Dirty Saint (Sons of Sinister Book 2)

Tabatha Vargo
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 DIRTY SAINT

Copyright © 2024 by Tabatha Vargo

All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people used are fictitious. Other names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s
imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DIRTY SAINT/ Tabatha Vargo

Cover Art by Stacey’s Graphics

Editing Services Provided by Editing4Indies

Formatting provided by Tabatha Vargo

 Contents

Dedication
Blurb
1. Victoria (Tori) Walsh

2. Tori
3. Koah Saint, a.k.a. Saint
4. Tori
5. Saint
6. Tori
7. Saint
8. Tori
9. Saint
10. Tori
11. Saint
12. Tori
13. Saint
14. Tori
15. Saint
16. Tori
17. Tori
18. Saint
19. Tori
20. Saint
21. Tori
22. Saint
23. Tori

24. Saint
25. Tori

26. Saint
27. Tori

28. Saint
29. Tori
30. Saint
31. Tori
32. Saint
33. Tori
34. Saint
35. Tori
36. Saint
37. Tori
38. Saint
39. Tori

40. Tori
41. Saint
42. Tori
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Shattered Skull
Joker's Wild
JOKER'S WILD EXCERPT
Ruthless Crow
Also By
About Author
Acknowledgements
If You Need Help
To those with dragons,
slay, bitch, slay.
 Koah Saint
Son of Sinister. Drug dealer. The number one stunner on The Strip and a BIG FAT LIAR. They bow to him like he’s the holy
grail, but I know he’s the devil.
Since he was dropped on our doorstep, I’ve wanted him out of my life. He’s a black stain on my memory and the one who put
my father away.
Because of him, I’m flipping burgers instead of lying on beaches. To say he ruined my life would be an understatement.
I still can’t stand the guy ten years later, but even I can admit he’s sexy beyond belief. I won’t fall for his lusty looks and boyish
charms. There’s nothing he can say or do to me to make me believe he’s anything but a lying playboy.
Or is there?
Working kept me sane and drove me crazy. It was the cure and the disease all wrapped into one shitty package. I told myself I
was getting ahead as long as I hustled, but the truth was, I was never moving forward, no matter how many hours I clocked in.
Something always kept me from reaching the goals I set for myself. I was in a rut and unsure of how to climb out.
I couldn’t think about that, though. If I did, I would drive myself insane. So I daydreamed a lot. In my mind, I wasn’t always
stuck on the fryers. When I closed my eyes, I was a kid again. I was lying in my plush bed in our old house, warm and safe. I
didn’t want for anything. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t wearing clothes with holes in them or shoes holding on for dear life.
No.
I was the girl I used to be—living an easy life without worry. I had my baby sister by my side and my father holding my hand,
reminding me he would always take care of us.
Grease popped up, blistering my exposed wrist and dragging me from my daydream. I blinked, the vision of my safe space
replaced with the paper orders hanging from the spindle before me and the pungent smell of fried onions and old grease.
I flipped the bacon and pressed it down with my spatula to squeeze more oil from the fatty meat. Again, the grease popped,
stinging my wrist.
“Shit,” I cursed, rubbing at the raw spot.
My gloves saved my hands from the oil some days, but I couldn’t do anything about my wrists and arms. The Huddle uniform
had short sleeves; even if they didn’t, I would rather deal with the grease than the heat.
“Order up!” I shouted, sliding the bacon onto the plate and pushing it aside for Sadie to pick up for her table.
Sadie took the plate from the counter and balanced it on her forearm. She was my opposite, chubby and confident, with a
radiant smile. She kept her curly blond hair in a bun on top of her head, but cute tendrils would escape and frame her round
face by the end of her shift. Her eyes were blue, rimmed in naturally thick lashes, and even though we sweated our asses off,
her makeup was flawless. Honestly, I was jealous of her in some ways. She didn’t have to worry about a little sister. She had
time and money for fashionable clothes and makeup.
Meanwhile, I looked like a homeless person. I was pale, and my face was coated in grease. My dark hair was knotted on my
head, but it wasn’t as flattering as Sadie’s cute bun. My work clothes were the nicest I owned, but I was positive my underwear
had holes.
I was going on my tenth hour working. I was exhausted—my back throbbed, and my feet were numb—but when they offered
overtime, I took it, no questions asked. Thankfully, one of our new cooks was lazy and rarely came to work. I was willing to
take the hours if she didn't need them.
When the three o’clock crowd dispersed, the place slowed until the morning crowd arrived. Until then, I could sit and even
nibble on a few things. The crew chatted and joked with each other, but I kept to myself most nights. I was too tired to make
friends. Instead, I parked my ass on a cracked leather stool behind the counter and devoured a piece of two-hour-old bacon.
My eyes scanned the space, an older diner with timeworn tables and chairs and dated decor. The place was family-owned,
and there were black-and-white photos of the original owners and their children on the wall by the entrance. The ceiling was
tobacco-stained even though smoking was no longer allowed inside, much to the old patrons’ dismay, and the walls begged for
a fresh coat of paint. The walls in the booth area even had worn squares where old photo frames used to hang. The Huddle was
a shit show with even worse pay, but a job meant a paycheck—no matter how embarrassing the amount was.
Once my double was over, I left smelling like burnt grease with fresh ketchup stains on my uniform. My calf muscles ached,
and I could hardly keep my eyes open while walking to the bus stop. I sighed, relieved to see the bench empty when I reached
it. I sat and held my feet out. My shoes were embarrassing. The bottoms were coming loose; sometimes, they slapped together
when I walked. I needed a new pair, but the money wasn’t there. I barely made ends meet. I considered getting a second job,
but there was no time.
I looked up at the morning sky and sucked in a deep breath of fresh air. Birds flew over me, welcoming the sun as it rose
above the clouds. Everyone was waking, and all I could think about was getting to my apartment and getting at least an hour of
sleep before Gracie was off to school.
Caring for my younger sister wasn’t easy, but I knew it was what my parents would have wanted. Not that I minded doing it. I
loved her, and I wanted her to have a better life. She begged me to let her work since she was old enough, but I refused to
allow it. She was a junior in high school and had a bright future. I wanted her to focus on the books and nothing else. I would
deal with the rest, no matter how exhausted I was.
Thinking of Gracie had gotten me through many things in my life. First was the loss of our father, which left a gaping hole in
my heart. Second was being separated from my little sister and tossed in foster homes. It had never occurred to me that Gracie
and I didn’t have extended family until I was forced to live in the homes of strangers.
Vile things happened to me in those places, and I was left with half of myself when it was all said and done. I spent my nights
praying that Gracie had ended up in better circumstances—that she had been placed with a lovely family with good values. I
prayed those families had enough food to feed her and kept their hands to themselves. After going to bed hungry some nights
and sleeping with one eye open to guard myself, I knew what kind of creeps fostered children.
I made it through with one goal: age out and get Gracie out of the system. When I wanted to give up, I knew I couldn’t. I was
all she had; I would work until my fingers bled to have her returned to me. And that was what I did. I hustled from the day I
was released onto the streets with only a backpack stuffed with hand-me-down clothes until the very moment that I sat on a
bench waiting for the bus—exhausted and mentally drained.
The bus ran late, the sun high, and the morning crisp with dew dancing on the tips of the grass. Even though I was in a
dangerous area where people were known to walk up to you and pluck things out of your hands, I began to doze on the bench. I
didn’t sleep for long before the bus’s air brakes woke me. The smell of gasoline and exhaust reached my nose, and I coughed
as I stood on tired legs and walked to the bus door once it came to a complete stop. I slept through the ride, thankful that the bus
driver called out to me when we reached the stop closest to my apartment.
When I finally entered my apartment, Gracie sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of off-brand Cinnamon Toast Crunch while
looking through her calculus book. I grinned, slid my shoes from my aching feet, and tossed my bag onto the couch. I was
relieved to be home, even if I would only be there long enough to sleep before it was time to return to work.
“If you’d let me work, we could afford cells, and I wouldn’t have spent the past hour of my life worried you were dead on
the side of the road somewhere,” she said without looking up from her book.
 A dribble of milk clung to her chin as she licked her finger and turned the page. So grown, yet still a little girl in so many
ways.
“As you can see, I’m fine.” I spread my arms at my sides so she could see all of me. “Plus, think of all the cell phones you’ll
be able to buy once you’re done with college and making bank.”
I fell onto our dated plaid couch, courtesy of the Goodwill close to work, and sighed. Gracie shook her head, making her
dark curls bounce. I was envious of the beautiful rings that framed her face. I wasn’t that lucky. My long dark hair hung limp
and dull down my back. Also, I was tall and slim, having lost so much weight over the years.
Meanwhile, she was short and curvy with boobs women paid good money for. I was okay with it, though. I wanted Gracie to
have it all.
“You’re obsessed with money,” she accused.
It wasn’t that I was obsessed with money. I wanted my life back. I was older when we lost everything, our father included,
which meant I remembered the better times—the comfort of having money and never wanting anything. Plush beds and clean
spaces. I needed that lifestyle back. I wanted my sister to feel at ease with her life. She deserved it.
Gracie didn’t remember much of anything from our past. She was only seven when everything fell under, and our father was
shipped to prison for a murder he didn’t commit. I was thirteen. The memories were there, and they weren’t going anywhere
anytime soon. Our life was a shithole, and only one person was to blame.
His name twirled through my brain, and I shut it out, slamming the doors to my mind closed before his young face could
flicker through my memory like a dreaded scary movie. He had taken everything away from me. He wasn’t worthy of my
thoughts.
The school bus picked Gracie up twenty minutes after I got home, and I barely made it to the shower to wash away my double
shift before my eyes began to close. I crashed on the bed, adjusting myself so the mattress springs didn’t poke me, and slept
without dreams until the sounds of Gracie returning from school and raiding the kitchen cabinets for a snack woke me.
My head spun when I sat up and threw my sore legs over the side of the bed. Scratching at the back of my neck, I yawned
loudly before I stood, stretched, and exited my bedroom.
“Whoa, you look like death,” Gracie observed when I entered the kitchen.
She tossed a chip into her mouth and crunched it. She had pulled her curls into a cute messy bun throughout the school day.
Her cheeks were flushed from her walk from the bus stop, and her healthy skin glowed with fresh, unbroken youth. She was
beautiful.
“Thanks. I love you, too.” My voice was rough with sleep, and I had fallen asleep with wet hair, which was now matted and
knotted in twisted strands.
My thrifted pajama bottoms hung from my thin hips, and the tank I wore, also thrifted, had an old coffee stain on my right
boob. Gracie was right. I wasn’t winning any beauty contests anytime soon.
The coffee maker beeped when I turned it on, and soon, the smell of a fresh brew filled our tiny kitchen. My arm muscles
burned when I reached up and pulled my favorite coffee mug from the cabinet. It was white with the words, I don’t do
mornings, down the center in black font. The handle was chipped, and I had to hold it a certain way, but something about its
weight and shape made it my favorite.
I filled it, leaving my coffee black before I blew across the top and took a rejuvenating sip.
“Let me guess … you’re working tonight?” Gracie guessed with a sarcastic eye roll.
“Yep.”
“What are your hours?” She crunched on a second potato chip.
 They were salt and vinegar, and the smell was revolting. How my sister ate those things and enjoyed them was beyond me.
“Same as last night.”
Every night was the same. Every day. Every hour. Work. Work. Work. I was exhausted even thinking about it, but I knew it
would be worth it when she walked across the stage and received her diploma. She had terrific grades. Her college would be
paid for. Gracie would have a better life.
“You need a night off.” She moved to the couch with her bag of chips and sat down, folding her shapely legs beneath her.
A night off.
I wouldn’t even know what to do with a night off.
“No,” I disagreed. “What I need is to pay the rent. Mr. Rush is already breathing down my neck.”
So was the electric company and everything else that was due or late.
She groaned, the same argument she always had building. I didn’t have the brainpower to put up a good fight.
“If you would let me work, then maybe I could—”
I held my hand up, stopping her before she could even start. “We aren’t discussing this anymore, Gracie. Do you have a lot of
homework?” I asked, changing the subject.
She shook her head, annoyed with me, making the loose curls that had escaped her messy bun bounce. “No. I did it on the bus
on the way home.”
“Good. Do you think maybe you could catch up on laundry while I’m at work tonight? I only have one more clean uniform.”
If she wanted to work, she could do the small things to help me be ready to bring in a paycheck. I didn’t have time for
laundry, and we had dishes in the sink most days. We tried to keep a tidy space, but things got out of hand sometimes.
“I’ll get it done,” she snapped, shoving another chip in her mouth before she stood, slid past me, and disappeared into her
room.
She slammed her bedroom door, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a stress headache coming.
Teenagers.
I hadn’t gotten the luxury of being an actual teenager since I had spent the years after my father was convicted being tossed
from one foster home to another. Instead of going out and living any form of life, I sat up all night, worrying about my sister and
guarding my body. You would think they would keep siblings together in those situations, but that wasn’t the case.
Once I was old enough, I worked my ass off, got my shitty apartment, and saved my sister from foster care. Keeping a roof
over her head and clothes on her back wasn’t cheap, but it was worth it. So no, there was never any time for teenage angst and
hormonal tantrums, and being twenty-three meant that time had long passed for me.
I sat down with my cup of coffee, hoping to wake myself for the night shift ahead of me, but Gracie came crashing back into
the living room.
“I’ve made a decision,” she stated, her hand on her hip.
I sighed. I thought we were finished, but apparently not. “And what decision is that?”
“You’re only twenty-three, Tori, but you act like an old lady.”
I chuckled around the rim of my cup, sipping the potent brew and praying for the energy I needed to get through this.
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious. If you don’t start living your life and going out to enjoy yourself on occasion, I’m going to work. There’s
nothing you can do to stop me from working.”
Setting my coffee mug down, I ran my palms down my face and breathed deep through my nose.
 “Gracie, we’ve already had this discussion. Can we please not right now?” I massaged my temples, my headache growing
stronger.
“No, Tori. I’m done watching you work yourself to death. You never do anything for yourself. You eat, sleep, and work. It’s
no way to live.”
I agreed, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I never wanted her to feel bad about our lives. I wanted her focused and happy,
but I knew Gracie. She wasn’t going to let this go. My sister was a lot like me—hardheaded as hell. I had to give a little if I
wanted her to drop it.
“Fine,” I agreed. I exhaled, tapping my finger against the throbbing in my temple. “Maybe I’ll go to a movie with Sadie some
weekend.”
She crossed her arms with narrowed eyes. Her thick lips pinched, and her nostrils flared with her annoyed exhale. “A
movie? Seriously?”
“What? There’s nothing wrong with going to a movie.”
Wasn’t that what people did? Movies. Dinner. Hanging out. That was the extent of having a life as far as I was concerned. It
would be enough for me.
If I wanted Gracie to keep her head in the game and focus on her books, I would need to go out occasionally. I didn’t want to
do it, but I would if it meant my sister would quit worrying about me. Maybe I would change clothes and tell her I was out
while working. Although, I wasn’t sure that would work since I usually came in smelling like the fryers.
Either way, Gracie needed to think about college and her future, and no way would I drag her down or hold her back. So be it
if I had to fib a little to make that happen.
“Fine,” I agreed. I waved my hand in her direction. “You win.”
Her eyes grew wide, and she grinned. “I do?”
I nodded. “Yeah. If it means you’ll stop worrying about my social life and keep your head in those books, I’ll do it.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “I’m serious, Tori. Go out. Have a life. You deserve it.”
Maybe I did.
Maybe I didn’t.
Either way, I would do it for Gracie or lie about it.
I finished my coffee and got dressed for work. I left a couple of hours later, knowing Gracie must go to the apartment
laundromat alone. It was a small brick building on the side of the two large apartment buildings. The place was falling apart.
Out of the eight sets of washers and dryers, only two worked. There were cockroaches and the occasional squatter, but
thankfully, nothing dangerous had ever happened there. More than likely, she would read while she did a quick load, but still,
any time she had to leave our apartment alone, it worried me.
The bus was running late again, and I stepped into The Huddle just as my shift began, so I didn’t have time to collect myself
before I was on the fryers. The place was packed with the Friday afternoon crowd, a precursor to the rowdy Friday night
drunks who slurred their orders and fell asleep with their heads on the table.
I wasn’t looking forward to working, but drunkards meant better tips at the bar area behind the grill. The bar would be
packed on busy nights, and I spent half of my night on the grill and half of my night tossing orders onto the bar, which meant I
got tipped like a server. The drunk diners didn’t even bother to count their cash when they pulled it out of their pockets in
crumpled wads. A good Friday night could cover half of a bill sometimes.
“Order up,” I called out and tapped the bell, signaling to Sadie that her order for table twelve was ready.
 She leaned against the counter between the fryers and the space where the cash register sat and smiled at me over the plate of
fries I had just sat down for her.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Sadie and I got along well but weren't close because I didn’t hang out like the rest of The Huddle workers. Then again, I
wasn’t close to anyone but my sister.
“Do you have any plans tonight after your shift?” She lifted a brow, knowing I usually did all I could to pick up a second shift
instead of only working one.
I shrugged, tossing another frozen burger patty onto the grill. “Who knows? I hope Lazy Ass will call out again, and I can
snag her shift.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Milly let Lazy Ass go this morning after your shift ended.”
Shit.
I would never get another double if she hired someone who wanted to work.
“Damn. That sucks,” I said, pretending I cared.
Sadie waved her hand in the air and chuckled. “Oh please, like you give a shit. You’re probably mad you’re losing those
doubles.”
My shoulders stiffened at how well she had figured me out over the last year we worked together.
“So who’s the new worker bee?” I asked, changing the subject.
She grabbed the plate of food before snatching a stack of napkins for her table. “I don’t know. Some young chick. I say she’ll
last a week.”
Then she walked away, leaving me feeling relieved.
A week without doubles would hurt, but hopefully, the new girl wouldn’t last if Sadie was right.

