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“My father is Samuel Anderson.”
His jaw works. “So, every file I pulled, Tyrant was your father.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew who I was from the jump.”
“Yes.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds like it’s been scraped raw. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He drags both hands down his face. “I’ve buried friends because of him. Watched men bleed out because Tyrant wanted to make a fucking point.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” His fist slams the table hard enough to make the mugs jump. “You think I haven’t watched men I love bleed out because your father wanted to send a message?” He spins, eyes burning. “We both know what he did to other people. I want to know what he did to you.”
It knocks the air out of me. I stare. I can’t answer. He sees the fear, the flinch. His eyes drop to my wrists, bruises peeking out, fingerprint-shaped.
“Your father?” I say nothing. “Those bruises?” More nothing. “Poppy.”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
“It was nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t leave fingerprints.” I tug my sleeve lower. He notices. “You hide them.”
“I’ve had practice.”
His face twists, jaw clenched, eyes dark with a promise of violence—for someone else. He breathes out slow, like he’s counting down from murder. “How long?”
I laugh, brittle. “You really want that answer?”
“How fucking long, Poppy? Don’t make me ask again.”
“My whole life. Twenty plus shitty years.”
Walker says nothing. Not because he doesn’t care but because he’s two seconds from losing control.
“I’m sorry.” It’s quiet. No pity. Just truth.
“I didn’t ask you to be.”
“I know.”
“You don’t owe me...”
“I know, cosita.” His voice softens, just a hair. “But I’m still sorry.”
Something inside me knots up, ugly and raw. Nobody ever apologized for what Samuel did. They all bent the knee to him. Never for me.
Walker moves closer, not touching. Close enough I know he could. “Did he send you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The Saints have a problem.” I speak quickly and his eyes narrow. “The cartel’s squeezing. Tyrant thinks you’re here for territory.”
