PRINCESS/ROGUE

Pain. It spreads through every part of my body. It hurts to breathe.

"How?" I ask, looking up at one of the police officers. His deep frown lines make his face look animated as he speaks.

"Homicide, ma'am."

Murder?

No, he must be mistaken. He's wrong. "Hit and run or something?" My voice doesn't sound like my own. It's deeper, weaker, broken. Maybe she was drunk and wandered into the road. I should have gone looking for her last night when she failed to come home. But I waited. Dammit, I waited.

"We're expecting the coroner's official report soon, but this wasn't an accident, Ms. Stewart. It's homicide," the woman officer announces.

"Someone killed my baby." Mom weeps, lighting a cigarette and blowing a plume of toxic smoke into the air. The florescent lights buzz above us, casting everything in a hue of blue.

"No." I shake my head, clawing up the officer's legs to get to my feet. He's wrong. She's wrong. Why would someone do this on purpose? Harley is nineteen, harmless, innocent. Not is—was.

A fresh wave of agony sweeps over me, dragging me into a murky abyss. "How do you know it's her?" I demand. They're mistaken. She's going to walk through that door any minute, drunk with a story to tell. Mom will bitch her out about wearing her boots on the carpet and we'll laugh.

"Identification on her person, ma'am."

"I want to see her," I state, swiping at my tears. A fierceness comes over me. It's not her.

"We need to make a formal identification." He nods toward my mom.

"I'll do it," I cut him off as his mouth opens to add more.

He bobs his head between us, waiting for my mother's approval. When she doesn't object, he agrees. "If you're sure."

"I am." I jerk my head firmly and wrap my arms around my waist, hoping they will hold me together.

The officers lead the way to the patrol car, and I slip into the backseat, ignoring the neighbors peering out at us from their windows. Mrs. Greenwich has been bold enough to come out of her house. She's standing on her front lawn with a coffee mug, her hair in rollers, and her nightgown on. Nosy witch.

I bash my hand against the window. "What are you looking at?"

They get to go to bed tonight and close their doors. Everything in their lives continues like normal while mine crumbles around me. I don't know who I am without Harley. The very thought of having to exist in a world without her churns the acid in my stomach.

The officers start the car and pull out of the driveway.

Swiping at my phone, I bring up my messages and my soul sinks. Was she dying while I was angry texting her? Did she suffer? Did she cry out for me? Tears burn my eyes. Tipping over my eyelashes, they track wet paths down my cheeks. Daddy's death hurt, but this feels magnified, suffocating. Daddy knew the rules. You're always walking with the reaper in your shadow when you live a life of crime. But this is Harley...

My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me.

Tyler: Babe, where are you?

The following message that comes through has a picture of his dick attached. Need you to sit on this.

Internal rage burns through my sorrow. It's irrational. He doesn't know I'm dying inside. That Harley has been taken from us. This will hurt him. Harley was like his sister too.

Dammit, Harley, what happened to you?

A whimper escapes my lips, grief saturating the anger once more.

"Are you okay?" the officer asks, her tone soft and kindness in her eyes as she watches me in the rearview mirror.

"My baby sister was murdered." The clock on her dash glares at me. It's just past midnight. "And it's officially my wedding day. Would you be okay?" It's bratty of me, but I don't care.

"You're getting married today?" A sound passes her lips. Almost a gasp. Pity.

Am I getting married today? Seems like a stupid question. Everything is so tiny and pointless compared to what I'm living right now. Harley is dead. She's fucking dead. There will only be a veil worn of grief and torment.

Silence blankets the car.

Me: Harley's dead.

My finger hovers over the send button. I should tell him in person...

Send.

I silence the ringer as his incoming call lights up the screen and take a deep breath. We're here.

***

The car pulls to a stop at what looks like a side door to a concrete building.

"If, at any time, you need to take a minute or two, just let one of us know, okay?" the officer tells me, helping me out of the car. It's odd seeing this side of the police. Growing up, we were so used to Daddy being a criminal that Harley and I would duck anytime we saw a police officer on the street. Daddy thought it was cute. Only...now, in this moment, it dawns on me how fucked up that was.