THE HOURS PASSED, and the sun went down, bringing forth the Friday night drunks. They filled the bar area, some sitting
alone and eating their greasy late-night meal, and my pockets filled with tips. I resisted the urge to pull out the money and count
it. By the time the end of my shift was approaching, I was tired and ready for a shower.
“Hey,” Sadie appeared behind me and pulled at a lock of my hair. “What are you getting into after your shift?” she asked
again.
“Nothing. I’m exhausted, and it’s after midnight. I’m going home to shower and sleep.”
“Lame,” she sang as she reached into a lower cabinet to replenish the napkins on the counter.
I laughed. “It’s not lame to catch up on sleep.”
“It is when you’re young. Sixty-year-olds catch up on sleep. You’re no sixty-year-old.”
“Tell my body that.”
“Whatever. You have a hot bod.”
She turned and continued to work, but I stiffened.
Most people would love compliments on their bodies. Not me. I had spent too much of my life shielding my body against
boys and men who didn’t know how to keep their hands to themselves.
The opposite sex wasn’t on my radar. I stayed away from anything with a penis because, as far as I was concerned, men were
all the same. They were walking skin sacks full of testosterone with brains programmed to find sexual relief no matter who it
hurt.
I was so broken by men that even a female commenting on my body sent me into a spiral of panic.
“Seriously, Tori,” she continued without noticing my discomfort. “Go out with us tonight.”
I laughed, and the sound shook with nerves. “I appreciate you asking, but I’m not feeling it tonight.”
She continued to push, and I wondered if Gracie had somehow reached out to her. “I’m serious. You never hang with us. It’ll
do you some good.”
My mind returned to Gracie’s earlier words as I untied my apron and tossed it over my shoulder. She wanted me to go out
somewhere other than a movie. She made me promise to get out and enjoy life. I wouldn’t enjoy myself. I didn’t want to go
anywhere but home, but at least I could give her what she wanted. I was tired but not nearly as tired as after a double. If I was
going to do this without lying about it, at least let it be at a time when work wasn’t possible.
Before I could change my mind, I agreed.
“Yeah, okay. Count me in.”
Sadie paused and turned toward me. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell open. “Seriously?”
I nodded. “Seriously.”
I was already regretting it. And as Sadie drove me to my place, I racked my brain, trying to find an excuse to back out. When
we pulled up to my apartment building, I hadn’t come up with anything yet.
“I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up. Be ready. We’re going to have so much fun!”
Sadie beamed at me from across the front seat of her car, and I grinned, trying to seem excited as I opened the car door and
got out. I stood on the sidewalk and watched her drive away, wishing I hadn’t agreed. My calves burned from days on my feet,
my hair was gross, and I didn’t have anything decent to wear.
An hour.
That would be enough time to shower and make myself presentable.
“You’re home early,” Gracie commented without looking away from the TV.
She was sitting on the couch and folding clothes.
“Milly hired a new girl who wants the work, which means no doubles for a bit.” I kicked off my shoes and went into the
kitchen for water.
“Good.” I turned to see her set a folded towel on top of the stack of towels on the floor by her feet.
I didn’t remind her that doubles meant a fatter paycheck. Instead, I guzzled my water and set the glass in the sink when I was
done.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I braced for impact. “I’m going out tonight.”
The TV turned off, and the room went silent.
“For real?” Gracie asked.
“Yeah. Sadie invited me out for a girl’s night.”
I cringed at Gracie’s high-pitched squeal of joy, and seconds later, I was engulfed in a firm hug.
“I’m so thrilled for you. I’ll do your makeup. Your eyes are begging for winged liner.”
I held my hands up, stopping her before she could go too far. “No makeup, but if you have a shirt I could borrow, that would
be great.”
The night was about appeasing my sister. I wasn’t about trying to call attention to myself. The last thing I wanted was
attention from a guy. It wouldn’t end in flirting and hot sex. No. It would end with me walking home full of panic-driven energy.
 True to her word, Sadie’s horn filled my apartment almost precisely an hour later. I looked out the living room window and
into the parking lot to see her compact green car idling.
“Okay, so what do you do if something happens?” I asked, quizzing Gracie as if she were a child.
She hated that, but I rarely left her alone at the apartment unless it was for work.
“I go over to Mrs. Eva’s apartment and ask to use her phone to call the cops.”
“And if someone breaks in?”
She sighed in annoyance. “I don’t know, Tori. I pick up something heavy and knock the fucker out?”
“Language, Gracie!”
At that, she chuckled and pushed me toward the door. “I hate to point this out again, but if you let me get a job, I could have a
cell.”
“Forget about it. I’m doing this so you’ll keep your head in those books,” I said, motioning with my chin toward the stack of
books on the kitchen table.
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Get out.” She laughed.
Once on the other side of the door, I paused to take in my little sister. She was smiling happily. I had pleased her, fueling my
night and keeping me going.
Anything.
I would do anything for her.
“Good night, brat. Don’t wait up.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Like I have to worry about you staying out until morning.”
She giggled before she closed the door in my face. I listened as she turned the three deadbolts I added to the door. Knowing
she was safely locked behind our apartment door on the complex's second floor, I turned and left.
A night with Sadie and the girls meant standing along a deserted gravel road called The Strip and watching lunatics race
motorcycles. It was an abandoned strip of highway in the center of Atlanta, tucked away while still in the city's busiest and
most dangerous part. The news consistently reported about the area's crimes when I managed to watch a broadcast.
The asphalt was cracked, with spray-painted murals lining it and overgrown grass and dirt along the sides. What looked to
be a decrepit gas station sat at one end of The Strip, most of its bricks lying on the ground around the foundation, while the
other side merged into a broken parking lot littered with trash. But the fresh, bright white line that marked the finish line was
the most noticeable thing about the place.
When we pulled up in Sadie’s green four-door Hyundai, the view of bikes, cars, and multicolored neons was like a scene
from Fast & Furious. The air was fueled with the smell of drugs and gasoline, and you couldn’t hear yourself think over the
bass-thumping speakers, the cheering crowds, and the roar of motorcycle engines. The place buzzed with electricity and
energy, and while most people would enjoy that feeling, it left me with a weight of anxiety crushing my chest.
I followed Sadie, unsure of what to do with myself, and when she handed me a beer, I reluctantly took it and sipped it while I
stood in the back and disappeared into the crowd. No one other than Sadie noticed me or spoke to me, which was fine with me
and better for my severe social anxiety. It was embarrassing, but I was clueless about talking to others. I worked with people,
but it was limited activity working on the grills.
We had only been at The Strip for a few minutes, and already I was uncomfortable in my skin and feeling out of place. The
Atlanta night was sticky, and the humidity clung to my skin, dampening my clothes. I ran my fingers through my locks, feeling
the frizz forming on the ends. It wouldn’t be long before the mop of hair on my head became poofy and gross. The quicker I
could get through the night and back to my place, the better.
Sadie bumped her shoulder against mine and smiled at me.
“Having fun?”
I grinned, knowing it wasn’t going to reach my eyes. “Tons.”
She laughed, her mouth open wide enough that I could see her perfectly lined teeth. “Loosen up, Tori. Have a few drinks and
enjoy yourself. You’d be surprised how much fun this place can be.” She lifted her bottle and took a long pull from her drink.
“Besides, Saint’s up next. He’s my favorite racer.”
The night seemed to pause around me at her words.
Saint.
My body locked up, my muscles going stiff. I had once known a guy with the last name Saint, and just hearing the name sent a
blazing arrow straight to my chest. An explosion of raw hatred filled my lungs, drowning me with its liquid heat. My cheeks
flushed with fury at hearing the name, but I extinguished the flames, knowing she wasn’t referring to the same guy. That was
impossible.
The Saint I knew was an evil son of a bitch. He was a vile human who ruined lives and lied with his fingers brushing the
Holy Bible. I had watched him lie with his hand on the Bible. I hadn’t seen him in ten years, but I hoped wherever he was, he
was feeling God’s wrath for his deception and part in ruining my life. I prayed he rotted somewhere, living a much worse life
than mine.
“Saint,” I repeated the name, leaving a mighty trail of disgust across my tongue.
Sadie turned my way as if I had asked her a question.
“Yeah, girl. He’s all muscles and hot tattoos,” she continued, shaking her head and sucking her teeth as if she had already
tasted him. “He’s a Hawaiian sex machine who makes the girls crazy.”
My heart slammed to a halt, and I sucked in a humid breath.
Hawaiian?
No.
This wasn’t happening to me.
It couldn’t be him.
There was no way I was that unlucky.
But I knew when my eyes settled on the tall guy waiting at the start line that it was him. It was the way he moved and the set
of his shoulders. It had been years since I had last seen him, and even though he had grown, I could still see the thirteen-year-
old boy I had once befriended.
I closed my eyes, and time seemed to stop. I was no longer with Sadie at the place she called The Strip. I was lost in the hell
he had sentenced me to.
Think of Gracie.
Those were the words that ran through my mind as I went away from my current situation. I could get through anything if
I thought of my little sister.
My dad had only been in prison for four months, and already I was in foster home number three. It wasn’t me. It was the
families they stuck me with. The first had been shut down and jailed for drug use—the second for filthy conditions. I had
never lived so terribly in all my life.
The third place was better. I was happy to see the new home was clean when I arrived. I was relieved that it was on the
nice side of town, and my new foster parents seemed friendly and drug-free. I was glad to see other kids my age already
living there.
I imagined a better life for myself—where I could be under the same roof with my sister again and achieve some
normalcy. Those imaginations were stolen from me the second my foster brother, Donald, covered my mouth with his palm
and held me down. The moment he entered my young body—sending a piercing pain through my insides and stealing my
young soul.
I tried to scream, but only muffled cries pressed against his smoke-stained palm. He was only two years older than me.
When I arrived, he was a welcoming kid—smiling and showing me around the place. Yet he was someone else entirely as he
glared down at me and lodged my small frame into the plush mattress.
I fought until my muscles ached, and then I left myself. I closed my eyes and thought of Gracie, finding relief in her
angelic features until another face entered my mind. The person I blamed for my entire predicament. The person who
ruined my life even though I had been kind to him. The liar. The son of the devil himself.
 Koah Saint.
The irony of his last name was a slap in the face.
A gunshot echoed through the night, pulling me from my hideous memory and returning me to the moment I had hoped would
never come. The pair of bikes roared to life and screamed over the start line. I held my breath as his yellow bike flew down
The Strip. Pink neons glowed from beneath him, lighting the asphalt and the finish line as he crossed it way ahead of the
motorcycle he raced.
The crowd went wild, cheering and screaming, boosting the energy surrounding him. I could hardly believe we had somehow
managed to be in the same place simultaneously, but it was him. He showed off like the arrogant piece of shit I imagined he
would grow up to be and making me shiver with hate and annoyance.
He pumped a glove-covered fist into the air when he crossed the finish line before turning and doing a wheelie back down
The Strip. He balanced on his back tire like it was easy, and when he reached the end, he laid his front wheel down on the
asphalt, raised his bike's rear, and spun. It was impressive, and the crowd cheered for him, making my stomach ripe with rage.
He ripped his helmet from his head before pulling his black and white cross-covered handkerchief down, exposing a straight
nose, perfect white teeth, and thick lips. He smiled at everyone around him and bumped fists with a few guys approaching him.
Koah Saint.
He was the bane of my existence and the person who ruined my life. I despised him beyond the word's definition, and the fire
simmering in my stomach at just the sight of him proved that.
As the group I was with moved to gather around him, I stood in place. I couldn’t go near him. It was as if we were two
magnets turned backward, and a force kept me from approaching him. Instead, I stayed put, glared at him, and allowed the
memories to rush over me like a debris-filled wave.
As if feeling my burning stare against his bronze skin, he turned my way, and his eyes connected with mine. His olive
complexion paled before his cheeks filled with red heat, and he narrowed his eyes. He scowled back at me, and I felt his rage
like I had walked from an air-conditioned room and out into the southern heat of the summer.
He loathed me, too.
Good.
I wanted the feeling to be mutual.
I needed the feeling to be mutual.
He had grown a lot in the past ten years. He was still handsome, even though I would never admit that to another human
being, but he was taller and darker. I had always known Koah was a menace, but he looked dangerous these days. It was
strangely appealing, which made my stomach turn. It was evident by the women's reactions surrounding him that they felt the
same way, but I knew what slithered beneath his good looks and electric charm.
A snake. A venomous predator capable of murder and destruction.
He looked away from me when a pretty blonde flung herself into his heavily tattooed arms. His life was nothing like mine.
He was admired and respected—put up on some motorcycle king pedestal and hailed as a god, which sent a spiral of fury
down my spine that paralyzed me.
Bikes. Women. Good looks. He seemed to have it all.
Meanwhile, I barely made ends meet and worked myself to death. I was skinny from lack of food and overworking myself
and hadn’t had a decent haircut in years. I had no automobile. I had no boyfriend, though I never considered having one, and I
looked like death.
It wasn’t fair.
 How could someone as despicable as Koah Saint have such good vibes in his life? He had lied about my father. He was why
my dad had rotted in prison before dying a slow, painful, cancer-ridden death. He was the reason my sister barely remembered
the man who had loved us so completely he would have given us the world.
Fate was a heartless whore who had ways of spinning things in the wrong direction. I should have been the one happy with
friends and a life. I should have been smiling across The Strip at him while his back pounded in pain and his shoes fell apart.
Everything about the moment was backward. I wanted to run and never see Koah’s face again, but I had nowhere to go. I had
decided to join Sadie for a night out, and no matter how badly I wanted to flee, I couldn’t force her to leave, and it was too far
of a walk to my apartment.
I backed away, fading into the crowd around me until the backs of strangers blocked my view of Koah. The moment froze as
the bikes buzzed around me, and people continued living their lives as if an epic quake hadn’t rocked mine.

