an; again...trigger warnings

On the nights when Bailey slept in his own bed, he dreamed of Cowboy.

On the nights he slept in Rico's, he dreamed of his mother. She laid in the morning sun, face-down on the dining room table. Her white robe sprinkled in red petals, her hair black and rippling into her luke coffee. Her shoulders felt like cold stone and he remembered thinking what is this thing that looks like my mother? What is this thing that doesn't feel like her at all? That morning, his mother never woke, but in his dreams, she did. She raised her head and looked at him, a hole for each of her soft drooped eyes.

Did I scare you, Bear? I'm so sorry.

Her black holes blinked and a smile pulled over her face like a long, crooked fold.

I'm so sorry, Bear.

My little Bailey Bear.

And as she reached for him, Bailey turned to run. His feet found nothing and he fell into the cradle of a fresh dirt pit. Danny laid beside him, decayed flesh and sprouting bones, saplings growing from the fermented dirt of his empty eye socket.

Soil crashed against Bailey's back and he twisted to the silhouette that stood at his graveside, crying and clutching his ribs. And when the clouds shifted and the moon poured down on his blackened face, and Matt's agonizing expression shown down on him, something deep and hollow splintered inside.

Bailey woke after that, pain wracking his dented rib. The bed where Rico had been was empty now, but the stink of him cemented to the air and the wood in the walls. Bailey's empty stomach heaved and he stumbled to the floor just as the bedroom door clattered open.

Gabe nearly dropped his tray at the sight of him, catching the edge as silverware rattled. The flesh of his back burned and Bailey stayed there like that, knees on the filthy floor, hair hung over his face. Empty sick welling his throat. If you ask me what happened, he wanted to say, I'll kill you this time. I swear to God I'll kill you.

Gabe didn't ask. He set the tray aside and fetched an aid kit from the closet.

For twenty minutes, he tended to the fresh marks on Bailey's back, wrapping him in a layer of gauze that would require a blade to remove. And when he was done, Gabe sat on the bed beside him, head low and shoulders small.

"Rico left so I thought I'd sneak you breakfast."

Bailey was weak with hunger. The flames in him licked at the smell of grilled ham. Nothing here went unpunished. "He'll know."

"Maybe you can get out if-"

"No," Bailey said. Before, maybe. Before he'd burned down Black Hole. Before he'd double-crossed Ricco. If he'd told Quentin the honest truth then, maybe he'd have sanctuary somewhere. But he was a traitor to the North West, a traitor to the rogues, a traitor to Cowboy. He had nowhere to go.

Gabe was the only one allowed to touch him here, the only one who didn't make his insides writhe. Maybe it was because he was more effeminate than most, maybe it was because he touched so gently. His hands had always been a thing to trust-fall into, but they felt like spikes now. When he took Bailey by the cheek and turns his head to kiss him, the hound tore away.

There was a moment of gentle pause. Then Gabe nodded in understanding and clasped his hands between his knees. "I do care about you, Bailey."

"I'm not in the mood for a confession-"

"I don't love, Bailey. Not like that. Not like you do."

Bailey hated the way his tired voice tore when he said, "Good."

After a moment of silence, Gabe took a large breath. The soft, muffled tick of his heart quickened. "I have something for you." He produced a tiny bag from his pocket, purple substance moving inside like sand.

Bailey recognized the smell of it. "Skullcap?"

"Quiet," Gabe whispered. "Highly concentrated. Use it wisely. If he finds out-"

"He won't." Bailey said. He took the bag, and though it turned him inside, he dropped a hand into Gabe's hair and ruffled the locks. "Do you care about me enough to do something stupid?"

Gabe smiled the kind of smile that brought out his crooked canines and dimpled cheeks. "How stupid?"

