Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC 5)

Lucky felt the old man’s gaze on him, but for once he stayed silent. He didn’t speak much these days. He sure as fuck didn’t laugh. Joke. Now he spent his time trying not to unleash the dragon that had awakened inside of him two months back. One that needed revenge. Vengeance. Thirsted for it.

“So we fuck them all up,” Gage put in simply.

“We don’t have the numbers, not this charter,” Cade explained, gritting his teeth.

“We may not have the numbers, but one of us is worth ten of those fuckfaces,” Gage replied.

Cade leaned back. “We’ve got to be smart about this. They’re targeting women.” His gaze landed on Lucky once more before he continued. “No fuckin’ way am I doing anything that even has a one percent chance of blowing back on my woman. My family,” he declared.

“Agreed,” Asher said from beside him, his jaw hard.

“We call in other charters,” Cade told the table. “Then we go to war. And burn them all.”

For the first time in months, Lucky smiled.

“Brother.” Lucky felt pressure on his shoulder as the rest of the men filtered out of the room.

He turned to Bull. “Got shit to do,” he bit out.

Bull’s hand stayed firm. “A minute,” he requested, though it seemed less of a request with his hand at Lucky’s shoulder.

Lucky couldn’t take him, he thought. Bull was a big fucker. Strong. Lucky was no small-fry either, he could take care of himself. Before, Bull might have been able to take him. But now that he had that dragon inside him, Lucky wasn’t sure if his brother would win.

He didn’t fight him, though. He had a tenuous hold on the rage inside him, enough to make sure he didn’t come to blows with his brothers. Just enough.

Lucky sighed and nodded, surrendering.

“Make it quick,” he bit out.

Bull raised a brow. “What? So you can rush off to the bar and continue your efforts to put Jack Daniels out of business? Or so you can cruise around beating up every tweaker and small-time player in the game, looking for info and askin’ to get fuckin’ arrested?”

Lucky gritted his teeth. “My dad died in prison ten years ago. Don’t have a mom, not anymore. And I don’t remember havin’ a third parent lookin’ anythin’ like you.”

“I’m not your parent. I’m your brother. And I know what you’re goin’ through.”

Lucky clenched his fists. “Do you?” he hissed. “Because from where I’m standin’ you got yourself some peace. In your new fuckin’ family. Knowin’ Laurie isn’t livin’ with demons of that day. She got peace. My woman? She’s gonna live with chaos for the rest of her fuckin’ life,” he yelled. “And I can’t do a thing about that but kill everyone who put that chaos there. And I can’t even fuckin’ do that.”

Bull’s eyes went black. Alien. He stepped forward. “Because I know you’re hurtin’, I’m not going to break your nose for insinuating that Laurie is somehow better off six feet under,” he said quietly, his voice deadly. “I’m just gonna tell you that Bex is not. She’s living, breathing, and bleeding. So instead of goin’ around searching for more blood to spill, how about you try and fuckin’ staunch the flow of hers.” He gave Lucky a long stare before leaving him there, in the clubroom where life and death were dealt.

Where he would make the decision between the two.

Chapter Eighteen

“She never seemed shattered; to me, she was a breathtaking mosaic of battles she’d won.”

-Matt Baker

Becky

It was my fault. I was trying new things, forcing myself to start becoming a functioning member of society. Society I’d never belong to, but I had to exist in. I was planning on going back to work in a couple days, so I kind of had to do things like answer the door.

I don’t know who flinched first, me or him. I guessed I looked different since he last saw me, what felt like a lifetime ago. I’d lost weight, gotten a new hairstyle, and my face was devoid of anything I could describe as life, as vibrancy.

But him.

Fuck.

I barely recognized the man in front of me. He was the same, physically, I guessed. Tall—not huge, but taller than me. He was dressed in all black—jeans, motorcycle boots, tee, and leather cut. That in itself was cause for pause. Usually he was wearing blue jeans so faded they looked like they were made for him. And most of the time, apart from when he decided he needed to ramp up the badass, he was wearing some stupid tee under his cut.

It wasn’t just the lack of stupid tee that had me physically recoil. It was the lack of anything. He looked like he had somehow gained more muscle in the two months I hadn’t seen him, but he had lost everything else. His jaw was covered with substantial stubble, hiding half of his attractive face. His cheekbones seemed more angular.