AN HOUR PASSED, I remained in my spot, silently praying Sadie would be ready to go soon. We had gotten there late since
we had worked an entire shift, and I was grateful the night seemed to be coming to an end. Cars had started to depart in
different directions, along with the bikes that had raced that night. The guys still there exchanged money and drugs with women
pressed against their sides, gazing up at them as if they were royalty.
It was sickening.
I started to walk through the crowd to Sadie’s car, ready to sit inside and wait for her, when someone said my name, stopping
me.
“Victoria Walsh.” The deep voice resonated, sending a spike of hate zipping up my spine.
I paused as a wash of nausea spun through my gut, that day’s food sloshing around in bile and stomach juice and making me
gag. My brain buzzed with ways to accept the challenge of facing him again, but nothing came to mind. Maybe if I kept moving,
he would go away. But even as the thought entered my mind, I knew running like a coward would never sit well with me.
I turned to find Koah standing before me, his large tattooed arms crossed over his naked chest and a smug grin on his face. A
braided hemp necklace with a dangling charm circled his thick neck, and I considered strangling him with it.
He was tall with tanned skin and Polynesian-style tats that seemed alive when he flexed or moved. His deep, soulful eyes
were the murky green color of the Atlantic Ocean. His jeans hung low on his hips, and a trail of light hair stretched from his
navel and disappeared into his jeans. Realizing my eyes were dipping into dangerous territory, I looked up quickly to find him
grinning knowingly back at me with perfectly white teeth and juicy lips. I wasn’t checking him out. I was noticing the changes
in him.
He was doing well for himself with diamond earrings, expensive shoes, a flashy motorcycle, and adoring women. It was
bullshit. Koah Saint was living the life, and I was barely alive.
“What are you doing slumming around these parts?” he asked, his voice deep and melodic.
I clenched my jaws so tightly that my teeth felt like they would crack. “I’m not slumming.”
He chuckled, unfazed by seeing me. “Right. Be careful, Little Princess. This isn’t your kind of crowd.”
How would he know anything about my life or the people I chose to be around?
I imploded.
“Fuck you.”
 I didn’t curse often, but the moment required a hard f-bomb. Little Princess had been a pet name my father had given me.
Hearing it come from his lips made the name burn in my stomach.
He covered his cheek with his palm and pulled back as if I had offended him. I knew I hadn’t. He didn’t have a heart, much
less the ability to be offended. “Wow. Little Miss Walsh bites back now. Good for you, Princess. You’ll need that here.”
“Yeah. My bite’s worse than my bark these days. Thanks to you.”
His stiff smile was unfriendly. “In that case, you’re welcome?”
How dare he?
“Don’t,” I snapped.
“Don’t what?” He lifted a brow as if he were genuinely interested.
“Don’t pretend you did me a favor when we both know you didn’t.”
He nodded, understanding my meaning. “The world’s a cruel place, Tori. Giving you thicker skin is a favor. You’ll need it if
you plan on hanging around these parts.”
What the hell was he even talking about?
“These parts?”
“Yeah. The tougher side of town.” He spread his arms wide as if to say we were in his territory. “It’s nothing like where
you’re from. You’ll never be able to hack it.”
He had jokes. That was cute.
“For your information, this is my side of town, and I’ve been hacking it just fine.”
His eyes widened briefly as if I had shocked him, but the expression cleared as quickly as it appeared. “Liar.”
His single word was like a dagger to the side of my head. My thoughts exploded, unclear and angry. He dared to call me a
liar. Hearing the pot calling the kettle black would have been funny if I hadn’t been so enraged.
“No, Koah, the only liar here is you. You know it, and I know it, too.”
He rushed me, getting so close that his hard chest brushed the tip of my nose. The scent of his flesh disgusted me. He smelled
like the night air with a hint of something sweet and spicy, and my stomach rebelled against the aroma. But while I was
infuriated, a tiny touch of anxiety slipped in. I rarely got close to men. While I had grown stronger over the years, a frightened
fourteen-year-old girl hid inside me. Still, I stood my ground. I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me.
Never again.
“My name is Saint,” he seethed. “Koah died ten years ago, Victoria.” He gritted out each syllable of my full government
name as if it were the most disgusting word to touch his tongue.
I shook my head, my anger blazing on my cheeks. “Funny.” I snorted. “Victoria died ten years ago, too. You killed her.”
He stabbed himself in the chest with his thumb, drawing my attention to the glaze of sweat on his tattoo-covered skin. “I did
nothing wrong!” he bellowed.
I pressed my palms into his chest, and my fingers shook. Touching him wasn’t something I had planned, but I needed him
away from me. The memories started to rush me, and while the older and wiser me was mad and ready to fight, the scared
fourteen-year-old me wanted to flee.
I pushed until he moved back, and I could breathe freely. “You did. You lied. You ruined my life. Thanks to you, I’m not the
sweet girl I used to be. Now, I’m a bitter bitch with fury in my heart.”
His large palm covered my hand, holding it to his hard chest and sending another wave of fear crashing over me. His nostrils
flared as he breathed down at me. The heat from his body made my trembling fingertips tingle. I was cold all over even though
it was warm outside.
 “You know what they say about bitter bitches?” His smooth voice was sprinkled with hints of sarcasm and anger.
I pulled back, wishing I was strong enough to free my hand from his grasp. My knees began to knock, and I worried I would
explode if I didn’t get away. The mix of emotions was a volatile cocktail—unstable and capable.
“What?”
He licked his thick lips before a sarcastic smile formed, making his dimples appear.
“They taste sour. Next time you finger yourself, taste and see.”
I gasped, ripping my hand from his and lifting it to slap him. He was faster than me and instead caught my hand in the air.
“Be careful who you raise your hand to, Tori. Little girls like you are bound to get knocked on their asses.”
“I’d like to see you try,” I spat, dying for a fight with him.
Whatever anxiety I felt seconds earlier had been burned away by the raw fury he pulled forward with his words. I had spent
most of the past ten years of my life imagining how good it would feel to knock Koah on his ass. I would gladly give him what
he wanted if he wanted a piece of me.
He chuckled, letting go of my hand and daring me with his eyes to try to hit him again.
“I don’t hit girls,” he said.
“That’s funny. You have no problem destroying a girl’s life, but you won’t hit them? Typical cowardly bullshit.”
He stepped away from me, and the crisp night air flooded my cheeks, cooling them. Once again, the side of his mouth lifted in
a sardonic grin.
“I’ll see you around, Tori.” He crossed his arms, dismissing me.
I wanted to stand my ground, but the longer I stood there glaring back at him, the more I desired to run away. So I folded first,
turning and going toward Sadie. I needed away from The Strip and didn’t care what I had to do to get her to leave. I would
never let Sadie talk me into a night out again, especially if it meant seeing the devil and remembering how he had burned me.
Victoria fucking Walsh.
Seeing her turned my world on its head. She was a black cloud of terrible memories—an acid rain of agony. I had spent the
past ten years trying to forget everything she represented. She was the loss of any family I had left and the theft of my
innocence. Seeing her again was like getting caught up in a freezing ocean wave of the past. It left me salty as fuck and soaked
in a weakness I hadn’t felt since I was thirteen. It infuriated me.
I hadn’t seen Victoria Walsh in years, and that was how I wanted to keep it. But there she was, glaring back at me as if I had
done something wrong when I hadn’t. If anything, I had protected her and her sister, Gracie. I had protected other kids from
going through what I went through, and I wasn’t going to apologize.
She spun on her heel, her long, dark hair whipping me across my face as she stomped away. Tori had changed since the last
time I saw her. She was no longer the meek daddy’s girl crying on the witness stand. She was stronger—meaner—with a bite
that would serve her well if she planned on sticking around The Strip. I prayed that wasn’t the case.
Seeing her had ruined my good time. The Strip was my favorite place, and I wouldn’t let her fuck it up for me. The problem
was, I wasn’t sure there was a drug circulating that could numb the feeling of seeing her.
My eyes floated down her back, taking in her thighs and round ass. She was thin but long gone was the flat thirteen-year-old
princess she used to be. In her stead was a warrior woman with curves I would love to race over and a spitfire attitude that
strangely made me proud of her.
Tori was thoroughly cracked; her pieces were lost in the breeze around her like debris in a hurricane. Her spine was stiff,
and her head was held high like a goddamn queen, but she couldn’t fool me with her mask of indifference. She was tougher, but
shattered people were attracted to other broken things, and I was being pulled to her in a way that left me gasping. She couldn’t
hide her blackness from me. I could see the sadness swimming in her dark, fathomless eyes.
I closed my eyes, and memories of another beautifully broken woman flooded my mind. Her strength, determination, and the
sad look in her eyes when my father beat her. How she held herself tall and proud for as long as she could, and how quietly she
would collapse to the floor without daring to call for help.
She thought she was protecting me. She did all she could to keep me from getting upset, but she didn’t know I felt every hit
she took. It rattled my bones and made me bleed inside for her.
My mother.
The only woman in my life who had ever owned my heart entirely, and except for my short friendship with Tori, the only
softness I had ever known.
I had watched her die without lifting a finger to help.
 I knew she was dead before he did. It was her eyes. They were open with understanding flickering in her gaze, and then
they dimmed, slowly growing darker until the light was gone. Her stare remained on me, but she was gone. Her body was a
shell of the woman she once was, and I knew when his fists slammed against her shell, he was no longer hitting her.
She departed.
She was safe.
There would be no more suffering, pain, and abuse.
He paused, grabbing her around the collar and pulling her up to face him.
“Thora?” he called out, shaking her lifeless body.
His eyes grew wide as realization set in.
He had beaten her to death.
“Fuck! Thora!”
His deep voice boomed around me, but I couldn’t look away. He had forced me to watch as he beat the life from my
mother, and even though she was gone, I was still too afraid to turn my eyes away from her.
He reached up, running his bloody fingers through his midnight hair. “What have I done?”
As if remembering I was there, he turned toward me. I stiffened, sure I was going to be next.
“Koah, go pack your clothes,” he ordered.
I sat there, staring back from my corner, unable to force myself to move. When he realized I wasn’t listening to him, he
screamed.
“Go now, Koah!”
I jumped to my feet and ran down the hallway to my room. On autopilot, I tossed clothes into a bag until it was packed.
Then I waited at the end of my bed, bag in hand, for whatever came next.
He appeared at my door, his hulking figure filling the doorway. His eyes were sad for once. I had never seen my father
sad. He was always angry, but while he had beaten my mother at least twice a week for as long as I could remember, he had
never touched me.
At times, I begged him to hurt me instead of her, but he never listened.
“You’re a man,” he would say. “Men dole out the hits; they don’t take them. Always remember that.”
I nodded, understanding his words but secretly promising never to put my hands on a woman. It was the same promise I
had given my mother just a week before she died.
“Let’s go. We have to hurry.”
He grabbed my arm and tugged me out of my safe space and down the long hallway where I knew my mother lay. He
snatched his keys from the hook by the door and pulled me through the living room. My eyes connected with my mother’s,
and tears filled my eyes.
My life changed forever the minute we walked out the door. I would never see her again. I mouthed, “I love you,” to her
lifeless form seconds before we breached the front door and ran through the rain-soaked grass to my father’s truck.
He cranked the truck and took off toward the airport. However, we didn’t make it far. Everyone knew what was happening
inside our home, and when our neighbor saw us fleeing, she went to check on my mom. She called 911 when she saw Mom
dead on the floor.
Police cars surrounded us, but my father pulled out a gun instead of surrendering. Once he pointed it, the bullets flew,
tearing into the truck, my father’s chest, and my arm.
I passed out, and when I woke, my life was altered so completely that I no longer knew who I was.
 I was deep in despair over my angelic mother when I felt a shove against my shoulder, shaking me from my memories and
pulling me into the moment. I sucked in a breath I didn’t realize I held, and my brain spun with the sudden burst of oxygen,
leaving me dizzy and blinking away black spots.
“Saint? What the fuck, man?” Joker’s voice broke through.
He snapped tattooed fingers in my face and appeared before me as my vision cleared. My eyes settled on the single teardrop
tattoo beside his left eye, symbolizing a murder he had committed for us and a reminder of his loyalty.
I knocked his hand away and shook my head. “I’m good. What’s up?”
His rare, worried expression cleared before his signature creepy grin replaced it.
“You fucked up, bro?” he asked with a chuckle.
I wished I was fucked up. If I were drunk or high, I wouldn’t feel the despair ripping through my body.
“Nah, just thinking.”
“About pussy?”
I snorted and pushed at his shoulder. “Not everything’s about pussy, Joke.”
His dark laughter echoed around us, blending in with the roar of an excited crowd and racing cycles. “You sound like a bitch
when you talk like that. You know that, right?”
“Fuck you.” I chuckled before I reached out and snatched his bottle of Everclear.
The fucker would drink it straight until his face went numb and he passed out. I took a small sip, and the tasteless, transparent
liquid slid down my throat and settled in my stomach, igniting the embers simmering from my run-in with Tori.
“No, thanks. Your dick’s too small for me, and I like my ass to be ransacked.”
My friendship with Joker had held me together for many years. Once we freed ourselves, we conquered the streets together—
some nights going to bed hungry and some nights as full as kings on anything we could swipe. He had a sick sense of humor and
a twisted way of life, but I never questioned his loyalty.
Joker’s father was a piece of shit who wouldn’t keep his hands off his son, but I always wondered if he did more to Joker.
No matter the situation, Joker’s lack of emotion told me more than beatings were involved. Vile things happened to my boy—
terrible stuff, so he had no choice but to shut down all feelings. I never asked. Joker escaped a dark place; I didn’t want to be
the person to make him revisit.
All I knew was Joker rid the world of two disgusting men the night he murdered his father and framed Lorne Walsh, Tori’s
father, and the man my aunt planned to marry. That was how I ended up under the same roof as Tori when I was younger. Once
my mother and father were gone, my aunt was the only person left to take me in. People thought I was lucky to end up in such a
luxurious home, but Tori was the only thing good about that place.
The saying goes, kill two birds with one stone, but it was two men with one bullet the night Joker pulled the trigger. One man
was six feet under, and the other would spend the rest of his life in prison for a murder he didn’t commit. Still, Lorne Walsh
was no innocent man. The man deserved what he got. He might not have murdered Joker’s father, but he had destroyed the
future of many, including my own.
At fourteen, I had been through so much. I had dealt with the murder of my mother and the move from Hawaii to Georgia. I
survived living with my aunt, who wanted nothing to do with me, and a cousin who loathed me for no reason. But Lorne Walsh
ruined me.
With the pull of a trigger, my best friend, Joker, had taken it all away for me. If I had doubts about his loyalty to our
friendship, those doubts vanished the second he told me I was free. Even if Joker’s father deserved to die, knowing Joker had
saved us by doing something as terrible as taking the fucker’s life meant he had my loyalty always. Having a friend who killed
for you meant you had the purest form of trust and respect. So even though Joker was a crazy fuck with his head screwed on
wrong, I trusted him with my life, and I knew he trusted me the same.
His ability to repress all emotion was remarkable. I sometimes found myself jealous of that and wished I, too, couldn’t feel
anything. Joker moved through the world without worry or care, forgetting the awful shit that had been done to him so quickly.
Seeing him deflect his bad shit somehow helped me get through my past—helped me push down the memories of my mother,
my father, and Lorne Walsh’s disgusting touches.
Joker’s ability to laugh maniacally at things that weren’t even remotely funny helped me see that not everything required a
severe response. So I strived to be more like him regarding feelings and memories.
Don’t think about it.
Don’t talk about it.
Smile in the face of your haters.
And it had worked until Tori showed up at The Strip.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked, referring to our resupply ride.
We made a supply run every time we got close to selling out. Our supplier had the purest coke and the most potent smoke. We
were known to have the best shit, which meant our buyers would expect just that. It was dangerous work, but it paid so fucking
well it was worth it.
“Always. Ready to get that money,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a joint I had rolled before leaving for The
Strip.
I caught it between my lips and lit it before taking a deep drag. The smoke tickled my lungs and sent a calm rush through my
veins.
“And if shit goes south?” he asked.
“If shit goes south, heads will roll,” I answered, taking another deep pull from my joint.
I passed it his way, and he took it with tattooed fingers. The word loyalty was inked up his forearm like a blazing reminder.
There were times growing up when I would get lost in my head, unable to think of ways to get food or shelter, but he always
came through. No matter what it took.
We fought for survival before we became drug kings and biker gods. We took on the streets together and fought to get to the
top. Yet Joker managed to get through every fight unscathed. I was in awe of that.
It wasn’t that he was overly muscular or strong. Hell, trying to get Joker to work out with us was an ongoing joke in our
house, but he made up for what he lacked in size and weight in speed. He was fast as fuck with the attitude of a rabid dog with
fried nerve endings. Joker didn’t feel—mentally or physically—and when he fought, he did so with murder on his mind. He
was dangerous to everyone but us.
“Do you think Skull will run with us tomorrow?” he asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke above him.
I shook my head. “Hell no. Skull’s a tame animal.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No way in hell could I ever be tamed.”
I laughed along with him. The thought of anyone in the world being special enough to calm the beast within him was
hilarious.
“No woman in the world is brave enough to take you on.”
I was positive about that.
“Everly’s cool, though,” he said, referring to Skull’s new fiancée.
 And she was. Everly had somehow managed to become a part of our little badass family, and we had grown to love her in
our own way. She was like the little sister we never had, which meant the protection of the Sons of Sinister was extreme when
keeping her safe and secure. We had her back the same way we had Skull’s … maybe more, which we knew was how Skull
would want it.
I missed Skull. He was our boy, and not having him by our side was depressing, but I understood he had found something
rare. I wasn’t about to make him feel bad for walking a straight line for his lady.
Our original group of four was now a trio, thanks to Everly and her magic pussy and pure heart, but Joker, Crow, and I all
agreed she was way too damn good for him. He knew it also, which meant he rarely came to The Strip anymore, even if he was
one of the best damn racers to roll his front tire over the start line.
Instead of brawling and bullshit, he spent his nights cuddling with his sexy fiancée in his apartment. He worked a legit job at
a local garage and would soon open his bike shop, Cycles and Sons. He was hell-bent on getting us to work for him, so much
so he had named his business after our crew.
We were proud of him, but going legit wasn’t for us. Still, he was missed in our corner even though we knew all it would
take was a simple phone call for him to be there for us. The same went for him. If he called, we ran. It was the way of the Sons.
We were brothers.
“Everly’s the exception,” I agreed.
My eyes moved across The Strip, landing on Tori. She wasn’t paying me attention, but her shoulders went tense as if she
could feel my eyes crawling all over her. I was still shocked that she was here. I could hardly believe we were in the same
area.
After ten years, I thought I had successfully escaped my demons, but that seemed impossible. I ran from the past, but I always
knew I would see her again. I was just unaware of how badly she would affect me.
I took a seat on the tailgate of Stryker’s new truck. The night had started exciting, just like every other night at The Strip, but
seeing Tori had changed my attitude and way of thinking. Instead of spending the night partying with my boys, I wanted to go
home and hide.
“Bitch,” Joker muttered at my side, and I turned to see who he was referring to.
I followed his line of vision until my eyes landed on Trader Joe, a sick fuck who rode with our rival gang, The Border Lords.
Joe was known to ride the lines of both crews. Basically, he went where he could get the freest shit.
Fucking loser.
He limped around The Strip, still nursing a nasty stab wound my boy Skull had given him a few weeks before. That was what
happened when you entered the house of Sons with no loyalty or when you messed with Skull’s girl.
I sighed in relief seeing Trader Joe. I wasn’t sure I wanted Joker to know Tori was around. He hadn’t seen her yet, or if he
had, he didn’t realize who she was. Knowing Joker, he would have said something right away. There would have been drama,
and getting stuck between my best friend and Tori wasn’t something I wanted to do again.
It wasn’t that he hated Tori. Hell, he didn’t know her. He despised what she represented in our lives, which was a time when
we were both young and stupid—a time when I was weak and unsure. He hated the anger she drew out of me and the
insecurities that reared their heads at just the mention of her name.
Over the years, I learned never to speak of the past around Joker. Not that I was eager to relive the bullshit. Not mentioning
the past was our way of coping. We moved ahead and left all the shit in the back, consumed by the black.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked.
Joker shrugged. “Probably just bullshitting. We’ll keep our eyes on him. If he pulls any shit, we’ll beat the fuck out of him.”
 Just as he finished his sentence, Crow showed up at our side. He had just finished a race, and his cheeks were red with
excitement.
“Heads-up. The Lords are here,” he said, tilting his head toward Trader Joe.
Crow was a big motherfucker. Because of this, people rarely fucked with him. He towered over everyone at six feet five
inches or more, leaving shadows where he stood. Despite his size, he was fast, making him even more dangerous.
He spent hours lifting weights in the garage, even trying to get all of us to join him. He had somber brown eyes and dark
brown hair that he kept shaved short on the sides to keep the crow tribal tattoo on his head visible. He rarely spoke, and his
smiles rarely went to his eyes. We knew his life had been hard, but like us, he never talked about it.
“Fucking Trader Joe,” he muttered, taking the joint when I passed it his way and hitting it hard.
The night continued like any other, except for the beacon of black blazing across the way from me.
Tori.
I hoped she didn’t make coming to The Strip a regular thing. It was my home away from home and where I found peace and
freedom. Having her there meant stripping all those things away.
When the guys said they were ready to leave, I was relieved. I wanted to escape the thickness of the air around me and the
memories she brought forth. I drove my bike the long way home, my pink neons lighting the backroads. The after-party was in
full swing when I finally got to the house. Cars littered the yard and the street, and music pounded, shaking the windows of the
cars I passed.
I parked my bike in the garage, but instead of partying with the crew, I skipped the crowd. Cutting through the house without
speaking to anyone, I went straight to my room. I had never missed a party before, but I didn’t feel like being social. My tongue
was heavy with bitterness, and my heart beat through a mass of sad memories. I only wanted to be alone.
Once inside my room, I closed the door, shutting out the loud music and laughter. I wasn’t feeling it. Things were too gloomy.
My soul felt hefty, and I knew no matter how hard I tried, my smile wouldn’t come. I didn’t have it in me to fake my way
through the night. I just wanted to dwell in the past and let the shadowy rain clouds soak me in sorrow. Tomorrow would be a
new day, and I could forget again, but tonight, I wanted the angry burn of my past. I wanted to feel the pain and remorse. And
when I closed my eyes, I knew the nightmares would invade in a way they hadn’t in many years.
I had been wrong. The night was still going strong. The bike battles continued into the night, and the motorcycle exhaust
hovered over the crowd like toxic clouds. At first, I was annoyed. The screaming of the engines made my temples ache, and the
scent of burnt rubber stung my nose. But the longer we stayed and watched the races, the more I became accustomed to the
sounds and smells. As much as I hated to admit it, I began to have an okay time, even if the lying piece of shit across the way
continued to stare back at me.
I kept my eyes on the bikes, excited by the races and enjoying their maneuvers and tricks. The things the guys could do on a
motorcycle were incredible. An underlying sense of danger fueled my adrenaline in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was
almost enough to make me forget Koah Saint was in my presence.
Almost.
His eyes were all over me, touching me and making me feel abused and dirty. I ignored him and concentrated on the bikes and
the riders. The colors. The neons. The sounds. The smells. My senses were on overdrive, and I let them roar through me as
long as it meant keeping my eyes and attention away from Koah.
It was next to impossible, and every so often, I would slip, allowing myself to look over at him and wonder if he was the
same person he was ten years ago. Not like it mattered; he could change into another species, and I would still hate him with
