PROLOGUE

"Oh, fuck."

Winter, standing behind me, stumbled back from the gruesome sight in the small shed we'd found on the property. Saint emptied his stomach on the grass. Bile rushed into my mouth, acrid and burning, but I swallowed it down. If I gave in like Saint, I wouldn't be able to stop.

"Jesus Christ."

Another time, I would have laughed at Saint, tough biker that he was, bent over puking his guts out. Winter had gone pale, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He had his hand over his nostrils to ward against the stench of death that had almost knocked us off our feet.

Over the years, we'd helped our fair share of men into the afterlife. We did what we had to in order to survive, and death was a part of that survival. All of us in the Bloodlets motorcycle club were used to it.

What we weren't used to was the sign of life packaged as a scrawny child smeared from head to toe in blood. Literally. Blood matted his blond hair, streaked his face, and covered his naked body.

At the sudden bright light, the child looked up. He stared at me with vacant green eyes that were too big in his angular face. Was he blind? He didn't react at all, just gawked for a full minute, then dropped his gaze to one of the two mangled bodies lying next to him on the ground.

He pulled a large knife out of the body with a slight sucking noise, holding the weapon in two hands as if it weighed a ton. His hands were slick with blood, as was the handle of the knife.

What the…

The boy shoved the knife into the body repeatedly in a rhythm that seemed practiced. My stomach revolted, and I turned my head to the side to spew out the acidic taste of beer—the only thing I'd had to drink today.

"What the fuck, Crowe?" Winter whispered. "That's not…normal."

A groan came from Saint, who leaned weakly against the side of the shed. "Yeah, that's… fuck." He gulped in air and closed his eyes.

Just what the fuck had we walked into? My father, the president of the Bloodlets, had given us a simple task—to round up Jaws, who'd swindled money from him. When he didn't answer the front door, we'd searched the property, and our noses had led us to the shed in the back.

From the bloodied cut similar to the one I wore, my father wouldn't be getting his money at all. I winced as the knife hit bone. The boy pulled with all his might and toppled over onto his back when the blade slipped free.

"We gotta get him out of there," I said in a low murmur to not startle him.

"He ain't normal, Crowe. Leave him be."

Nothing about the situation was normal, but that vacant look in the boy's eyes was too familiar. I could have been him had I not had Winter as a rock when I was younger.

There was no way I could leave him there. And the bodies… I could see it now. At best, they would put him in a psychiatric facility for the rest of his life.

"I'm going in."

"Crowe, listen, man, this is bigger than us," Saint said.

"Your mother's a damn psychiatrist, Saint. You should know better."

He dropped his gaze, as he should. Unlike the rest of us, Saint came from a decent home. While we were jaded, he should have been hopeful for the child. He was so tiny. I slowly walked into the shed, my boots crunching on the dirt floor. Flies circled the corpses, so the couple must have been dead for several hours at least.

Unable to take the stench, I shook out a bandanna and tied it around the lower half of my face. I averted my gaze from the bodies full of stab wounds and severed flesh and concentrated on the boy who'd climbed to his knees. He crawled over to what looked like the body of a plump woman and raised the knife.

Fuck no.

"Hey, there," I said with more calm than I felt.

He swung his head around. He blinked rapidly, his eyes darting from the corner of the room to me.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Hands held up so he could see them, I stepped over the corpse closer to me. My boot hit something. A severed finger. Oh god. "They were bad people, weren't they? You did nothing wrong."

For all I knew, Saint was right, and this child was Lucifer reborn, but I would bet my Harley against it. That dead look in the boy's eyes had a reason behind it. So did the graphic sight before me.

"My name's Crowe." I extended a hand toward him. "Let me take you away from here. Are you hungry?"

I was fully inside the shed now, and it was even worse than I'd thought. The scent of human waste on top of the dead bodies was unbearable. My eyes burned, and my throat clogged up.

I can't take much more of this. I need to get him out now.

"Let's get you cleaned up and into some clothes." I moved quickly toward him. He was tiny after all and couldn't ward me off. I reached a hand forward to grab his wrist, which held the knife. A bloodcurdling scream pierced the air. Startled, I jumped back as he slashed at the air with the knife. I stumbled, and fought like hell to regain my balance.

The boy dashed across the shed with legs as thin as twigs and dove into a box at the back of the shed. His entire frame fit inside, though he peered over the top.

"Saint's right, man," Winter said. "The cleaning crew is on their way. We can let them handle him."

Hell no. I hadn't come this far to give up now.

"I just need to disarm him, and then we can take him away."

"Take him away? Look at him, Crowe. He's like a wild animal."

"Then we tame him."

"I can't talk you out of this, can I?"

"No. Whatever you do, stay back. The more of us that are inside, the more terrified he gets. I'm gonna shut up now. My lungs are revolting from this stench."

With each step closer I took to the boy, he let out a scream that sounded every bit like the wild animal Winter made him out to be. But this was no wild animal. He was a boy. One who needed our help. For all the misery we'd caused in our lives, we could do one good deed.

The boy's head disappeared inside the box. Next to it was the bottom half of a plastic juice bottle filled with maggot-infested rotten food that had to be several days old.

That's it. I can't spend another second inside this filth.

I kicked the box gently. Just like I'd expected, he lunged out with the knife. I grabbed his thin wrist, twisted it, and he howled. The knife fell to the ground, and I picked it up.

"Calm down, kid. I'm not—"

A searing pain ran the length of my cheek.

"Crowe, he's got another knife!"

Winter's words were too fucking late. Blood dripped from the cut. Fuck. It wasn't so much the cut that I minded but the possible infection. Who knew where the fuck that knife had been before he slashed me with it?

