Page 42 of Monk

I didn’t answer. I just grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet. “Get the fuck out,” I said, my voice flat.

Her smile faltered. “What?”

“I said... get the fuck out.”

“But—”

I opened the door and shoved her into the hallway. She stumbled, catching herself against the wall, her eyes wide with shock.

“Monk!”

I slammed the door in her face. The sound echoed through the hallway as I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, my chest heaving.

She isn’t her. She will never be her.

I turned and walked to the bed, dropping onto it heavily.

My room was silent. Empty. Just like me. I closed my eyes and tried to forget. Tried to drown out the sound of Lina’s voice,the image of that kid, the crushing weight of seven years of grief and rage and betrayal. But it didn’t work.

It never worked. Because no matter how many women I fucked, no matter how much whiskey I drank, no matter how hard I tried to bury it—shewas still there.

Always there. Haunting me.

And I couldn’t afford to shatter.

Not now.

Not ever.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Monk

“KANSAS AARON STONE!”

The shout ripped through the clubhouse like a gunshot, yanking me out of sleep with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face.

I groaned, rolling onto my back and pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. My head pounded—whiskey and rage and too little sleep combining into a vicious hangover that made my skull feel like it was splitting open. The sunlight streamed through the blinds felt like daggers stabbing directly into my brain, each ray a fresh assault on my senses.

Fuck.

I sat up slowly, the room spinning slightly as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The world tilted on its axis for a moment before settling into a nauseating equilibrium. My mouth tasted like ash and regret, like I had spent the night licking the bottom of an ashtray. My body ached in all the wrong ways. Not from satisfaction, but from the hollow, empty fucking that had done nothing to dull the edges. If anything, it had made things worse.

My clothes were scattered across the floor like evidence at a crime scene. My jeans crumpled in a heap near the door, my shirt hanging off the back of a chair.

She isn’t her.

The thought hit me again, sharp and brutal.

She will never be her.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, trying to shake off the fog, but it clung to me like smoke. My head was pounding, a dull throb behind my eyes that reminded me I had stayed up way too late last night drinking.

“Kansas Aaron Stone. You get your ass out here right now!”

Kali’s voice again, louder this time, echoed through the hallway like a thunderclap. She only used full names when someone was in serious trouble, and judging by the fury in her tone, that someone was about to catch hell.

I stood, grabbing my jeans off the floor and pulling them on. The denim was rough against my skin. My cut was draped over the chair where I had thrown it last night, and I shrugged into it, the familiar weight settling across my shoulders like armor. The leather was worn soft from years of wear. The patches and colors were faded but still proud. The VP patch glaringly new above my name. It was who I was, what I was. The vice president of the Diamondback MC.