the fire of a thousand suns for what he did to my father—to Gracie and me. We had lost our comfortable life and all that it
entailed. We had lost our support and sense of security, and it was all because of him and the lies he spat.
After two hours of feeling his presence, I looked over to find he was gone. The crew he was hanging with was gone, as well.
Good.
Without him looming around the edges of my night, there was hope that I could enjoy myself even more. It was a night away
from work—away from the worries of taking care of everything—and still, it felt as though the night had been ruined because I
had to breathe the same air as him.
Even though I had enjoyed my night at The Strip, I knew I would never return. I couldn’t chance seeing him again. I had too
much going on in my life. I juggled too many things. I had the feeling seeing him would screw up my concentration, and I knew
myself well enough to know that if I dropped even one ball, the rest would fall with them. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t
do that to Gracie. She was too close to graduating—too close to a better life.
“When are we leaving?” I asked Sadie.
She turned my way, her eyes bright with excitement, and her hair windswept from the passing motorcycles.
“You’re not having fun?” she asked, confused.
I nodded. “Yeah, I am.”
She shrugged and grinned. “Then what’s the problem?”
 There were many problems, but I didn’t want to ruin her good time as Koah had ruined mine. Sadie was drinking and having
fun with people she knew well, and it was good for her to get out since I knew she worked just as hard as I did at The Huddle.
Honestly, she and I ran the place most days.
“No problem. I was just curious.”
She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me in. I could smell the alcohol on her breath and wondered if I would have
difficulty getting her keys so I could drive.
“Relax, babe. Have a good time. You deserve it,” she slurred.
I chuckled. “I think you’re having enough fun for us both.”
It was getting late, and you could smell the morning dew. Gracie being home alone worried me, but I kept reminding myself
she was seventeen and not a baby. Honestly, she was more competent and street-savvy than I had been at her age, but she was
still my little sister. My job was to worry about her, lead her in the right direction, and help her make the correct decisions. She
was as strong and stubborn as I was, even if she didn’t show it, but I wouldn’t let up.
At least I had a good life until I was thirteen. Gracie’s hell started at seven. She had to grow up way faster than I would have
liked, dealing with foster homes and going through God knew what. Every night, I prayed that she hadn’t experienced the things
I had while in foster care, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. Those thoughts moving through my brain only fueled my hatred
for Koah.
I checked my watch again, wishing Sadie would say she was ready to go. Maybe Gracie had a point about the cell phones.
Being able to call and check on her would put my mind at ease, but the money wasn’t there. Maybe a couple more shifts at The
Huddle would allow us a cheap phone with prepaid minutes—nothing expensive, but a little something in case of an
emergency.
“Earth to Tori,” Sadie said, waving her hand before my face and making her silver charm bracelet jingle.
I hadn’t realized how caught up in my thoughts I had been.
“Sorry. What’s up?”
“After-party. You’re coming with us.”
It wasn’t a question, and honestly, no matter how badly I didn’t want to go to an after-party, I knew I couldn’t let Sadie drive
herself anywhere. She needed a designated driver, and since I had only sipped a bitter beer earlier in the night, I was the only
sober person at The Strip. Still, I tried to talk her out of it.
“After-party? The night’s over. It will be morning before you know it.”
She laughed. “You sound like an old woman. We’re going.”
“Only if you let me drive,” I countered, holding my palm out for her car keys.
She rolled her eyes and tugged them from her back pocket. Placing a mound of keychains and keys into my palm, she shook
her head. “Fine. You drive. I see two of you anyway.”
I hadn’t driven a car in a long time, and it had only been a handful of times. The last foster family I lived with before I aged
out was adamant about me getting my driver’s license, and for the first time in my life, I was thankful they had pushed me to do
it.
I slid into the driver’s seat of Sadie’s car, and a couple I didn’t know got into the back. The sounds of them making out filled
the car before I even had it in drive, and to block them out, I turned on the radio. Sexual things made me uncomfortable, and I
had spent most of my life ignoring any sensual part of myself. I didn’t plan on changing that any time soon.
Sadie leaned up and turned the radio down, ignoring the sloppy kissing noises from the back. “So what did you think of The
Strip?” she asked.
 I shrugged, turning on the blinker for a left turn. “It was different.”
I liked it but hated it because he was there. I couldn’t say that to her, though. She would have questions, and I didn’t want to
answer anything about him.
“But you had fun, right?”
“Yeah, I did.”
It wasn’t a lie. After I was able to relax, I enjoyed the races.
“Good.” She leaned her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. Her window was down, and the cool night air shifted
her blond hair across her face. “Maybe I can talk you into going again next weekend.”
It wouldn’t happen, but I didn’t respond to tell her that.
I turned when Sadie told me to turn, and soon, we were pulling into a run-down neighborhood just on the city's outskirts. The
houses were older and small, and a few had broken windows and destroyed yards. People sat on their porches even though it
was the middle of the night. There were cars on blocks and barking dogs chained behind fences. It was a nicer neighborhood
than my apartment complex, but not nearly as nice as what I had before my father was taken away.
I took in the houses around us until Sadie directed me to pull into the driveway of one of the better places in the
neighborhood. The yard was littered with cars and motorcycles, and every window in the house had light pouring out of it,
except for one front window. Music blaring from the house shook the car windows.
I parked the car, got out, and followed Sadie across the yard to the front porch. People were laughing on the porch, cups in
hand and smoke billowing from their lips. We slid past them and into the house, where a party was in full swing. Sadie chatted
with people she knew as we passed until I found myself in a comfortable corner listening as she conversed with a group of
girls who were as drunk as she was. One sniffed something from the screen of her phone before passing it to the next.
I was introduced to a few people whose names I didn’t bother to remember, and as the night wound down and the crowd
slowed, I took the time to take in the faces of those I saw at The Strip earlier in the night. It was weird to be in a room full of
people close to my age. Somehow, I felt as if I were years older than them. Maybe I had lived a more challenging life. Perhaps
my time on earth had moved slower due to my less-than-stellar circumstances.
I shifted my feet, my old shoes barely having any form of padding under my heels, and fire stormed through my body when my
eyes settled over yet another familiar face from my past.
He was older and covered in tattoos, but I would never forget the conniving smile of the boy who sat on the witness stand
and said he had seen my father kill his father with his own two eyes.
Zayne Wilder.
He was just another liar like Koah. It wasn’t until months later that I found out Koah and Zayne, who had then started going
by the name Joker, were best friends.
My eyes moved around the room, searching for Koah to see if they were still as thick as thieves, but Koah was nowhere to be
found. Once I realized Koah wasn’t at the party, I locked my eyes on Joker. I watched his every move—his sinister smile and
the way he worked the women at the party. It didn’t take long until his frosty blue eyes were locked with mine.
His smile dropped, and his eyes thinned as he scowled back at me from across the room. He knew who I was, and I was
glad. Slowly, the side of his lips tilted up, and I felt like all hell was about to break loose.
He moved through the party as if he were having a casual stroll, giving me plenty of time to make an escape I didn’t plan on
making. And when he finally stood before me, glaring down at me with bloodshot, drunken eyes, I didn’t blink when I stared
back at him.
“Does Saint know you’re here?” he asked, shocking me.
 I had expected a tongue-lashing, not a question.
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” I answered.
I wasn’t about to admit that I had already scanned the party, and I knew Koah was nowhere to be found.
Joker nodded, accepting any answer as he pulled a joint from behind his ear and lit it. After a deep pull, he blew the smoke
directly into my face. I coughed and waved the smoke away, making him chuckle.
“So let’s see ’em, then,” he said, taking another hit from his joint.
“See what?” I asked, confused.
He nodded at the space between my thighs and sucked his bottom lip between jagged teeth. “The massive set of balls you
have tucked between your thighs.”
“Excuse me?”
Another hit, and again, he blew smoke into my face. “I’m not hating, baby. I’m just saying … if you got ’em, flaunt ’em.”
“I don’t get your point.”
He moved closer; the smell of liquor and dope invaded my space. “I’m saying it takes some big fucking balls for you to walk
into my house like you belong here.”
My spine went stiff. I hadn’t known I was in Joker’s house.
“Did you come here to fuck with him?” he asked, sticking the remaining piece of the lit joint into his mouth and swallowing
it.
I had never seen a person eat a lit joint, but then again, I knew I was dealing with a crazy guy.
“With who?” I asked, again confused.
“Don’t act stupid with me. I’m talking about Saint,” he snapped, his eerie smile still intact.
“Saint’s not here.”
“He is. You see ... where I go”—he poked himself in the chest with a tattooed finger—“he goes, which means if I’m here,
he’s here. You’re in his fucking house.” He held his arms wide, his grin turning even darker. “This is our fucking house.”
I hadn’t realized it, but the entire party had gone still. The music had stopped, and you could hear a pin drop as everyone
listened to our exchange. Sadie stood beside me. I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Still, I stared ahead. My eyes
remained locked with Joker’s.
“I didn’t know,” I said honestly.
I wasn’t backing down, but he needed to know I wouldn’t have stepped foot into the house if I had known it was where they
lived.
“Well, now you do, yet you’re still here. Why is that?”
I could feel the eyes of everyone in the house on me. I swallowed, trying to keep the anxiety crawling up the back of my
throat down. I was too prideful to turn around and leave, but I knew he was correct. I had no right to be there.
He chuckled without blinking, and his smile grew stiffer. He was getting angrier by the second, but I wasn’t sure what my
next move should be.
“Let me break it down into words you might understand better,” he said, moving into me so quickly I jumped away, and my
back slammed into the wall behind me. “Get the fuck out of our house,” he screamed into my face.
No one talked to me like that.
No one.
I had dealt with all types of people, but none were as scary as Joker. I was afraid, but I wasn’t about to let anyone around me
know that. Instead of ducking and running, which I probably should have done, I pushed back into him and dug my fingers into
his naked chest.
“Fuck you!” I screamed, pushing him yet again.
His brows pulled down low, and his blue eyes glittered like something from a demonic movie. His smile grew wider,
allowing his jagged teeth to shine back at me. People gasped around us, shocked that I had spoken to Joker that way, and I
agreed with them. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who gave a shit if I was a woman or a man. I steadied myself, ready to
feel his backlash, but before he could respond, a mountain of a man moved between us.
My eyes moved up the muscled back of the massive stranger who probably saved me from even more significant
embarrassment. I had never seen someone so tall. He towered over Joker before placing a large hand on Joker’s shoulder.
“Chill,” he said in a deep, raspy voice. “I’ll get rid of her. Breathe it out, man.”
They were obviously friends. I was thankful the big guy had broken us apart. He turned and looked down at me with eyes so
dark they looked black. He was a beast with no emotion in his eyes, but when he reached out and touched my arm, there was a
softness in his touch.
“Come with me,” he said, wrapping his large fingers around my arm and directing me toward the front door.
I didn’t stop him or drag my feet, and I was glad when I realized Sadie was behind us. I wouldn’t have to walk home if she
was with me.
The party continued behind us once we were through the front door and out on the porch.
“Thanks, Crow,” Sadie said, talking to the mountain who had saved me.
Crow.
I had heard the name around The Strip.
“Yeah,” I said, drawing his attention my way. “Thanks.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he nodded his head toward the road as if to tell me to leave, and then he turned his back on us and
went inside, closing the door in our faces.
Sadie turned my way, her mouth hanging open in shock.
“I had no idea you knew Joker,” she said.
I crossed my arms against the cool air surrounding us. “I don’t really know him.”
“Explain,” she said, reaching out and touching my arm.
I shook my head. I wasn’t ready to speak my truth to anyone. “Maybe another time. Can we please go home?” I asked.
There was no way I would be stepping foot anywhere near The Strip or the den of vipers ever again.
“Yeah, come on. You drive,” she said, handing me her keys once again.
I drove to my apartment while Sadie filled me in on the Sons of Sinister and their stories. She didn’t mention anything about
their pasts, but she did say that Koah was a Son and was untouchable. Not that I cared. The last thing I wanted to do was put my
hands on Koah. Unless, of course, I was choking him.
I continued to listen as she talked.
Women loved them.
Men wanted to be them.
They were dangerous and ran the city with their neons blazing beneath them.
I didn’t care because I knew the truth about them. Joker and Saint were nothing but liars—dirty, lying bastards.
When we reached my apartment complex, the sky had turned pink. I was dead on my feet and tired as hell, but I ensured Sadie
was sober enough to drive before giving her the keys to her car.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” Sadie asked, looking up at my decrepit apartment complex.
 I laughed. “No, but I’m good. I grew up in worse places than this. This place doesn’t scare me. I’ll see you tomorrow at
work, okay?”
She nodded, climbing behind her steering wheel and cranking her car. “See you then.”
I heard her lock her car doors before pulling out of the parking space and away from my apartment building.
When I entered the front door, Gracie sat on the couch watching an old VHS of Titanic. A soaked tissue hung from her
fingertips as she cried for the tenth time over Jack dying.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I asked, closing the door and locking it.
She nodded, waving her hand as if to tell me to hush.
I chuckled. “Titanic again?” I asked, going to the kitchen cabinet for a glass.
I filled it with water from the sink and downed it.
“Shut up. I love it.” She sniffled.
“It makes you cry.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said through fresh tears.
I shook my head, filled my glass again, and downed it.
Lifting the remote, she turned the TV off and directed her attention to me. “Did you have fun?”
I nodded, unwilling to fill her in on all the bullshit that happened over the night. She didn’t need to know about my run-in
with Koah Saint and the crazy bastard named Joker. She didn’t know their names, much less what they had done to us. I had
managed to keep her clueless, and I wasn’t about to change that.
“Yeah. I had a nice time.”
She unfolded her legs and stood from the couch. Her dark curls bounced as she came my way. She looked comfortable in
what I knew were her favorite pajamas. Coming home to find her in such a relaxed, happy state was nice.
“Where did you guys go?” she asked.
I leaned against the counter and finished off my water. “This place called The Strip.”
Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God! You went to The Strip?”
“You know it?”
The thought of my sister going to such a place made the hair on my arms stand.
“Everyone knows about The Strip.”
“You’ve been there?” I asked in a panic.
She shook her head. “God, no. I wish. I heard it’s amazing.”
I shrugged, trying to downplay how much fun the place was. The last thing I needed was Gracie going to a place like that.
“It’s alright, I guess. Not really our scene.”
She huffed out a breath of laughter. “Maybe not your scene, but I’m all for hot boys on motorcycles.”
I rolled my eyes and moved away from the kitchen counter. “Don’t even start with that crap. Keep your head in the books and
your eyes off the boys.”
I didn’t wait for her to respond. Instead, I double-checked the locks and turned off the lights. Before getting into the shower to
wash away the night, I tapped on Gracie’s bedroom door and said good night to her.
After I washed the smoke and exhaust from my hair, I slid into my bed with a sigh of contentment. Thankfully, I didn’t have to
be at work early in the morning and could catch a few extra hours of sleep. Still, I wished I had stayed home and saved myself
the drama.
 The last thing I needed was a reminder of how badly my life turned out, but seeing Koah had been just that. The memories.
The loss of my father and missing out on watching my sister grow up. It was all on him, and I hated him for that, but every time
I closed my eyes so sleep could find me, all I saw was his face.
His light eyes and slanted smile. His thick arms and the tattoos littering his muscled flesh. He was tall and handsome. Even I
could admit that to myself, but the fact was, I was irritated with myself for even allowing those thoughts to pass my hatred.
I flipped onto my side and stuffed my arm under my pillow. It was disrespectful to my father’s memory to consider Koah
Saint attractive. Looks aside, he was a menace—a black stain on this earth, and he didn’t deserve my attention or my time.
No.
I never wanted to see his face again. I would do all I could to ensure that never happened, but I saw his face every time I
closed my eyes. He taunted me—reminding me of how close we were when we were young. Before the lies. Before the end of
my life.
His aunt, who was also my father’s fiancée, and his cousin hated him. My dad barely paid him attention, and Gracie was too
young, but Koah and I were the same age. We went to the same school, and before all hell broke loose and I found myself on a
witness stand defending my father, we were thick as thieves.
But like everything else I had lost, my respect and affection for Koah died in the courtroom the day he lied, sending my father
to prison for a murder he didn’t commit. It perished the second I was shipped from foster home to foster home—the moment my
innocence was stolen in a dark room by a foster boy two years older than me.
The second I was broken. Bruised. Defeated. The exact moment Victoria Walsh died and left behind a confused girl
determined to survive. As far as I was concerned, Koah Saint could burn in hell. Lord knows I had simmered in its fires for
quite some time. It was only fair.
As I stepped onto the witness stand, I thought about freedom and how badly I wanted to keep it. I sat in the hard chair and
adjusted my clip-on tie before I set my trembling hand on the leatherbound Bible in front of me.
“Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” the
man in uniform asked.
I swallowed hard, choking on a lump lodged in my throat. The Bible felt hot against my palm, and I wondered if it would
scorch me when I lied under oath. Would it engulf my arm in flames and burn me to death? And if it did, would I mind
dying?
So help me, God.
I had prayed for God to help me so many nights once I was under Lorne Walsh’s roof. Every time we visited the basement.
Every time he snuck into my room after the house was asleep—every time he touched me—I begged God to make it stop.
My mother had been a religious woman. I remember how she used to beg God to save her when my father would beat her.
It was a different kind of pain, her beatings and me being molested, but I still understood what it felt like to do anything to
stop it.
And I had.
I closed my eyes, remembering my mother and all the kindness she showed every person in her life. She had deserved so
much more than the life she had, and sometimes, I felt relief knowing she was in heaven and safe from my father’s fist. I
missed her kind eyes and loving smile, and I wished more than anything that she was there to hold my hand through this.
When I opened my eyes, they clashed with Joker’s.
Zayne Wilder.
My best friend.
I had only known him for a little over a year, but we had grown close. He had gained the street name Joker because he
laughed at everything. No matter the situation's seriousness, his smile was always on his face. Even when he told me he
killed his father, he chuckled, but Joker only played the cards he was dealt.
We both had rough backgrounds—both with men hurting us somehow. Jeffery Wilder, his dad, was a different kind of
abuser, the type who left behind broken arms, noses, and worse than that, broken souls—the sort who left behind a son so
scarred he no longer felt anything and laughed his hurt away.
Still, even with an icy heart, Joker had murdered his father for us, and I couldn’t throw my friend under the bus after what
he had done for me.
As if directing me to continue, he lifted a brow, and I looked away.
I nodded. “I do.”
 The truth.
There were so many ways to spin it, but the fact was, my truth had been taken away from me the second Lorne Walsh had
“broken me in,” his words ... not mine. My truth had died with my mother the day my father murdered her in front of me. My
truth was sad, and it left behind a young boy who no longer understood what was wrong and what was right—a boy who
only wanted to be free from all of it.
Lorne Walsh sat across from me, but I couldn’t look at him. His weasel of a lawyer was perched beside him with a
confident grin plastered on his pockmarked face. They both assumed he would get away with the murder since he was
innocent. Otherwise, Lorne would have told the truth and admitted child molestation, a lesser charge. I didn’t want him to
do that. I never wanted anyone to know what he had done to me.
Joker knew, but only after he had plied me with tequila, and my lightweight ass got trashed, cried, and spilled the beans.
It was the same night we planned my escape from Lorne, and even though we had both been drunk, he had still gone
through with it.
I swallowed again, scanning the room and passing over my aunt Sherry, scowling back at me and my cousin Tina, who
was playing on her new iPhone, before landing on Tori.
My heart broke.
I had to rip apart many lives to free myself from Lorne. My aunt Sherry and cousin Tina lived better because of Lorne’s
bank account. They had been living paycheck to paycheck when Lorne stepped into the restaurant where she waited tables
and asked her on a date, and because of me, she and Tina would once again have to struggle.
But it was Lorne’s daughter, Tori, who got to me.
Victoria Walsh and her little sister, Gracie, welcomed me into their home when my blood resented my presence. We grew
close, and I felt things I had no right feeling. Tori was a lovely girl from a good home, and I was just Koah Saint, the dirty
Hawaiian boy thrust into their lives because his father was a monster and his mother was an angel.
We were the same age, and living in her house meant we went to the same school. She was an intelligent, clean girl, and I
would never be good enough. Even at fourteen, I knew that, but I cared about her more than my family.
I felt bad for keeping the secret about her father from her, but I didn’t want to hurt her. I had kept my secret for as long as
possible until I broke. I wasn’t sure what would happen to her and Gracie since their mother had died years before, but I
was trying to save my life and the lives of other boys who I knew for a fact had been touched by her father.
Tori stared back at me, her whiskey-colored eyes sad and full of tears. Her eyes owned me from the first second I saw her,
and the guilt digging into my chest shredded me. She knew the truth. She had been with her father the night Joker murdered
his father. She knew her dad was innocent. And while she had sworn she was with her father that night, everyone believed
she was trying to cover for him.
It was her word against mine. So when I opened my mouth and told the jury I had seen Lorne Walsh pull the trigger, she
and I both knew I was lying. And while I saved myself and every other boy from being molested by her father, I lost the only
girl ever to own my young heart.
Lorne Walsh got life in prison because of my testimony, and when I left the courtroom, I exhaled, knowing he could never
hurt me again. I was lighter, yet my guilt pulled me down.
My aunt no longer had a place to live, meaning I no longer had one. We would have to pack our things and leave the
second we returned to Lorne’s house. I hadn’t thought about living arrangements and things of that nature when I confessed
to Joker.
 Thanks to my tequila-wrecked train of thought, I hadn’t thought about much of anything. But as I walked behind my aunt
Sherry toward the courthouse exit, I felt selfish for what I had done.
Tori and Gracie.
Aunt Sherry and my cousin Tina.
I had torn through their lives like a wrecking ball when I really should have just run away from Lorne.
When we reached the exit, my Aunt Sherry spun on her heels and glared down at me. A lonely tear escaped her dark
lashes, taking hints of mascara with it as it drained down her cheek.
“No,” she spat, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “You’re not going with us.”
Pain lashed across my chest, making me gasp.
Why did no one ever want me?
“Where am I supposed to go?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Figure it out. You’re on your own, kid.”
Then she walked out with my cousin Tina and left me standing there.
I was officially abandoned with no one.
I had watched my father beat my mother to death. I was shot in the arm while riding shotgun during his attempted
getaway. When he was imprisoned, I was shipped to Georgia to live with an aunt who didn’t want me and a man who
couldn’t keep his hands off my young body, all before the age of fourteen.
I was a fucking survivor.
Joker stepped up beside me and bumped his shoulder into mine.
“Your aunt’s a bitch,” he remarked.
I nodded, agreeing with him.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked, pushing the door open and stepping outside.
I followed him. “I guess I don’t have a plan.”
“Think we’ll end up in foster care living with another set of sick fucks?”
No way.
I was done living with strangers.
“Hell no.”
He nodded, and we went down the steps and into the parking lot just as my aunt pulled away.
“Then I guess we figure shit out on our own,” he said. “All I know is, I’m ready to do my own thing. You in?”
I was definitely in. Besides my mother, Joker was the only person in my life who laid it all on the line for me. He had a
sick way of showing it, but he gave a shit about me when my flesh and blood didn’t. As far as I was concerned, we were
brothers.
After collecting what little we owned, we took to the streets and survived any way we could. It didn’t matter that we had
nothing. We were free, and I was a fucking survivor.