That night, Bailey dressed in a suit. It's tradition, Rico told him once, when these nightmares were still new to him, for a rogue leader to bring candy to the table. It shows our competitors just the kind of stock we carry. You're the cream of the crop and I plan to parade you around every chance I get. So every outing, Bailey was groomed by the wolf in their circle with the most cosmetic sense. His long hair was gelled and combed back against his skull. Bruises and scrapes hidden in makeup and powder, but neck-marks left shamelessly exposed.

When he looked fitting enough for the occasion, he was led out to Rico's SUV, the hulking man dawned in a suit of his own. Bailey sat against the edge of the door and watched from the passenger window as Gannon stepped out with a wolf under his arm-the latest addition to the circle: a coiffed, handsome brunet named Xander. Gannon helped him into his Jaguar with a gentle hand on the nape of his long neck. That hand would turn hard and gnarled and one day those fingers would bruise his flesh like they did Quentin's.

Bailey thumbed the bag of Skullcap in his jacket pocket.

They drove an hour through the city, in one side and out the other like a bullet through an exit wound. And within the hour, Bailey found himself gazing at the open maw of a candle-lit pub. The insides were flush with crimson curtains and red velvet carpet, reflective bars that jostled his instincts, and old wooden smells slogging his senses. Rico's threatening grip on his arm went bone-deep as he led him inside toward a poker table where several other wolves had already positioned themselves around a pile of chips.

Behave yourself, said Rico's vise.

Behave yourself, said the look in Violet's smoky eyes.

Bailey had decided already. He wouldn't behave himself.

He took his seat beside Rico, looking bored-terribly bored. But all the while, he observed the faces. Three leaders beside Rico and Gannon, but it was still far less than he expected. There were dozens of den leaders in the states-at least ten in the West. Three was a pathetic turnout. He could identify them all by name-Violet, the thief. Edward, a fair man of androgynous style and few words. And Bastion, who ran his circle like the ring-leader of a drug cartel and was never, ever-not for a god-shitting moment-even slightly sober.

The rogues they brought along looked small and stayed silent, particularly the blonde across the table-the one Violet had procured earlier that evening. Her sky-eyes were shadowed by full lashes and wayward thoughts.

Rico folded his cards. "It'll be your dens next," he said. "A full assault is our only chance-or we lose everything."

"Why should I risk my wolves?" Edward peeled his ivory hair back, the locks falling silken over his suit-angled shoulders. "Our numbers are thinned enough."

"My girls don't fight," Violet added. "They steal and I expect no more of them."

Bastion croaked out a guttural laugh. "Shit, I can't get over your charity crap. We're rogues, bitch. Not nuns. You've got a pretty little peach there and you're not even usin' her to your full capabilities." He shoved his chips toward the center of the table and said, "All in."

The blonde wolf shifted and lowered her eyes. Violet brushed her hair from her soft face with the sharp tips of her diamond nails. "I consider myself a collector. I find the pretty ones-the valuable ones. And then I put them away in a cupboard so no one else may touch."

"But you touch, though," said Bastion. "You gotta, right?"

Violet splayed her cards out on the table. "I'm a happily married woman. My wife isn't keen on sharing."

"We aren't all dogs." Edward dropped his cards and slumped back defeated. "Some of us don't care for your animal sex practices."

"I didn't ask you here to talk about morals," Rico said. He shoved his empty scotch glass toward Bailey. "Two fingers."

His heart sparked in his chest.

He took the glass and escaped to the bar, listening as Violet's ragged voice and the smoke from her expensive blunt wreathed the room. "And what do you suggest we do, Rico? Between the four of us, we can't have more than a hundred wolves. It would be suicide."

"Not if they don't see us comin'," said Rico.

Bailey splashed two fingers of scotch into his glass and reached in his pocket for the Skullcap. One pinch will put him out of commission for a night, Gabe had said. But Rico would catch on to the taste before he had enough, Bailey knew it. One bullet in the barrel. He dumped the entire bag inside and stirred in a few cubes of ice. Rico didn't acknowledge the glass as he set it back on the table and slid into his seat.

"I'm always for a party," mused Bastion.

Gannon's keen eyes shifted to his reflective shades.

