I didn't know why I thought the clubhouse would looks any different than it used to. The gate was still the same heavy rusted metal, and a chain link fence encircled the perimeter of the property. There was no need for prospects stationed by the anymore, thanks to the fancy keypad and intercom that had been installed just before I had graduated high school. There would be a body in the security office, however, prepared to buzz in any clients that came by the garage.

Slowly, I inched my old corolla up to the pad, but just before I could push the button to the intercom, I decided to give the old passcode a try. I didn't expect it to work after so long, but I was curious.

I punched in the numbers in quick succession, 5-4-5-5-3-7.

The gate groaned as the pulley system engaged, dragging the gate to the right to let me through.

No one had ever deactivated my key-code. I couldn't quite put my finger on the way that made me feel.

I pulled through the gate before it decided I was not in fact allowed to come through.

The gravel driveway was long enough to offer some privacy at the house, without isolating it too far from the road whenever someone decided to order pizza. It quickly became visible as I rounded the only bend, the old three storey victorian not exactly what civilians thought of when they pictured a biker hangout.

An array of bikes were lined up in front of the covered front porch; not enough to suggest the whole club was here by any means. Only a handful of members lived here with the president, others in their own houses and apartments like my father had. Ennis's Harley was no where to be seen, thankfully, meaning he wasn't here.

I still hadn't called him.

The bikes I did recognize were Brigid and Trevor's, who had left the apartment ahead of me to make sure they were already settled when I walked through the front door.

The large multi-car garage didn't appear to be in use yet, and I parked my car in the small lot nearby. Members of the MC worked on cages, sure, but they'd rather cut off their leg than drive one if they could help it.

Without giving myself too much time to talk myself out of this, I climbed out of my car and made the quick walk up the porch steps and to the front door. The heavy knocker loomed in front of my face as I contemplated using it. The door, of course, was unlocked, I was sure of it. But there was something about waltzing in the door like nothing had happened that made my stomach flip.

Before I had the chance to reach up, the front door eased open and Brigid's smiling face popped out to greet me.

"Trevor owes me thirty bucks," she said proudly. "He thought you'd chicken out last minute."

I arched a brow. "He said that?"

"Not in so many words," she admitted. "But he did think we'd have to drag you in from your car."

"He almost won," I mumbled, finally working up the effort to lift my foot and cross over the threshold.

I was immediately enveloped by the comforting scent of the clubhouse. Hell, the place still smelled like gasoline, smoke and leather. Just like my dad.

Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, my eyes roved over Brigid in her black skinny jeans and pink long sleeve, her cut hanging over her shoulders. My heart squeezed in my chest.

"Where's Miles?" I ask around the stubborn lump that refused to go away.

Her smile softened. "In his office. We kept our promise."

I had insisted they not tell Miles I was coming. It wasn't that I suspected the president of being involved in anything, but I wanted to see for myself how he reacted to me being back. I didn't want to give him the chance to surprise me with anyone else here.

Doubting he'd moved his office from the back of the house, I squeezed Brigid's hand and started towards the kitchen.

The halls were dark— partially because of the dark greens and blues of the paint, and partially because lights were kept to a minimum to keep the electric bill low. It was still early, just past nine in the morning on a weekend, and the only people around were Miles, Trevor, Brigid and the various faces in the photos on the walls. Dozens of framed photographs of members and their family members lined the hall that lead past the living rooms to the kitchen. Most of them were all familiar, even if some of the photos were new.

Dishes were piled in the sink in the kitchen, albeit neatly, and the dishwasher was flashing. A handful of empties were strewn across the island and kitchen table, a reminder that while the women could try their best to instil neatness on their men, it would always be an ongoing struggle anywhere outside the garage.

The solid oak door to Miles's office was closed, the light shining through beneath it indicating he was in fact inside. He was an early riser, even on weekends, and preferred to do his work before the boisterous members came through.

This time I knocked, fist rapping against the wood three times.

A gruff, "Come on in," was his immediate reply. Even from the other side, his Irish drawl was clear as day.

Taking a deep breath, I turned the handle, and pushed my way through the door.

Myles Lynch— whose road name Miles started as a joke about the States's stubborn use of the imperial system— was the epitome of "old biker dude". He had a solid build, and every inch of space on his bare arms and hands was covered in tattoos. A worn black bandana was tied around his clean-shaven head and he kept his red beard neatly trimmed.