THE SUN BROKE THROUGH the sheet hanging at my window and blazed into my eyes, waking me and pulling me from my
memories and nightmares. I covered my head with my pillow, hoping to catch at least another hour or two, but the second I
broke through the veil, my brain started to run.
 Seeing Victoria after so many years had shaken me more than I wanted to admit. And the way she looked, walked, and talked
awakened something that I was still trying to push down. It was a drug run day. I didn’t have time to think about Victoria Walsh.
There was money to be made, and we all had to focus on that these days.
Joker and Crow were already up. Their voices echoed from the garage, where I knew they were messing with their bikes. My
bedroom was closest to the garage, which meant I could hear every fucking word they said.
We lived in the garage some days, working on our bike maintenance and bullshitting. Our bikes would never be fast enough
as far as we were concerned. They would never be hot enough. The neons. The paint. When we pulled up at The Strip, fuckers
knew who we were, and that was exactly how we wanted it.
Leaving my room, I went into the bathroom and showered in the hottest water my body could stand. Once dry, I pulled on a
white tank and black cargo shorts. I brushed my teeth and ran a comb through my hair.
When I was ready for the day, I walked out into the hallway and past Crow’s mom’s room. We all knew what had happened
there, that Crow’s mom had hung herself in that room, but it was never mentioned. The house was Crow’s, and we respected
his wishes and left the room alone. We made sure no one found their way in there during our parties. I knew Crow would lose
his shit if he found just one thing out of place.
I pulled my pineapple juice from the fridge and took a huge swig. Then I rummaged through the cabinets until I found my box
of Captain Crunch. I pulled out a handful, stuffed the box under my arm, and filled my mouth with the Captain before I stepped
barefoot into the garage.
Joker looked up when he heard me enter. He shook his head and chuckled.
“We thought you were dead. It’s about time your ass woke up.” Only Joke would kid about death. “Where were you last
night? Did you find your way into some pussy?”
I shook my head. “Nah. I was fucking tired, man.”
They exchanged glances, and I knew they were hiding something from me. I ignored it. I was still trying to clear my head of
Victoria Walsh, and I knew if they wanted to tell me something, they would.
I sat on the worn garage couch and snagged another handful of the Captain. It shredded the top of my mouth as I crunched it. It
was painful, but everyone knew Captain Crunch was the best shit on the planet.
“Since when are you too tired to party?” Crow asked without looking my way.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, brah. It was a shitty night.”
I didn’t give them details, but seeing Tori had taken the wind from my fucking sails. It was as if her presence had swiped all
my energy. By the time we got back to the house, I was done.
“What time are we meeting?” I asked, changing the subject.
Our supply runs usually took most of the day. I was ready to get the shit done so I could dwell over the past a bit more before
Saturday night kicked off. I had missed the party the night before; I wasn’t about to miss it again.
“Same time and place. Leaving in an hour,” Crow answered.
The front door opening and slamming echoed throughout the house before Skull and Everly entered the garage.
They were cute together. He was a giant beast, and she was a petite beauty.
“Hey, bitch. Long time no see,” Joker said, pulling Skull in for a hug. “Where the hell have you been?”
He pulled Everly in for a hug as soon as Skull was out of the way. She giggled at something he whispered in her ear before
she swatted at his chest. Knowing Joker, he said something perverted.
“Working all the time, man. You know how it is,” Skull answered before he stepped up to me, grabbed my hand, and pulled
me in to bump shoulders.
 While he was the same old Skull, he was different. Everly changed him. He had an easy smile these days, and I was glad to
see my boy so content. It made it easier to run shit without him. He left the drug-slinging and went legit, and while I didn’t see
that happening in my future, I understood why he did it.
“I can’t relate, bro,” I joked.
The fact was, dealing and racing put plenty of money in my pocket.
“Fuck all that work,” Joker said, falling back onto the couch and lighting a blunt. “Go resupply with us today. Get back into
the game and make bank.”
Skull grinned and reached out for Everly’s hand. “Nah. I’m good.”
I could tell by the look in his eyes he was. The smile Everly gave him made my stomach feel weak. I would never have that.
Hell, I couldn’t even get it up for a woman. How would I ever fall in love with or make love to one? It wouldn’t happen even
if the guys thought it happened every weekend.
“How did last night go?” Everly asked.
They didn’t come to The Strip much these days, but she loved the races even if she hated to admit it.
“We smoked everyone’s ass, of course,” I answered around a mouthful of Captain.
“I can’t believe you’re still eating that trash.” She shook her head.
“Well, maybe if you guys moved back in, you could cook us a healthy breakfast every morning,” I joked.
She giggled, and Skull scowled at me.
“Not happening. Y’all are my boys, but I don’t want my girl around all this shit. When you fall in love, you’ll understand.”
Hearing Skull talk about falling in love was a trip.
Joker laughed. “Never gonna happen, my dude.”
Crow didn’t respond, but he nodded in agreement.
We hung out a bit longer, bullshitting with the bikes and playfully flirting with Everly. Knowing we had a run to make, they
didn't stay long, but it was good to see them. I couldn’t decide if Skull was lucky to have Everly or not. Either way, settling
down wouldn’t happen to the rest of us. For me, it wasn’t physically possible, and for Joke and Crow, mentally, they would
fuck someone up. We were a goddamn mess.