"Give that to me." He tried to stab me with the knife again, but I knocked it out of his hand. I grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him out of the box. Shit. He weighed next to nothing. It shouldn't come as a surprise, given how scrawny he was with every rib protruding, but I still hadn't expected it. A strong gust of wind could blow him away. Had he really killed those two people? How?

He sank his teeth into my arm and wouldn't let go, no matter how much I shook him. Not until he bit out a chunk of my flesh. And swallowed it whole.

"Did he just—" Winter cried.

Blood poured from the wound in my arm, but I grabbed him by the hair. For someone who weighed as little as he did, he had an inhuman kind of strength as he kicked and fought me. His body, slick from blood, didn't make it easy to maintain a grip on him either, but eventually I got him out of the shed and into the light.

The boy went stiff, his eyes wild with fright as if he wasn't used to being in the open. His chest rose and fell hard as he sucked in huge gulps of air, his eyes darting in all directions. His pulse in his thin wrist beat frantically under my fingers.

He was no longer lashing out at me. Instead, his fingers were like relentless hooks fastened in my cut. The sounds coming from him were full of distress—pitiful grunts and moans—but nothing intelligible.

"Listen to me. We're not going to hurt you. You don't have to be afraid."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no word came out. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his body went limp in my arms.

"Shit. Is he dead?" Winter asked.

I laid the boy on the ground and pressed two fingers to his long neck. His pulse fluttered erratically beneath my touch. "He's alive, but we need to get him medical attention."

"You're bleeding too, man. You need to get those looked at, stat," Winter said.

Steeling my resolve, I clenched my teeth, took the shirt from Saint, and covered the boy's limbs with it. "Saint, ride my bike. I'll take him in the van." Thank fuck we'd anticipated Jaws running when we showed up, so we'd brought the van in case we had to bring him back with us kicking and fighting.

"Why do I have a feeling this kid's about to turn our lives upside down?" Saint threw me the keys. Cradling the kid in my arms, I ran with him to the van.

Hang in there

The screams had finally stopped. Thank fuck. I removed my hands from my ears, which still rang. The bandage on my jaw felt funny, but Saint's dad had cleaned the wounds and applied antibiotic treatment to both areas. I'd showered in water so hot my skin still felt raw, but nothing could cleanse my eyes from what I'd seen.

My phone vibrated, and I checked the screen. I cussed under my breath.

"Yes, Pop?" I answered.

"Where the fuck are you?" he bellowed.

"Didn't Winter explain—"

"That fucking junkie never knows if he's coming or going."

"Well, it's true. Jaws won't be paying you back in this life, so forget about it."

"Did his kid really kill him?"

"We don't know what happened. Did you know he had a kid?"

"I don't remember him mentioning any kid. Just a dog they kept around."

My stomach flipped. There'd been no signs of a dog anywhere. Jaws couldn't have been talking about his son, could he have? The cardboard box, the crude, makeshift plate, the place where we'd found him—they all added up.

"Jaws always referred to the dog as Mutt."

The boy was Mutt.

I clenched my fists and let the anger flow through me. If that bastard wasn't dead, I would kill him myself.

"Forget Jaws," Pop said. "I need you back at the clubhouse right away."

"I'll be there as soon as I get the chance."

"In case I wasn't clear, I meant to stop whatever the fuck you're doing and haul your ass back to the clubhouse."

He hung up before I could tell him I would do no such thing. Over the years, I'd done his bidding to avoid his wrath. There was a reason he and Winter's father ran the club. Two old-fashioned bikers cut from the same cloth.

Pop and I would have to argue it out when I reached the clubhouse. No way in hell was I going to abandon the child after coming this far.

"Crowe."

When Dr. Silvera entered the living room, I surged to my feet.

"How's he doing?"

The doctor frowned. "Where exactly did you find him?"

"Dr. Silvera, you know I can't answer that."

"To be frank, Crowe, it's a miracle that boy is alive. He's severely emaciated. We'll have to keep him for a few days to run all the tests we need to on him."

"Is there anything else you can say about his condition?"

"Based on the appearance of some of the tissue scars, this child has suffered abuse for a very long time. Possibly all his life. His back is covered in scars. Two of his fingers have been broken and not reset properly. Malnutrition has stunted his growth, making it difficult to determine his age, but we would say he's around twelve."

"Twelve? He looks more like an eight-year-old."

"Starvation will do that to you."

He glanced away, his brow furrowed as if he had a lot on his mind.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm not sure if I should say anything, but this child—it might have been better had he not survived."

I clenched my teeth. "You're a doctor. How can you say that?"

"It's precisely being a doctor that makes me say it. The road to recovery for this child will be a tough one. He's not verbal, and at this stage, we can't determine if it's selective mutism or more. And all the physical challenges aside, let's not even mention how this trauma will affect his psychiatric well-being, but that's my wife's domain."

"Can I see him?"

"Of course. He's sedated right now, and we've had to strap him down to the bed. Follow me, please."

As we walked down a long hall, he explained the different tests the child would have to go through.

"So it's best if we let him stay here for a few days."

"Whatever he needs."

He stopped at a door and pushed it open. A single bed with crisp white sheets occupied the center. Beside it stood a small metal nightstand on which lay an array of medical instruments, their stainless steel surfaces gleaming under the bright, clinical light overhead. On the other side was a portable IV stand, its slender pole holding bags of clear fluids.

We approached the bed, and I took in the child lying on his back. He was no longer covered in grime. He was a handsome boy. But twelve years old? Maybe Dr. Silvera needed new glasses.

The boy's eyes fluttered open and stared right into mine. I couldn't look away. His body looked young, but his eyes were that of an old man who had lived through it all.

It's okay, little fella. It doesn't matter how long it takes. One day you'll show them your bloom.