I follow the officers to the entrance, my thoughts straying to earlier with Bear. The smirk imprinted on my brain. Kings of Sin VP. I wonder if he had to identify their president.

***

Cold. There's no heat left in my bones as they walk me down the dull corridor, our shoes tapping against the cream-tiled floor. Coming to a halt at the door with a plaque stating Viewing Room, my insides stir and my head buzzes. We step inside, squinting from the blinding white walls illuminating the room. A large window with drapes drawn across it takes up most of the back wall. My heart gallops like wild horses trying to crack through my ribcage and flee.

"Are you sure you can do this?" the woman officer asks, her brow pinched. My eye flit to her nametag. Officer Hope. Ironic. I want to tear it from her shirt, shove it down her throat, and watch her choke on it. Rage is ugly, and I'm overflowing with it.

"I need to," I bite out, turning back to the glass window.

The other officer pushes an intercom and speaks through it, but the rushing of my pulse blocks his words.

The drapes slowly open, taking parts of my soul with them.

Willing my legs to hold me, I step toward the glass. A white sheet outlines the silhouette of a woman's body.

I force myself to breathe.

"Ready?" Officer Hope asks, her hand touching my arm to comfort me. I'll never be ready.

"Do it." I nod to the man standing at the head of the body.

Lowering the sheet from her face, he rests it over her chest as mine cracks wide open.

No.

Picturesque pale skin stark against the long, dark lashes fanning her cheeks, eyes closed, resting. Harley. Sleeping beauty.

She always had a spark. Shone from within, lighting everything in her presence. Our Firefly. That glow has been snuffed out.

Snap.

Gone.

I wish I could reverse time and keep her with me. Memories will never be enough to sate the ache she leaves.

I stroke my hand down the glass, hating the barrier between us. My gaze falls on her blonde hair pulled back from her face, hanging loose off the table they have her on. "Her hair is wet," I murmur. Was she in water?

"The coroner washed and prepared the body after the autopsy."

The body.

Just another fucking body to them. Everything to me. Harley would hate that these strangers stripped her, washed her, touched her. She looks cold, so cold. Doesn't this stuff usually take time?

"When was she found?" I whip my gaze to the officers, my brow furrowed.

The officer flips through the papers on his clipboard and says, "Twenty-five hours ago."

I bristle at his answer.

What?

"When was the last time you saw her?" He tilts his head, studying me, his tone inquisitive.

I close my eyes, filtering through my thoughts. The party the night before last. At the clubhouse. I left early to pick up my wedding dress from my aunt, who was doing last-minute alterations. Harley mentioned going to a nightclub. She was heavily drinking. I should have taken her home. I failed her.

"Doesn't an autopsy take time?" I'm sure we waited days when Grandma passed.

"When it's a homicide, they take priority."

"Miss Stewart." Officer Hope's voice penetrates the self-hate in my mind. "Can you confirm the body is that of Harley Stewart?"

My eyes spring open. I inhale a shaky breath and reach for the glass again. The blue and purple bruises around her throat register for the first time.

My heart booms, scraping and clawing at my chest, but it has nowhere to escape. "She was strangled," I choke out, my body heaving with the effort it's taking to draw breath.

"Asphyxiation is the cause of death, yes."

"Does Harley have any distinctive marks, scars, or birthmarks?" Hope asks, steering me away from the new information.

"She has a tattoo." The Devil Skull Riders' insignia is her birthmark. "Upper inner thigh," I add. All women Devils have the emblem there, right over the femoral artery. The brothers have theirs on their chest, spreading over their hearts. The club is life.

The man in the white coat flits his eyes to the officers through the glass. "Upper inner thigh," Hope tells him.

"Left leg," I add as she holds the intercom button down.

Moving around her body, he lifts the sheet and the world stills. "Lower the sheet," Officer Hope commands. But it's too late. The mutilation of Harley's thigh is already branded onto my brain forever. The ink of her tattoo is nowhere to be seen. Just raw, angry flesh.

Such violence.

She suffered.

I want to die too.