TWO HOURS LATER, we pulled up to the abandoned warehouse inside the city. It was the spot where we met our supplier.
This part of town used to be busy, but now it was all dead shopping centers with broken windows and chipped parking lots. It
was nothing to see a meth head tweaking on the sidewalk.
Our bike engines echoed when we pulled inside the large roll-up door. Crow followed us in his car, a black Honda with teal
neons. We couldn’t carry the load on our bikes alone, so we usually filled Crow’s trunk instead.
“You guys are late,” Jonah said as we approached.
Jonah was older than us, but I wasn’t sure by how much. There was gray in his sideburns, and he was chunky in the center
like a middle-aged dad. Still, he was a dangerous fucker. We didn’t deal with anyone who wasn’t.
He sat counting his money with a Glock on the table at his side. We were all packing. Not that we had to worry. We’d dealt
with Jonah for years and were his favorite. He had the best shit you could buy, so we were all winning.
“Traffic was a bitch,” Joker said, picking his nails with his pocketknife.
 He wasn’t lying. There had been a terrible accident on the interstate. Five cars were involved with the coroner’s van parked
on the side of the road.
Crow tossed our black duffel onto the table and crossed his arms as we waited.
“It’s all there?” Jonah asked.
It was the same song and dance. He knew it was all there, but we all had a part to play. The truth was, he wouldn’t bother to
count the money. He knew we were good for it.
Crow nodded instead of responding. Talking wasn’t his favorite pastime.
Jonah nodded with a grin. “Then load it up, boys.”
We layered Crow’s trunk and covered it with a blanket. Not that we would get pulled over. The cops never looked our way
anymore. We had so many connections in the police department—not to mention if they tried to chase us, they would never
catch us. It was a waste of time and dangerous for other drivers on the road.
It wasn’t long before Joker and I led the way down the interstate with Crow behind us. We unloaded once we were home,
storing it in our secret spot and separating the stash for the buyers we knew would show up that night.
Staying busy helped. I wasn’t thinking about the bullshit with Tori as I weighed and counted supplies. With Crow and Joker at
my side, we spent two hours getting shit ready for buyers. The business was profitable and earned us plenty of respect. We had
it all, yet I couldn’t find a semblance of the peace I usually had.
“So we didn’t want to tell you until after the run, but Victoria Walsh was here last night,” Joker said, tossing a bag of Molly
across the table at me.
My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my head down. If I looked Joker in the eye, he would see I wasn’t shocked by his words. I
had seen Tori at The Strip but was surprised she had been in our house without me knowing.
Then a thought occurred to me. Had Joker shredded her the way I assumed he would?
“Did you hear what I said, man?” he asked.
I nodded, finally looking up into his face. “I heard you.”
His eyes scanned my expression before he sighed and shook his head. “You look upset. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
“Nah. I’m good,” I lied.
I wasn’t good.
While I didn’t want Tori around me, I wanted her away from Joker even more, which worried me. Why did I care? Why was
I worried about what Joker would do to her?
“Don’t even worry about it, man. I took care of that bitch,” he assured me.
Except his words weren’t reassuring. They sent a spark of rage down my spine that I had never felt toward Joker. He was my
boy—my brother—the most loyal person in my life. Yet his calling Tori a bitch rubbed me the wrong way.
“What happened?” I asked, trying to keep the fury from my voice.
“Nothing exciting. I told her to get the fuck out. Then Crow stepped in and got rid of her.”
Relief moved through me. Thank fuck for Crow. He was a beast, but I noticed how gentle he was regarding women.
I nodded. “Thanks, man.”
He leaned across the table and pushed his palm into my shoulder, prompting me to look him in the eye. “We’re brothers. I got
your back. You know that shit.”
I covered his hand with mine. “I know. Same.”
And it was the same.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 A cette période de Kiev appartiennent les premiers succès
sérieux de la musique nationale (l’opéra de Lyssenko, « La nuit de
Noël ») et aussi l’essor du théâtre ukrainien, grâce surtout aux efforts
de Kropyvnytsky et de Starytsky, sans compter les progrès
considérables dans les belles lettres (les nouvelles de Levytsky-
Netchouï, celles de Konisky, les poésies de Roudansky, etc.).
Mais le succès provoque l’envie : une opposition acharnée des
partisans de « l’unité du peuple russe » se déchaîne dans la presse
et envahit le monde officiel. A la tête du mouvement national de Kiev,
il n’y avait guère que des modérés qui saisissaient toutes les
occasions pour en souligner le caractère non-politique, pour en faire
ressortir la valeur civilisatrice, en démontrer les fondements
scientifiques ; malgré qu’ils se montrassent adverses au mouvement
révolutionnaire, le gouvernement continuait de prêter l’oreille aux
ukrainophobes. A la suite d’une dénonciation, faite par un des
suppôts jurés de « l’unité », M. Jousefovytch, contre la « Section du
Sud-Ouest » et ses membres, dans laquelle les idées ukrainiennes
étaient accusées de servir de manteau au « socialisme le plus pur »
et aussi — quoique le rapprochement dût paraître bien
extraordinaire — à l’intrigue autrichienne, le gouvernement central
intervint. Une enquête minutieuse ne découvrit dans les publications
incriminées aucune trace compromettante, néanmoins la
« commission extraordinaire », instituée par les autorités de
Pétersbourg, jugea qu’il fallait arrêter la productivité littéraire
ukrainienne, comme « une atteinte à l’unité et à l’intégrité de la
Russie ». Conformément à cet avis, dans l’été de 1876, juste au
moment où la Russie retentissait de clameurs enthousiastes,
présageant la délivrance des Slaves des Balkans du joug de la
Turquie, fut rendu le fameux ukase (à Ems, 18 (30) mai), qui mit
pour longtemps dans de lourdes chaînes le mouvement ukrainien en
Russie.
Cet édit, qui resta en vigueur pendant trente ans et a acquis ainsi
une triste célébrité, prescrivait que pour l’avenir aucune publication
« en dialecte petit-russien », éditée à l’étranger, ne pourrait être
introduite en Russie sans une autorisation spéciale. Dans l’empire
même, toutes œuvres originales ou traductions en ce « dialecte »
étaient sévèrement interdites, à l’exception des documents
historiques, à condition de conserver l’orthographe de l’original, et
des œuvres de pure littérature, à condition d’observer
soigneusement les règles de « l’orthographe russe généralement en
usage ». De même étaient prohibées toutes représentations
scéniques, toutes conférences et même la publication des textes des
œuvres musicales « en dialecte petit-russien ».
Il est clair que l’ukase ne trahissait aucune douceur pour la
culture ukrainienne. Cependant la censure et les fonctionnaires
reçurent encore de nombreuses instructions supplémentaires qui
laissaient à l’interprétation assez de marge pour que l’on pût
aggraver ces prohibitions. Par exemple, quoique l’édit n’eût pas
parlé de la presse quotidienne, il était admis dans la pratique qu’elle
était également interdite. Il en était de même pour les traductions,
quoique l’ukase semblât bien les autoriser. On ne pouvait non plus
éditer de livres pour les enfants. On recommanda aux censeurs de
se servir de tous les moyens pour restreindre en général cette
littérature « à visées exclusivement étatistes ». Ils biffèrent partout le
mot « Ukraine », non seulement l’expression : « la langue
ukrainienne », mais aussi celle-ci : « la langue petite-russienne », car
ce n’était, paraît-il, qu’un dialecte.
Il se forma tout une jurisprudence chicanière autour de ces
prohibitions quelquefois grotesques ; car que ne pouvait-on pas tirer,
par exemple, de cette exigence irréalisable dans la pratique, que les
mots ukrainiens fussent écrits selon l’orthographe russe ? Quelques
censeurs étendirent cette règle bizarre non seulement à
l’orthographe phonétique, mais à la morphologie. De peur qu’on
n’oubliât de se prévaloir de quelque prétexte, les manuscrits
ukrainiens étaient encore soumis à une double censure, d’abord
examinés par les comités locaux, ils étaient en outre envoyés au
bureau central. Cela causait des désagréments sans nombre aux
auteurs et aux éditeurs, les courages mal aguerris s’énervaient, bien
des projets littéraires ne purent voir le jour. Néanmoins ces mesures
n’atteignirent qu’à moitié leur objet, qui consistait à enrayer la
propagation dans les masses des lumières et de la conscience
nationale.
Le mouvement littéraire ne devait plus s’arrêter. Dans le quart de
siècle qui suivit le premier arrêt de 1847–56, il n’avait fait que
s’accroître et prendre de l’influence. Le tranchant des représailles
s’émoussa par l’usage trop souvent répété. Cette fois encore, en
1876, il y eut des expulsions, des suspensions, on supprima des
organisations — en premier lieu la Section du Sud-Ouest — mais les
gens à la longue avaient fini par apprendre à s’accommoder aux
circonstances. On avait « des positions préparées d’avance » — en
Galicie.
En effet les relations nouées par les gens de lettres et les
hommes politiques de la Grande Ukraine avec les éditeurs et les
groupes galiciens en 1861–62, loin de se rompre, n’avaient pas
cessé de se raffermir et même de s’étendre. La menace
gouvernementale étant toujours suspendue sur les têtes, on avait
pris des mesures pour y parer. Grâce aux efforts communs, fut
fondée, en 1873, une nouvelle institution, « La Société
Chevtchenko », à l’aide de fonds ramassés dans la Grande Ukraine.
On acheta pour elle une imprimerie qui devait être un instrument de
culture pour l’avenir. La revue mensuelle « Pravda », fondée à
Léopol en 1867, devint l’organe commun des écrivains de la Galicie
et de l’Ukraine. Plus tard elle céda la place à une revue
hebdomadaire, la « Zoria ». Les Ukrainiens de Russie, privés chez
eux de la possibilité d’avoir un organe qui leur appartînt, prêtaient
leur concours à ces publications. Ainsi donc toutes les difficultés
créées par l’ukase de 1876 eurent, entre autres résultats, de faire
transporter le flambeau national sur le sol galicien où, au lieu de
s’éteindre, il brûlera d’un plus vif éclat que dans le passé.
 XXXVII.
Les dernières décades du XIXe siècle.

