We didn't go back to the Ironfang compound. We couldn't. The compound was a clubhouse for a rogue MC, and after the Founding Moon, Cain Marrok was not a rogue anymore.
He was a claimant to a throne, and a throne needs a seat.
We rode through the night to a place I'd never heard of an old hunting lodge deep in the neutral woods between territories, stone and timber and defensible, that turned out to have belonged to the true Alpha line twenty years ago. Cain had bought it back, quietly, years before, under one of his rogue names. He'd been preparing a court while he ran a club. He'd been getting ready to be a king the whole time I'd known him as the cruel one.
By the time the sun came up, the messengers had started arriving.
That was the thing the old law had done at the Founding Moon:
