitting in the front today and he’s staring around Rafe’s head at the house. “You said the door was blue.”

“You took notes, fucker?”

“What if I did?”

Zane gives a quiet snicker. Maybe it’s a snicker. I’m not sure.

Then a violent shudder goes through him, and I put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re here with you, Z-man.”

He nods, not looking at me.

The door is brown, and the lawn is trimmed, gray shades hanging behind the windows. There’s a rolled-up newspaper or commercial leaflet thrown on the porch.

Someone lives here.

We climb out of the car and approach. Even from here I can see the brass knocker—a lion’s head, just like Zane described it.

He’s standing stiffly on the sidewalk, looking as if he won’t take another step. But he does, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin.

It’s a battle, obvious in his every movement.