L’ukase de 1876 devait rester en vigueur exactement trente ans,

mais il y avait plusieurs manières d’en appliquer les prescriptions,
dont quelques-unes étaient trop absolues pour pouvoir se maintenir
dans la pratique. Il se passa quelques années, pendant lesquelles
on ne permit ni spectacles, ni concerts ukrainiens et où les chansons
populaires étaient rendues dans une traduction française (!). En fin
de compte, les autorités locales et en tête les gouverneurs généraux
de Kiev et de Charkov firent entendre en haut lieu qu’il n’était point
raisonnable d’irriter ainsi la population et d’exposer l’administration
au ridicule. On permit les représentations scéniques ukrainiennes,
mais toujours avec des restrictions aussi bizarres
qu’embarrassantes, comme pour les livres. La censure fit de
véritables prouesses sur ce terrain : il n’était pas permis de jouer des
pièces qui fussent prises de la vie des classes supérieures, qui
touchassent en rien aux problèmes sociaux ou simplement
patriotiques. Les pièces autorisées devaient être données en même
temps que des œuvres russes ayant le même nombre d’actes, etc.
Le théâtre ukrainien supporta gaillardement cette oppression.
Les entrepreneurs se pliaient à toutes ces formalités ou les
éludaient, car la population manifestait un enthousiasme sans
bornes pour l’art dramatique national, qui justement s’épanouissait
rapidement. Toute une pléiade de dramaturges de talent créait alors
un style artistique ukrainien, qui se distinguait par un noble réalisme
dans le drame de genre ou le drame historique. Ils eurent d’ailleurs
beaucoup à faire pour relever le contenu d’un art à qui la censure ne
laissait que des matières insignifiantes. Malgré tout, la scène devint
un facteur précieux dans l’éducation des masses, à une époque où
la liberté de la presse et de la parole n’existait pas, où il n’y avait pas
d’écoles et presque pas de littérature.
A peu près dans le même temps où l’on permettait le théâtre
ukrainien à Kiev, on y donnait l’autorisation de publier une revue
consacrée à l’histoire de l’Ukraine (« Kievskaïa Starina », depuis
1882). Il fallut la publier en russe et placer à sa tête un écrivain qui
était persona grata auprès des autorités, mais qui l’était beaucoup
moins dans le peuple. Néanmoins l’énergie des lettrés en fit en peu
de temps une sorte de foyer national, dont l’horizon ne se borna pas
aux recherches scientifiques. Dès qu’elle put obtenir le droit de le
faire, elle publia des œuvres littéraires, s’intéressa aux questions de
la vie journalière et servit sous cette forme de succédané à la revue
ukrainienne que le gouvernement s’obstinait à ne pas autoriser.
N’était-ce point là la preuve de la vitalité du mouvement
national ? Il sembla que l’on n’eût qu’à planter un rameau desséché
dans le sol ukrainien, pour qu’on le vît fleurir et produire des fruits.
Et, quand même, ces perspectives étaient bien insignifiantes
comparées aux besoins d’un grand peuple, au dénuement de ces
millions de travailleurs obscurs, condamnés à la misère et à
l’ignorance. Et ce rayon d’espoir même était si menacé par la grande
ombre de la tutelle administrative qu’au lieu de satisfaire l’âme
ukrainienne, il y faisait naître l’inquiétude et la colère. D’autant plus
que tout près, au delà des poteaux jaunes et noirs de la frontière, les
compatriotes jouissaient d’une liberté assez limitée, il est vrai, mais
incomparablement plus large.
La constitution autrichienne de 1867 ne se distinguait pas par ses
hautes qualités. Elle avait été octroyée dans l’intention d’assurer une
influence aussi large que possible à l’aristocratie foncière et à la
bourgeoisie des villes aux dépens de la population paysanne ; le
système électif à deux degrés et à bulletin ouvert, laissait à
l’administration un rôle beaucoup trop grand dans les élections.
Bureaucratisme et domination de la noblesse polonaise se
complétaient mutuellement. Après une courte bouderie, qui suivit la
révolution de 1848, la noblesse était passée au gouvernement et
grâce à cette entente avait repris le pouvoir en Galicie.
L’administration était entre ses mains, ainsi que les municipalités
électives. Elle avait soin d’arranger les scrutins, pour que les
Ukrainiens ne passassent qu’en nombre infime, encore fallait-il que
ce soient des gens « modérés ». C’est pourquoi la population
ukrainienne, aussi nombreuse que la polonaise dans la Galicie
entière, n’était représentée au parlement que par une dizaine de
députés, et n’avait dans la diète territoriale que 10% des sièges. Les
conseils d’arrondissement étaient formés de la même façon. Toute
cette machinerie était donc entre les mains de la noblesse
polonaise, qui s’en servait pour brider l’élément ukrainien, empêcher
le développement économique et intellectuel des masses
paysannes, barrer le chemin du pouvoir aux autres nationalités et
assurer la prépondérance de l’élément polonais.
Tous les efforts des hommes politiques ukrainiens pour se
soustraire à cette domination restaient sans résultat. Les
coquetteries du gouvernement ne se répétèrent pas, de sorte que,
bon gré mal gré, on fut obligé de prendre au parlement la voie de
l’opposition. Les modérés, pour la plupart membres du haut clergé
ou de la bureaucratie, furent obligés de céder leurs sièges à des
éléments plus radicaux, qui s’unirent d’abord dans le parti populaire
(narodovtsi) après s’être séparés des conservateurs d’extrême-
droite (vers 1885). Plus tard l’aile gauche de ce parti se détacha à
son tour pour former le parti radical (1889).
Michel Drahomanov, dont nous avons mentionné le rôle de
leader avancé du mouvement de Kiev, devint l’esprit directeur de
cette opposition radicale. Originaire du gouvernement de Poltava,
élevé à Kiev, historien spécialisé, voilà l’homme qui pendant un quart
de siècle sera un des guides principaux de la politique en Ukraine.
Dénoncé au gouvernement russe pour son activité en Galicie et ne
trouvant pas dans ce dernier pays des garanties suffisantes de la
liberté de propagande, il s’établit à Genève, où, avec quelques
autres émigrés ukrainiens il commença une campagne énergique et
grosse de conséquences. La revue fondée par eux, la « Hromada »
(1878), fut la première tribune, où les patriotes ukrainiens, et en
première ligne Drahomanov lui-même, purent exposer ouvertement
et motiver abondamment leur programme. Ils reprirent les idées de
la Confrérie de Cyrille et de Méthode, en y apportant les
changements nécessaires après trente ans d’évolution et, à
l’exemple de leurs prédécesseurs, ils conduisirent le mouvement
national vers le démocratisme et le socialisme, essayant, à l’aide de
ce flambeau, de jeter de la lumière sur les aspirations sociales et
politiques d’antan, de faire voir dans les ancêtres les précurseurs
des démocrates et des socialistes modernes, de rattacher le passé
au présent. C’est ce qui était exprimé métaphoriquement dans
l’article-programme, dans les premières pages de la « Hromada » :
« Nos lettrés sauront-ils saisir le bout de ce fil qui se file de lui-
même dans notre monde paysan ? Sauront-ils le raccorder à ce qui
a été tissé pendant les XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles, dans la pensée des
gens dont l’histoire ne s’est pas interrompue ? Sauront-ils rattacher
ce fil, filé dans l’obscurité et le silence, qui est plus souvent un désir
qu’une pensée claire, au grand réseau d’idées scientifiques et
sociales du monde européen ? Voilà quelle doit être la tâche des
intellectuels de l’Ukraine. »
Partant de là, Drahomanov formulait ainsi le programme
ukrainien : fédéralisme dans la politique, liberté individuelle dans la
vie sociale, socialisme dans la vie économique, rationalisme et
réalisme dans les sciences et dans les arts. Sur ces bases, il
critiquait vivement les opportunistes, les conservateurs et les
chauvins de la Galicie et de la Grande Ukraine, il les invitait à un
travail politique et civilisateur conséquent, animé d’un large
démocratisme national dans sa forme et universel dans son esprit. Il
se montra l’adversaire des méthodes révolutionnaires pratiquées
alors en Russie et désapprouvait surtout les actes de terrorisme. Il
s’adressait surtout aux intellectuels de Galicie, puisque la presse de
ce pays le lui facilitait, tandis que la presse russe était soumise à la
censure. Ce fut là aussi que se firent le mieux sentir les résultats de
son influence. Nous y trouvons ses partisans les plus ardents : O.
Terletsky, M. Pavlyk et surtout Ivan Franko, le plus noble
représentant de l’Ukraine galicienne, poète, savant et publiciste des
plus pénétrants et des plus féconds (1856–1916). Ces écrivains se
proposent de réaliser le programme de Genève sur le sol de la
Galicie, ils attaquent énergiquement les restes du vieil opportunisme
et du cléricalisme, ils luttent contre l’éloignement que les générations
précédentes avaient montré envers le peuple, et s’imposent comme
tâche immédiate la formation d’un parti paysan par excellence, ayant
pour but l’instruction des masses campagnardes et leur organisation
politique.
Puisque en Ukraine Occidentale aussi bien qu’en Ukraine
Orientale la vie ukrainienne s’était réfugiée presque exclusivement
dans les campagnes, il fallait que le parti paysan prît sur lui les
tâches nationales et que par conséquent il obtînt la prépondérance
dans la représentation politique du pays. Aussi sa formation n’alla-t-
elle pas sans une critique énergique des tendances
antidémocratiques des partis de droite ukrainiens. Ces divergences
étaient surtout criantes en Galicie. Le parti nationaliste ne pouvait
abandonner ses anciens rêves d’obtenir la faveur du gouvernement
et, comme le gouvernement était représenté ici par la bureaucratie
ou pour mieux dire la noblesse polonaise, ses leaders essayèrent de
s’entendre avec elle aux prix de certaines concessions (1890).
Ce pas imprudent souleva l’indignation populaire et ce fut à cette
occasion que se forma le susdit parti radical paysan, à la tête duquel
se mirent les partisans de Drahomanov, réclamant énergiquement
une opposition intransigeante contre le régime de la noblesse. Ces
querelles produisirent dans la population et entre les partis
ukrainiens une tension sans exemple dans les annales politiques du
pays. La Grande Ukraine fut entraînée dans ces débats ; ce fut un
flot de discussions sur les questions politiques et sociales, sur
l’opportunisme dans la vie publique et le conservatisme national.
 A défaut de presse dans la Grande Ukraine, les revues et les
journaux galiciens deviennent l’arène animée où s’échangent les
idées, où se rencontrent et s’entrechoquent les tendances diverses.
On se prononce ouvertement sur les questions vitales concernant
l’Ukraine Orientale, et on ne manque pas de se répandre en
critiques acerbes contre le régime de la Russie et contre sa politique
hostile aux nationalités. Le gouvernement de Pétersbourg peut bien
fermer ses frontières aux publications galiciennes, mais elles
pénètrent dans l’intérieur, malgré toutes les précautions, et y attisent
l’opposition radicale et démocratique dans les populations.
 XXXVIII.
Au tournant du siècle. (1898–1906.)

En Russie, l’administration eut beau faire et, en Galicie, le

« travail organique » des Polonais se continuer, il n’en est pas moins
vrai que, vers la fin du siècle, le mouvement ukrainien avait pris une
ampleur que l’on aurait eu peine à s’imaginer vingt ans auparavant.
Ses conquêtes ne se bornaient pas au domaine politique, il
manifestait aussi sa puissance dans la littérature, les sciences et les
arts. Il ne se contente plus de prouver théoriquement son droit à
l’existence, mais il passe au travail d’édification sur le terrain de la
pratique.
En Galicie, la chaire d’histoire à l’université de Léopol, que les
patriotes ukrainiens étaient parvenus à obtenir, leur servit de point
de départ pour étendre leurs ambitions ; ils se rappelèrent que le
gouvernement autrichien avait promis que cette université tout
entière serait l’apanage des Ukrainiens, comme celle de Cracovie
celui des Polonais et que, par conséquent, cette institution n’était
passée que de fait entre des mains étrangères. La lutte s’enflamma
à ce sujet ; pour le moment on réclama un certain nombre de chaires
séparées, pour en arriver peu à peu à une université ukrainienne. Il
fallait trouver des professeurs : les étudiants ne se contentent pas
d’organiser des manifestations en masse, pour réclamer leurs droits,
mais ils se livrent aussi à un travail scientifique intense. L’ancienne
« Société Chevtchenko », dont nous avons mentionné la fondation à
Léopol par les patriotes de la Grande Ukraine, se transforme en une
institution scientifique, se réorganise sur le modèle des Académies
des sciences de l’Europe et peut bientôt leur être comparée. Autour
d’elle se groupent les savants des deux Ukraines qui contribuent à
ses publications. (L’auteur de ces lignes, ukrainien originaire de
l’Ukraine Orientale, chargé de la chaire d’histoire nouvellement
créée, a eu l’honneur de présider pendant vingt ans aux destinées
de cette société.)
Le peuple lit et s’intéresse à lire dans les salles de lecture que
l’association « Prosvita » ouvre dans tout le pays. Les belles-lettres
s’enrichissent alors d’une série de talents brillants, qui ne le cèdent
en rien aux écrivains de l’Europe. Ils surgissent dans la Grande
Ukraine aussi bien qu’en Ukraine Occidentale, qui n’avait pas
jusqu’ici été féconde à cet égard ; ce sont, après Fedkovitch et
Franko déjà nommés, les romanciers V. Stefanyk, Z. Martovytch, O.
Kobylanska, pour ne citer que ceux-là et, en Grande Ukraine,
Tobilevitch, Kotsiubynsky, Samiylenko, Lessia Oukaïnka et d’autres
encore. Le centième anniversaire de la renaissance de la littérature
ukrainienne, à compter de 1798, année de l’apparition de l’Énéïde
de Kotlarevsky, fut célébré en Galicie au milieu de l’enthousiasme
délirant des foules et donna l’occasion de jeter un regard en arrière
sur les progrès accomplis pendant un siècle, malgré les difficultés du
chemin. Les plus mauvais jours étaient passés, l’avenir s’ouvrait
plein de promesses. C’était une année de jubilés : celui de l’abolition
du servage en Autriche en 1848, celui de la grande insurrection de
1648. Aussi dans le prologue écrit à cette occasion par Franko, le
plus grand poète national alors en vie, on croyait entendre le son de
la trompette annonçant la prochaine insurrection populaire, la
prochaine révolution qui délivrerait l’Ukraine.
L’organisation et l’instruction des masses avaient fait dans les dix
dernières années d’énormes progrès. La grande majorité des
paysans constituait déjà une armée politique solidement organisée,
sur laquelle ses chefs pouvaient compter. Elle avait renversé une à
une, avec une ténacité et une discipline admirables, les barrières
élevées par la classe dirigeante polonaise. Son stoïcisme, son
abnégation trouvaient leur écho dans les œuvres des romanciers
galiciens (les nouvelles de Martovytch particulièrement sont les
fastes de ces héros obscurs).
A cet égard la Grande Ukraine était restée bien en arrière. Quels
que fussent les défauts de la constitution autrichienne, ils
n’approchaient en rien de l’arbitraire qui régnait en Russie, mettant à
l’instruction politique des masses et à leur éducation nationale des
obstacles insurmontables. Les succès des intellectuels de la Galicie
étaient pour ceux de la Grande Ukraine une sorte de reproche
vivant, une source intarissable d’indignation contre un régime
oppresseur.
Ce même anniversaire de la renaissance, qui avait « des
positions préparées d’avance » en Galicie, donna lieu en Russie à
une manifestation jusque-là sans exemple, lors de l’inauguration à
Poltava du monument de Kotlarevsky, originaire de cette ville.
L’administration permit seulement aux délégués venus de Galicie de
prononcer à la cérémonie des discours en ukrainien, tandis que cela
restait interdit aux gens du pays. Ces derniers déchirèrent
ostensiblement les adresses qu’ils apportaient et se refusèrent à
prendre la parole. Et le plus remarquable pour l’époque c’est que
cette démonstration resta impunie !
D’ailleurs les autorités s’étaient lassées en reconnaissant leur
impuissance à arrêter le mouvement. D’année en année il se faisait
des brèches toujours plus grandes dans le système. La censure
devenait moins sévère, l’administration plus coulante dans la
pratique. On sentait que la conscience nationale des masses était
prête à se réveiller. Les partis politiques commençaient à
s’organiser : « le parti ukrainien révolutionnaire » est fondé en 1900
et prend pour devise : « L’Ukraine indépendante ». L’année 1904
amena la guerre russo-japonaise, dans laquelle l’observateur le plus
superficiel pressentait une répétition de la guerre de Crimée et le
commencement de la ruine de l’autocratisme. Le gouvernement en
eut conscience lui-même et commença de parler de sa « confiance
dans la population ». Au mois de décembre de la même année, le
conseil des ministres se souvint de la question ukrainienne et
exprima l’opinion que toutes les représailles pratiquées par le
gouvernement depuis trente ans, d’ailleurs impuissantes à atteindre
leur but, n’avaient été qu’une longue erreur : le mouvement ukrainien
ne présentait en réalité aucun danger pour l’état et toutes les
mesures prises pour l’enrayer n’avaient fait que nuire au
développement matériel et intellectuel des masses. Les autorités
compétentes consultées furent du même avis, notamment le
gouverneur général de Kiev, l’université de cette ville et celle de
Charkov et l’académie des sciences de Pétersbourg. Quelques
spécialistes de cette académie rédigèrent même un mémoire dans
lequel ils réfutaient impitoyablement les arguments qui avaient servi
à étayer la politique gouvernementale : la langue littéraire russe
n’était point une langue « pan-russe », familière à tous les Slaves
orientaux, c’était simplement la langue des Grands Russes ; elle ne
pouvait remplacer pour les Ukrainiens la langue maternelle qui avait
toujours existé à côté de la langue russe et avait droit à sa place au
soleil ainsi que littérature ukrainienne ou « petite-russienne ».
Le conseil n’avait pas encore eu le temps de prendre des
mesures en conséquence que le flot révolutionnaire se soulevait et
forçait le gouvernement à faire des concessions plus larges, qui
abolissaient les prescriptions spéciales contre le mouvement
ukrainien. Le 17 (30) octobre 1905, la constitution russe vit le jour ;
les « règlements provisoires sur la presse », publiés au mois de
novembre suivant, donnèrent la liberté aux journaux et d’autres
suivirent pour les publications non-périodiques (mai 1906), qui
annulèrent tacitement toutes les restrictions de 1876 et mirent les
langues allogènes sur le même pied que la langue russe. Les
Ukrainiens ne manquèrent pas d’en profiter, les premiers quotidiens
et les premières revues sortent des presses : vers le milieu de 1906,
on comptait déjà 35 publications périodiques en langue nationale.
Des sociétés pour propager l’instruction se forment en grand nombre
sur le modèle de la « Prosvita » de Galicie et sous le même nom. A
Kiev commence ses travaux une société ukrainienne des sciences
organisée à l’instar de celle de Léopol. Les livres s’emparent des
thèmes qui avaient été jusque-là prohibés en Russie. La « Revue
des sciences et des belles lettres », que l’on entretenait depuis dix
ans en Ukraine autrichienne était transportée de Léopol à Kiev.
Les élections au premier parlement de Russie, à la « Douma de
l’Empire », eurent lieu au printemps de 1905 ; elles envoyèrent à
Pétersbourg une proportion considérable de députés, qui
reconnaissaient le mouvement national et qui, au nombre d’environ
cinquante, formèrent à la Douma la fraction ukrainienne. Son
programme politique fut établi sur les traditions nationales :
fédéralisation de la Russie, établissement immédiat de l’autonomie
en Ukraine, enseignement dans la langue maternelle, emploi de
l’ukrainien dans l’administration et dans la vie publique, garantie des
intérêts nationaux des minorités.
 XXXIX.
La réaction et la guerre. (1907–1916.)

