Throne of Scars (Lost Kings MC 20)

“I’d argue being in prison only heightened your senses. Made you more aware of danger and how to protect the club,” Steer says in a lazy, smug tone that pushes all my irritable buttons.

“No one asked you,” I snarl without looking at him.

Jigsaw does this long, slow, dickish scratch of the side of his head. “Didn’t Quill’s guy say you had a rep for being a savage inside?”

“Says the guy who collects the fingers of his enemies,” I shoot back. The pain I inflicted in order to survive in prison isn’t anything I want to brag about.

Not offended in the least, Jigsaw pats his breast pocket as if he might have a digit or two stored inside. “Takes a savage to recognize a savage.”

Fucker.

Z chuckles. “Brother, I trust you one hundred percent.”

I gesture toward the closed chapel doors. “What about the rest of your crew? Ain’t some of them gonna be pissed off? They’ve been here, putting in the hard work. Gonna be looked at like favoritism, passing over other brothers who’ve earned it more than I have.”

“No one’s earned it more than you.” Wrath’s deadly serious baritone rumbles from the other end of the table.

“You’ve protected the club for fifteen years. Sacrificed the most.” Rock’s observation is equally somber.

“I don’t need a consolation prize for doing the right thing,” I argue.

“It’s not a consolation prize.” Rock glances at Wrath. “I don’t want you to leave upstate, Grinder. But we all agree having you as SAA down here would benefit the whole club.”

“How? I’m rusty as fuck. I’m old. I haven’t even decided where I want to live. My apartment is way the fuck out of downstate’s territory,” I point out.

“I moved. You can too,” Z says in an irritating tone, similar to how he explains shit to his son.

“Yeah, grandpa.” Jigsaw clutches an imaginary steering wheel in front of him and rocks from side to side. “They have these fancy things called moving trucks these days—”

“Shut up.”

“I get to nominate my replacement,” Steer cuts in, suddenly the voice of reason. “And I want it to be you.”

“Because Priest ordered it,” I argue. No doubt that sneaky old fuck put them up to this when he visited.

“He didn’t order.” Z wiggles his fingers in the air in front of him. “He suggested.”

“Same fucking thing where Priest is concerned.”

“No decisions need to be made today.” Z raises an eyebrow. “Just consider it. You’re supposed to be off parole soon. I’ll help you and Serena look for a place closer to here.”

Hustler snickers behind his hand. “Jesus fuck. Please say yes. Tawny’s head will explode when she finds out Serena’s patch outranks her.”

Z snort-laughs.

“Not that club decisions should be made that way,” Jigsaw grins, “but it is an added bonus.”

Steer shakes with laughter. “You’re all mean.”

“Only because it’s fuckin’ true,” Wrath adds.

“Not gonna lie, I’d love to see the look on her face when it’s announced,” Rooster says. “It’s almost worth lifting the ban just for one night.”

“Fuck. You’re all conniving little fuckers.” I stand and slap my hand on the table. “Am I free to go, Prez?” I sneer at Z.

“See, look at that. You’re already getting the hang of it.” Z sweeps his hand toward the door as if he’s granting me permission.

SAA. The patch I wore when I was sent to prison fifteen years ago.

Do I even want the responsibility now?

Back then, it wasn’t the title that got me thrown inside. But in the future, it could be. A brother sworn to protect the club and specifically to protect the president has to get his hands dirty.

Wouldn’t I do that anyway, though?

If someone threatened Z, SAA or not, I wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between their eyes. Same for any of my brothers.

Serena’s at her makeup table when I push into our room. The various lights she uses when she’s filming light up the space like a sunny summer afternoon. She’s definitely more comfortable here now than she was the first time we visited. How will she feel if this ends up being my home charter?

“And now, take your fluffy brush and—”

“Shit, sorry, buttercup.”

She snaps the camera off and jumps up, hurrying over to me. “No big deal. I’ll edit it later.”

I study her half made-up face and can’t help my lips from sliding into a smile. Everything about her always calms and centers me. Makes me happy. I thought this feeling was a myth.

“I don’t think I understood what happiness was until I met you, buttercup,” I blurt out like a sentimental fool.

Her anxious expression softens.

I reach for her, curling my arm around her waist and dragging her closer. “How are you feeling?” I rest my hand over her getting-bigger-by-the-day bump.

“Good, actually. I woke up feeling all glowy, so I thought I’d film some content and get ahead.”