"Were there signs of sexual assault?" I ask, swallowing the stone lodged in my throat. That's the motivation for most killers when it's a young girl. I don't want to know, but I need to. I have to know everything she endured. Allow it to harden me so I can hunt the fuckers who did this and rain the devil's wrath upon them.

"No." The reply is quick and confident.

A rattle shakes my body. Tears blur my vision. Small mercies.

The drapes begin to close, and a panicked gasp hitches my breathing. "Wait," I plead, my hand pressing against the glass, willing it to disintegrate. I want to hold her.

"It's okay," Officer Hope assures me. It's a lie. Nothing is okay. "We would like to show you the belongings recovered from the body. Would you be able to confirm if the items belong to your sister?"

The body.

The words echo in my head before the door opens and another man in a lab coat walks into the room with a tray and places it on a metal table. It's the kind of table you get in prisons when you're sitting across from an inmate. I've visited too many prisons in my short lifetime.

A see-through bag sits inside the plastic tray, holding a few items inside. "Can we speak for a moment?" the man in the lab coat asks the officers.

"We'll be right outside, Ms. Stewart. Please don't remove anything from the bag. Just look and let us know if anything seems out of place."

"Okay."

I pull my gaze from the door closing behind them and scan the clear plastic bag. My skin tightens over my bones. Her phone with the stupid glittery pink case mocks me. A pack of gum lays crumpled inside, only half gone. The remaining gum will never be consumed. Harley's beaten-up wallet that she refused to part with because it was a designer brand she found at a flea market almost five years ago has blood stained into the leather. An internal scream shatters me. A piece of material pokes out from beneath the wallet.

Swiping a hand across my nose, I flit my eyes to the door. Inhaling a deep breath, I pick up the bag to rearrange the contents. The material slips free.

No.

No.

No.

The room closes in on me, the pressure pushing down on my chest. I snatch the fabric into my palm before closing the bag and stepping away from it. The material feels like a flame in my fist. My heart races. Sweat beads across my forehead. Dashing toward the door, I pull it open and dart out of it.

"Ms. Stewart." Hope calls after me, but my legs are moving without permission. I'm down the corridor, pushing out into the night within seconds, my body heaving in fresh air. Vomit races up my throat and spills from my lips, splashing my shoes.

I hear the door open behind me and then footfalls coming up beside me. "Here," Hope says, offering me a bottle of water.

"I need to go." I push the bottle away and begin walking.

"Let me drive you home," she protests.

"I'm not going home." I take off jogging, tears fogging my vision. I don't stop until I'm at the clubhouse gate.

***

"Bear," I cry out to the camera, gripping the bars with desperation overwhelming me. "Let me in." The clanking of metal alerts me to the gates opening. As soon as there's a space big enough, I slip inside, racing toward Bear's giant silhouette stepping into the car lot.

"What is it, Rogue?" Bear asks as I launch myself into his arms and come apart. His body encompasses mine, offering me shelter from the grief tearing me to pieces. "Talk to me," he urges, the rumble of his voice carrying through his chest, vibrating against mine.

"What's happening?" Another voice joins us.

"Get Tyler," Bear demands.

Sliding from his grip, I will the tears to subside so I can catch my breath. More brothers join us outside, wary eyes watching me.

"Tell us who upset you, and we'll make them wish they were never born," Carver growls, his knuckles turning white as he fists his hands. I look over at Tyler's best friend and VP and shake my head.

"It's not me," I croak, my throat raw.

Tyler pushes his way through the gathering of brothers, his chest still bare from earlier. Reaching for me, he grips my upper arms. "I've been fucking calling you. Why haven't you been picking up?"

I'm surprised he didn't come looking for me.

"Harley's dead," I state, and the sky appears to darken.

Bear takes my hand, pulling me from Tyler's grip, lines tugging down his brow. "Start from the beginning, Rogue."

"They fucking killed her," I snap, snatching my hand from his.

"Who?" Tyler asks, his features pinched.

Digging into my pocket, I snatch up the fabric and hold it out in my palm. The rocker at the top of the patch blares up at us all, the name freezing the blood in my veins:

KINGS OF SIN

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