Le peuple ukrainien allait-il enfin, après tant de siècles de

souffrances, entrer dans la voie du développement normal et guérir
des blessures qui avaient été infligées à sa vie nationale ? Il parut,
au moins par moments, qu’il en serait ainsi.
Les centres géographiques naturels de l’Ukraine redeviennent
aussi les foyers de la civilisation nationale. La liberté de parler, de se
réunir, de s’organiser donnait aux intellectuels la possibilité de
renverser les barrières de l’ignorance entre lesquelles la politique
russe avait parqué les masses. Jusque-là non seulement il ne
pouvait être question d’éduquer politiquement le peuple au moyen
de la presse, mais la moindre velléité d’un intellectuel à vouloir se
rapprocher des couches profondes pouvait lui coûter cher. Le
philosophe bien connu Lessevytch n’avait-il pas été banni en Sibérie
pour avoir introduit chez lui à la campagne la langue ukrainienne
dans l’école et éveillé les soupçons des autorités par son attitude
bienveillante envers les paysans ?
Mais maintenant il semblait que le livre et le journal pourraient
pénétrer dans les villages et ouvrir les yeux des travailleurs du sol
sur leurs besoins matériels et intellectuels ; que leurs frères, déjà
éclairés, pourraient aller s’informer auprès d’eux de leurs idées, de
leurs aspirations ; que les vœux de ces souffre-douleur jusque-là
muets se feraient entendre par la voix de leurs représentants à la
Douma ; que les organes de l’administration locale
s’autonomiseraient et se démocratiseraient. Ces succès
constitutionnels, fruits de la révolution, aiguillonnent les ardeurs en
Occident. La lutte reprend de plus belle en Autriche pour l’obtention
du suffrage égal, direct et au scrutin secret (il n’était ici qu’universel
et inégal) et les Ukrainiens de Galicie y prennent part avec une
énergie qu’anime la délivrance de leurs frères en Russie.
Dans l’empire des tzars, les chants de triomphe se turent bientôt.
Le chemin de la liberté n’était pas si court, ni si facile à monter. La
réaction ne se laissa pas abattre, elle tint bon sur toute la ligne. Le
manifeste constitutionnel était à peine promulgué, malgré les efforts
contraires des réactionnaires, que les pogromes commencèrent
aussitôt. Descentes de police, assassinats, condamnations à mort à
foison, les cours martiales accompagnèrent les élections. Quand la
Douma voulut élever sa voix contre ce régime pseudo-
constitutionnel, elle fut dissoute dans le troisième mois de son
existence et un grand nombre de ses membres furent jetés en prison
et privés de leurs droits politiques pour avoir protesté contre la
dissolution. La seconde Douma, contenant encore beaucoup trop de
députés d’opposition, fut également dissoute. On altéra la loi
électorale pour placer le scrutin sous l’œil de l’administration. Cette
tutelle se fit surtout sentir dans les provinces, dans les villages chez
les paysans. Leurs députés furent, en fait, désignés par le
gouvernement et l’Ukraine, qui avait été représentée dans la
première et la deuxième Douma par un nombre considérable de
députés, fut dans la troisième privée de toute représentation. Et si
ses mandataires n’avaient pu, grâce à une procédure législative des
plus compliquées, faire passer aucune loi favorable à ses
aspirations, que pouvait-elle espérer d’une majorité
gouvernementale et réactionnaire ? Il ne se trouva pas de voix
suffisantes pour appuyer une mesure aussi raisonnable que
l’introduction de la langue maternelle dans les écoles primaires de
l’Ukraine : la Douma se prononça pour l’introduction d’autres
langues dans ces écoles, mais l’ukrainien fut exclu. Dans ses dix
ans d’existence le parlement ne trouva rien à donner à ce pays.
En même temps l’arbitraire continuait de régner parce que
l’administration tenait à sa vieille routine et ne tenait aucun compte
des nouvelles lois, surtout lorsqu’elles ne cadraient pas avec ses
idées.
Ainsi, à les prendre à la lettre, les nouvelles prescriptions ne
faisaient aucune distinction entre la langue russe et les autres
langues de l’empire, entre une organisation russe et une
organisation allogène, mais la censure, la police et l’administration
avaient deux paires de balances : ce qui était permis en langue
russe ne pouvait paraître d’aucune manière en ukrainien. Cette
dernière langue opérait, à les en croire, d’une façon magique sur
l’imagination populaire, de sorte que la traduction du texte russe le
plus inoffensif pouvait avoir une portée incalculable. Les livres
ukrainiens, qui pouvaient maintenant être publiés sans censure
préalable, servaient de prétextes à des procès politiques dont l’issue
était souvent des plus funestes pour les auteurs. Les articles de
journaux qui ne pouvaient donner prise à la censure ou à
l’intervention du tribunal étaient toujours exposés aux chicanes de
l’administration. Conformément aux ordres secrets des autorités, les
quotidiens disparaissaient à la poste et n’arrivaient jamais aux
paysans et aux ouvriers. Leurs abonnés avaient à subir le
ressentiment de la bureaucratie. Les organisations ukrainiennes
n’obtenaient pas l’autorisation ou étaient plus tard fermées, au
mépris des lois. Cette pratique illégale trouvait l’approbation des
autorités suprêmes tant qu’elle était appliquée aux nationalités
indésirables.
Le sénat, ce gardien suprême des lois, décida en dernier appel,
sur une plainte des Ukrainiens de Poltava contre l’administration qui
ne leur permettait pas d’ouvrir leur section locale de la « Prosvita »,
que les organisations ukrainiennes n’étaient pas désirables même si
elles poursuivaient des buts légaux (1908). Plus tard le premier
ministre, Stolypine, déclara plus expressivement encore que le
gouvernement restait fidèle à la vieille politique de lutte contre tout
particularisme ukrainien et, en général, contre tout ce qui pouvait
porter atteinte à l’unité des Slaves orientaux. (Il faut noter que dans
cette circulaire, malgré la théorie officiellement admise de « l’unité du
peuple russe », les Ukrainiens sont clairement comptés parmi les
nationalités allogènes.) L’administration n’avait donc point besoin de
s’embarrasser des apparences de la légitimité. Ainsi, sans le
moindre motif, on ferma, en 1910, la plus importante société
d’instruction de l’Ukraine, la « Prosvita » de Kiev, ce qui fit une
pénible impression sur la population, habituée du reste à de pareilles
violations de droits.
En Autriche-Hongrie, les Ukrainiens avaient subi un échec, moins
brutal sans doute, mais tout aussi sensible. La réforme électorale
avait été adoptée, mais on l’avait défigurée dans la pratique pour
qu’elle fonctionnât au profit des nationalités et des classes sociales
privilégiées, de sorte que l’égalité devant le scrutin n’était plus
qu’une phrase vaine. Les arrondissements électoraux avaient été
répartis de telle façon, qu’il y avait un mandat pour 40 mille
Allemands, ou pour 80 mille Polonais, ou pour 150 mille Ukrainiens.
Ces derniers n’envoyèrent donc qu’un petit nombre de représentants
à ce « parlement populaire » qui ne répondit aucunement aux
espoirs qu’on avait placés en lui. Les dissensions entre les
nationalités prirent la prépondérance sur les luttes de classes et
firent échouer les projets de réforme. Le règlement des élections
pour les diètes provinciales avait été laissé à la compétence de ces
diètes mêmes. En Galicie les discussions à ce sujet furent si
acharnées, la lutte prit des formes si inouïes, que les relations entre
la population ukrainienne et la polonaise furent à jamais rompues.
C’est à cette époque que l’on commença à mettre en circulation
les bruits mensongers, d’après lesquels les organisations
ukrainiennes auraient reçu des subsides de l’Allemagne et que le
mouvement lui-même ne se maintenait qu’à l’aide du « mark
allemand ». Il est inutile d’ajouter que ces inventions étaient dénuées
de tout fondement, car, non seulement les Ukrainiens n’avaient
l’appui d’aucune puissance étrangère [30] , mais spécialement les
Allemands manquaient complètement d’intérêt pour leurs
aspirations, puisqu’ils les regardaient sous le même jour que les
publicistes et savants russes, à qui ils s’en rapportaient là-
dessus [31] . Néanmoins la presse nationaliste russe et polonaise fit
tout pour propager ces inepties et même le ministre Sazonoff ne
craignit pas de les répéter à la tribune de la Douma. Cela ne fit
qu’exaspérer les passions, qui devinrent incontrôlables lorsque la
guerre éclata.
[30] « Le mark allemand » servait en effet à gâter la
bonne humeur des politiciens polonais, mais d’une autre
manière. Au commencement du nouveau siècle, éclata
une grande grève d’ouvriers agricoles, qui fut étouffée par
l’administration polonaise. Les sociétés économiques
ukrainiennes organisèrent l’envoi en Allemagne, pour les
travaux de la saison, d’ouvriers agricoles ukrainiens. En
Galicie le niveau des salaires s’en ressentit au grand dam
des propriétaires fonciers polonais.
[31] Comme président de Société des sciences de
Kiev, je me rappelle un incident caractéristique. Cette
société proposa un échange de publications à d’autres
sociétés savantes, notamment à l’académie des sciences
de Berlin et leur envoya la collection complète de ses
publications. Les berlinois les renvoyèrent en remarquant
qu’elles ne présentaient pour eux aucun intérêt. Autant
qu’il m’en souvient, rien de pareil n’arriva même avec les
institutions russes ou polonaises !

On la sentait venir à la tension des rapports austro-russes,

depuis l’annexion de la Bosnie, et tous ceux que gênait le
mouvement ukrainien et qui voyaient d’un mauvais œil l’extension
qu’il avait prise pendant les dix dernières années, espéraient profiter
de l’occasion pour l’anéantir. Et ils étaient nombreux : chauvins
polonais en Galicie, chauvins russes dans la Grande Ukraine et tous
les renégats à qui la renaissance ukrainienne semblait un reproche
vivant. Aussi le premier coup de canon donna-t-il le signal d’une
atroce persécution.
En Russie, dès le début de la guerre, on supprima les journaux
ukrainiens. L’administration, usant largement des pouvoirs
extraordinaires que lui donnait la loi martiale, se mit à arrêter les
patriotes et à faire disparaître les organisations. La censure ne
manqua pas l’occasion de renouveler arbitrairement les anciennes
prescriptions que les publications ukrainiennes employassent
exclusivement l’orthographe russe et les mit par ses exigences dans
l’impossibilité de paraître.
La situation n’était guère plus supportable en Autriche.
L’administration polonaise en Galicie, la bureaucratie hongroise dans
les Carpathes, fortes de la puissance dont elles étaient revêtues en
temps de guerre, s’apprêtèrent à rendre inoffensifs à jamais les
intellectuels ukrainiens. Des centaines et des milliers de « suspects »
furent arrêtés, exilés dans les provinces occidentales, parqués dans
les camps de concentration ou jetés en prison. Lorsque les troupes
russes franchirent la frontière les autorités civiles quittèrent le pays,
mais les autorités militaires qui les remplacèrent pour un temps firent
fusiller à leur gré et sans aucune forme de procès.
L’occupation par les troupes russes, en automne 1914, fut encore
plus désastreuse. Le gouvernement du tzar ne crut-il pas tenir entre
les mains le centre du mouvement ukrainien, oubliant que la Galicie
n’avait été que son refuge depuis le décret de 1876, mais que son
véritable berceau était l’Ukraine même ? D’ailleurs, les imputations
calomnieuses d’une intrigue autrichienne ne continuaient-elles pas
de circuler ? N’étaient-elles pas devenues comme une sorte
d’hallucination des sphères officielles, qui auraient pourtant bien pu
vérifier les faits ? Mais ne s’agissait-il pas d’une simple vengeance ?
En tout cas les autorités russes se mirent à l’ouvrage avec
acharnement.
On exila les intellectuels ukrainiens et même des citadins et des
paysans qui semblaient avoir une certaine éducation. Femmes,
vieillards, enfants étaient traînés de prison à prison ou menés en exil
dans la Russie orientale ou la Sibérie, sans vêtements, sans
souliers, dans un état de détresse épouvantable. Les institutions et
les publications nationales furent supprimées, la langue ukrainienne
fut chassée de l’école et de l’administration, où l’on n’admit plus que
le polonais et le russe. Ce fut un rude coup et tout-à-fait inattendu