His blue eyes remained focused on the paperwork in front of him when I walked through the door. "What's the matter?"

I remained silent for a heartbeat, at a loss for words. Suddenly, I wished I'd asked Brigid or Trevor to come with me, at least to stand outside the door as reassurance. I told myself to speak up, to say anything at all, but my mouth wouldn't move.

Miles must have become frustrated by his silent intruder, because he looked up with a scowl.

A scowl that fell off his face the moment he met my gaze, replaced by a look of utter shock.

My traitorous lips finally moved. "Hi, Miles."

He blinked, as if he though I might disappear like an apparition, here one moment and gone the next.

"Killian?" He asked, his voice surprisingly soft for a man his size.

I barely managed to nod my head before he was pushing to his feet and stomping towards me.

His big arms wrapped around me in a vice grip hug. And just like that, I was home.

The air rushed out of my lungs in a deep sigh, my arms wrapping around Miles's waist to return the hug.

"I'm so sorry, kid," he said into my hair, his accent soothing my nerves for a moment, reminding me of my father. "Should've never been like this."

I wasn't sure if he meant my coming back, or my father's death. "I know," I said quietly, not bothering to clarify the matter. Both statements were true enough as it was, whatever he meant by it.

Separating, Miles gave me a once over. I hadn't changed my appearance drastically since I was a teenager; I had the same brown hair and green eyes, but I had put on a bit of weight since being a skinny, awkward tomboy. But I was sure he was noticing how much more I looked like an actual grown up, rather than the loud-mouthed eighteen year old kid who thought she had the world figured out. I was still a loud-mouth, but I knew better than to think I had even begun to understand life.

"Would've thought Ennis would've let me know you'd be by," Miles said, crossing his arms and leaning against the heavy desk he'd been sitting at.

"I haven't told him yet. It was a bit of a last minute decision last night." It wasn't exactly a lie.

He arched a red brow, and suddenly I felt like a kid in the principal's office. I had seen that look before. "Does anyone know?"

Right to the point, it seemed. I mirrored his stance, crossing my arms over my chest. "I stayed with Brigid last night. I ran into her and Trevor when I got in," I told him.

"And neither of them felt the need to tell us." It was a statement, not a question.

Feigning nonchalance, I shrugged. "I asked them not to." It was, in fact, a big ask I had made of my best friends.

I had never been particularly scared of Miles, despite his intimidating build and ever-present scowl. Many citizens shied away from his leather cut and bone-tattooed hands, and sure, he was a hard-ass. But that image conflicted with the father figure he was to anyone who wore the patch.

The leather jacket I wore felt unmistakably empty at the thought.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Killian," he grumbled. "I should whoop your ass from here to next Sunday, stepping foot in 'ere without an invitation. That damn college degree rid you of your common sense?" I wasn't about to tell him I'd had an invitation from Brigid, or remind him I still had full access to the compound gates. "What the Devil were you thinking?"

I forced my features to remain neutral. "I was thinking my dad got shot in the head, and I thought he would've wanted me at his funeral."

Miles didn't so much as flinch at my harsh tone. "Your da would've wanted to see you home before he died. Doesn't mean much to him now, I'd say."

A muscle in my jaw ticked as the comment struck deep, lashing at the already open wound. Of course he wanted me home, he'd never approved of my leaving in the first place. Outside of Christmas and birthday cards exchanged by mail, our communication was limited. I wasn't even sure if he'd known I had graduated earlier this year. Was he proud of me? Proud of the daughter who'd left her family behind and built a life for herself without them?

"He knew where I lived," I retorted, my voice lacking bite. "I never told him he couldn't see me."

"Your father respected your wishes 'til the day he died, Killian. Never rode up there to drag you home where you belonged. But not a day went by he didn't wish you'd come to your senses and come home. Damn near broke his heart."

My nerves snapped tight. No longer able to keep my voice calm, I couldn't help but yell. "I couldn't be here anymore!"

"Shit happens, Killian. You don't run from your problems and abandon your family. Your da taught you better than that!"

"Maybe he was part of the problem!" I roved my hands through my hair at my own admission. "Maybe I was done with this whole life, and I had no choice but to get away from all of it before it could kill me!"

"Instead, it killed your da."

My fist swung out before I could even think twice, striking Miles square in the jaw. The bone was solid, and my knuckles screamed at the contact, but I was too furious to pay them any mind. "Don't you dare fucking insinuate I had anything to do with that!" I fumed.