Edward dropped his chips into the pile. "I'll need more incentive than a badly-sorted petty revenge scheme."

The ice cubes rattled in Rico's drink. He brought the rim to his lips and Bailey's heart beat in his ears as the scotch sloshed back against his lips. He took a drink, gave the glass a brief examination. Then his single black eye turned to Bailey. "When have I ever taken scotch on the rocks?"

Bailey swallowed his nerves and brushed against the spring-blade knife in his slack pocket.

"What's your proposal?" Violet asked fiercely. Her eyes didn't shift to Bailey, but he could tell by the tense lines of her neck that they wanted to. "If we help you, what do we get?"

She was saving him. Always saving him. Bailey envied her little blonde wolf.

"You get your shit not burned to ashes," said Gannon, breaking his silence. "Thought that was obvious."

"Was his own damn wolf that did it right?" Bastion lifted his glasses and squinted his stoned gaze at Bailey. "Was it this one? I see why you keep him around, but if he's such a shit-"

"I think I quite like him," said Edward. "Ornery one, is he?"

"Stubborn but brilliant," said Violet. "As a coy should be."

Rico turned his a-typical gaze to Bailey again, stare heavy and lidded. "Guess you could say that." Those large hands snatched him beneath the chin, fingers clawing into his cheeks. "Stole ten grand from me once, huh? Won't admit it though." With the grip, he gave Bailey a shove-hard enough to nearly throw him from his seat. He steadied himself with the edge of the table, a slight whiplash wracking his neck.

"What'd you ever do with that money?" Rico asked, cubes rumbling as he tossed back the last of his scotch.

Bailey felt wonderfully smug at the sight. "Donated it to charity."

It must've been the candid way he spoke that bartered a laugh from Violet. She snorted and covered her mouth, then Bastion guffawed, nose turned to the crystal chandelier above. Edward chuckled soon after, small and pleasant. Then Rico joined the rumble-deep and rich, his hefty chest thundering with mirth.

Gannon looked to his friend strangely, and the laughter of the others sobered. It wasn't like Rico to take amusement at his own expense.

Bailey knew better, but somehow still, he wasn't expecting the fist that cracked against his jaw and sent him spilling onto the red carpet. He hit the floor on his side and the pain in his cracked rib echoed through his spine.

Then Rico was on top of him, hands on his throat. "Are you fucking with me?" When Bailey shook his head, he leaned in and spoke, grated against his hairline, "I'm gonna tear you up you little shit."

This time, Bailey was the one who laughed. He clawed at Rico's wrists, kicked his heels against the ground. "With what dick?" he wheezed. "You just downed an ounce of Skullcap."

He lifted Bailey by the throat and slammed him back to earth. Galaxies filled the pub rafters. "Fuck you!"

Bailey wanted to laugh again, but the sound was strangled to silence. One pinch will put him out of commission for a night, Gabe had said. Give him the whole thing and his dick'll be limp for a month.

Bailey hadn't expected him to drink the entire glass of scotch. Truly, he hadn't.

Rico hit him again. He felt his teeth split flesh, though he wasn't sure if it was Rico's or his own. His hands went tighter. Bailey scrambled beneath him, fighting to free his pinned arm from beneath Rico's knee. His sleeve tore loose and he wrapped his hand around the blade in his pocket. With a click, the blade sprung and he sent it striking up, plunging into the first palpable thing his trembling fist could find.

"Fuck!" Rico ripped away, tearing the blade from his gut through the flowered sparks in Bailey's vision. He pressed a palm to the wound and snarled at Gannon, "Take him to the basement!" The narrow eye that set on Bailey was dark and wet with pain. "I told you I'd take them all. I'm taking them. All."

Violet rose from her seat. "Rico, this is unnecessary!"

"Can't you wait?" asked Gannon. "This isn't our place to-"

"Shut the hell up and put him in a chair," Rico gnarled, rising to his feet, a bleeding, blistering mountain. "Someone get me some pliers."