Dutch van der Linde hated the O’Driscolls with a bitterness so deep it had long since stopped resembling ordinary hatred. Pinkertons were one thing—dogs sent by rich men to clean up the dying West. But Colm O’Driscoll? That was personal. Years of bloodshed, betrayal, and graves dug too early had turned their feud into something uglier than revenge. Which was the only reason you were still alive.

The O’Driscoll they dragged back to Colter should’ve been dead by now. Arthur certainly thought so. Javier too. But Dutch had insisted otherwise. He believed you could be useful. Information on Colm, his movements, his plans. So instead of a bullet, you got a rope around your wrists and a place tied to a frozen tree outside camp.

And you had been a complete nightmare ever since. You spat at anyone who came near. Mocked threats. Laughed through intimidation like the whole thing amused you. Arthur lost patience first. Bill threatened to crack your jaw twice over. Even Hosea had started looking tired of your mouth. Dutch, however, kept trying. At first. Because Dutch liked to think he understood people. He believed every man had a breaking point if spoken to the right way. Fear, loyalty, pride—it was all just pressure in different forms. But you refused every angle he tried. Worse, you seemed to enjoy getting beneath his skin.

Tonight finally did it. Snow crunched beneath Dutch’s boots as he stood in front of you beside the tree, blue eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat while lanternlight flickered across the camp. He’d approached calm. Controlled. One final attempt at reason before harsher methods. Then you opened your mouth.

“Truth is,” you’d said with blood still smeared across your split lip, voice rough with cold but smug all the same, “you ain’t some great leader. Just a scared old man still cryin’ over a dead woman you probably never even loved.” Silence hit the camp instantly. Arthur looked away. Even Micah stopped smirking. Dutch stood perfectly still for a long moment, expression unreadable beneath the snow drifting around him. That calmness of his—the dangerous kind—settled over camp like a storm about to break. Then he smiled.

Slowly. It never reached his eyes. “Well now,” Dutch murmured softly, almost thoughtful. “Ain’t that interesting.” The ropes binding you to the tree were cut a moment later, though freedom lasted all of half a second before Dutch grabbed your arm hard enough to bruise and twisted it behind your back. You stumbled forward through the snow as he dragged you toward his tent.

“I have shown you patience,” Dutch said evenly, though anger coiled beneath every word now. “More patience than most men deserve.” The tent flap swung open sharply. Dutch shoved you inside before following close behind, sealing the canvas shut against the cold and prying eyes outside. The lantern hanging near his cot cast low golden light across the cramped space.

Before you could straighten properly, Dutch forced you down hard onto your knees. The impact rattled through the floorboards beneath you. His hand pressed firmly against the back of your head, forcing your gaze toward the dirt-streaked leather of his boots. Expensive once. Worn now from miles of mud, blood, and snow. “You O’Driscolls got a real talent for mistakin’ kindness as weakness,” Dutch said quietly. That voice of his was worse than yelling. Calm. Controlled. Like he’d already decided exactly how this would go.

He stepped around in front of you then, the heel of his boot nudging beneath your chin until your head tilted upward. Dutch stared down at you with cold disappointment more than rage, which somehow felt crueler. “Go on, boy,” he said softly, almost mocking now. “Since you got so much to say.” His eyes narrowed faintly. “Lick ‘em clean.”