Miles didn't appear to be the least bit fazed by my punch, save for a small wince he made as he tensed his jaw. "You weren't very well here to protect him, though, were you?"

"Ennis was," I bit out. "So were you." I let my eyes flit over his form before giving him a grim smile. "Unless you're saying a twenty-four year old girl with no common sense had a better chance of stopping things than a whole fucking biker gang."

I watched as those words grated over his nerves. If the MC had a pet peeve, it was being called a gang; they felt it was an insult to the organization they dedicated their lives to.

After a few heart beats, Miles broke the intense silence between us. "That's enough," he grunted, moving to sit back behind his desk. "Arguing isn't going to change anything for either of us. Fact is, your da is dead and there was nothing any of the lot of us could've done about it, 'cause none of us could've saw it coming. That's a fucking shame. And despite my wanting to ring your neck for speaking out of turn, I won't do piss all to disrespect his memory. He was family, and the MC will honour that."

I nodded, some of the tension leaching from my stiff muscles.

"But," he continued, pointing a finger in my direction, "don't you go mistaking our good will to your da and your brothers as a pardon. You forfeited all loyalty this club had to offer you when you took off without a word. You disrespected the patch, you disrespected me, and that will not be forgiven. Walsh may be your name, but you're family of ours no more. Understood?"

Again, Miles wasn't really asking a question. Miles's word was law—I would be safe from retribution while I was here, but that was as far as it went. I would have no support from the Descendants. My brothers still wore the cut, but I had forsaken mine, and that could not be undone. I had been on my own for a while now, but something about hearing it out loud made my heart ache from the loneliness of it.

"I understand," I said solemnly, my chin dipping in acknowledgment.

At least Miles didn't look thrilled by making my excommunication official. Twisting one of the skull rings around his finger, he couldn't quite meet my eye as he spoke. "The wake will be in a couple days. It'll be here, and you'll be in attendance, but that is the only time you'll set foot in this house agin. After the funeral, it'd be best if you went back to wherever you came from. Tensions are high enough around here, and you're being here isn't going to help matters."

"I will stay out of the MC's way," was all I meant to say. But before I could realize it, more words spilled out of my mouth. "But so long as the person who put that bullet in my father's head is still breathing, I'm not going anywhere."

My insinuation was clear; with or without their help, I would find the person who killed my father, and I would kill them. And I would not allow Miles or anyone else to tell me I couldn't have that vengeance.

He seemed to understand, albeit ruefully, that he wouldn't change my mind. "Was just a suggestion. What you chose to do is your decision, as long as you keep your distance."

I had no doubts he'd be pulling Brigid and Trevor in soon to enforce that distance on them too, but I had the slight feeling they wouldn't listen. Still, I'd find a motel room to stay in to ease the tensions and keep them in good standing. I wouldn't allow my need for vengeance to hurt them.

"You have my word, Miles. I'll see you at the wake, and I'll stay quiet." With a last nod of respect, I turned on my heel and headed towards the door.

No sooner had I reached for the handle, the door pushed open from the other side. No knock, no warning.

On the other side, was a dark-haired man in black jeans and a well-cared-for cut. The patch over his heart— or lack of— marked him as a member of Plymouth County. But the one on the right, just at eye level? That one had my blood boiling at first sight.

Below the small, familiar Devil's Descendants patch, was a newer, cleaner patch. Identical to one I'd seen on my father's cut for as long as I could remember.

SGT. AT ARMS.

I whirled around to face Miles again. His eyes flashed, and he almost looked regretful for a heartbeat, but then he schooled his features back to that hard exterior I knew well. But it didn't cool the rage that had been stirred up by that patch.

"Fuck you," I seethed. "All that talk of respecting the dead? What a load of bullshit. If you had the least bit of respect for my father, you would've waited until he was at least in the ground before giving away his title. Least of all to that asshole."

If I hadn't already felt the bruises blooming across my knuckles, I would've turned around and punched the son on a bitch in the doorway the second my name left his lips.

"Killian?"

The best I could muster without physical violence was a growled, "fuck you too," before I shouldered my way past his broad frame.

I heard him call after me, but I ignored him as I rushed for the front door and out of the clubhouse, right into my car. I couldn't let any of them see the tears spring to my eyes, especially not the asshole who broke my heart.

Reagan Flynn.