Page 18 of Ruthless Possession
Trenton shakes his head. "We've got it."
I watch, barely breathing, as they remove their own patches from the wall. The leather cuts have hung there for years, symbols of absence. Now they're coming down, to be worn again.
Matthew lifts his first, running his fingers over the Devil Souls' emblem. "Feels right."
Trenton nods, holding his own. "Like coming home."
The commotion in the main room shifts as the back door opens again. The crowd parts like water, and there he is. Torch, Trenton's father, the Devil Souls' vice president. His tall frame fills the doorway, cut emblazoned with the MC's colors. He's scanning the room with that familiar intensity, probably wondering what's causing the uproar at nine a.m. on a Saturday.
Then his eyes lock on Trenton.
For a split second, nothing happens. Torch's face, always so controlled, so carefully composed, completely shatters. His jaw drops. His eyes widen. The clipboard in his hand clatters to the floor.
"Son?"
The word barely makes it out of his throat.
Trenton moves through the crowd, and I watch from my spot by the bar as father and son face each other after years of separation. Torch's hands are shaking. Actually shaking. I've never seen this man show weakness before.
"You're supposed to be—" Torch starts, his voice rough. "Your mother said?—"
"I know," Trenton interrupts. "We wanted to surprise everyone."
Then Torch pulls his son into a hug so fierce I can see the strain in Trenton's shoulders. It's the first time I've ever seen them embrace like this, all the pretense of toughness, of club loyalty, stripped away. Just a father holding his son.
The room has gone quiet. Even the rowdiest of the prospects have stopped their celebration to watch.
"How?" Torch asks when they finally separate. "You still had another tour."
"Honorable discharge," Trenton explains. "For both of us. We're out, Dad. For good this time."
Torch looks at Matthew, then at me, understanding dawning on his face. "You're home."
It's not a question.
"We're home," Matthew confirms, moving to stand beside Trenton. "All of us."
Torch's gaze finds me across the room. There's something in his expression I can't quite read. Relief, maybe. Or pride. Or both.
"Kayla's going to kill me for not calling her," he says, but he's smiling now, the shock giving way to pure joy. "She'll want to see you right away."
Trenton nods. "We'll head over after breakfast."
The club erupts again, but I'm watching Torch, watching the way his eyes keep returning to his son, as if making sure Trenton won't disappear. Six years of deployment, of video calls, of pretending everything is fine, it's all caught up with him in this moment.
"Drinks!" Greyson announces, already pulling bottles from behind the bar. "Real ones. No fucking coffee this morning."
A glass is pressed into my hand. I recognize the amber of good whiskey, not the watered-down stuff served to hangers-on, but the liquor reserved for family.
I take a sip, the burn warming my throat as I watch our family, our real family, reunite around us. Trenton and Torch have moved to a corner, heads bent together in quiet conversation. Matthew's surrounded by the younger members, laughing at some story being told.
The smell of it. The noise of it. The bone-deep feeling of being home.
I'm still watching when Torch looks up, catching my eye across the room. He raises his glass in my direction in a silent toast.
I raise mine in return.
He mouths the words from across the room. "Thank you."
