“What the fuck does that mean?” King shouted, grabbing my attention as he faced off with Cash.
Cash shook his head and was about to elaborate when King’s phone rang. Pushing his brothers away, he answered it, placingthe phone on speaker so we all could hear as a sinister laugh filled the room.
“Lose something, asshole?”
“Fuck you, Skinner. Where are they?” King’s voice was a low growl, but beneath it, a tremor of desperation. I wanted to believe he was in control, needed to believe that he was the ruthless, level-headed leader I knew him to be. But the gnawing uncertain fear pricked at the edges of my composure.
“Tell me, King, didn’t Steele teach you anything?” Skinner’s voice rasped, dripping with malice. “Patience. How to play the long game. Or perhaps”—he chuckled, a dry, brittle sound—“he taught you the value of things you can’t possibly afford to lose.”
“I’m going to rip off your head and shit down your throat.” My brother’s threat was visceral, a primal urge to lash out, to impose order through brute force—a method I’d always scorned in others but found myself increasingly drawn to now.
It was so much simpler.
“Tell me something. How much is she worth to you?” Skinner’s voice lowered, a silken thread weaving through my already fraying nerves. “Because your precious Grace is about to become a very valuable commodity.”
And just then, a ping arrived, letting everyone know King had just received an incoming text message. Some brothers looked away, a flicker of unease in their eyes, while others stiffened, anticipating the inevitable storm. This was King’s fight, but it was their burden too, the silent weight of loyalty pressing down on them.
With shaky fingers, King opened the attachment and froze. The image was everything I’d dreaded, and more. Moving to stand next to him, I saw the grainy image of Grace appearing, naked, beaten and bound, her eyes wide with a terror I knew all too well.
My gut clenched.
This wasn’t just about the Death Dogs anymore. This was something far more sinister, a game of leverage where Grace and Karlyn were the ultimate prize. The laughter that followed was a chilling crescendo, a testament to the depravity of the men who held her.
“This one’s got spunk, doesn’t she?” another voice, slick and oily, slithered from the speaker as another text appeared, and I braced myself, knowing who it would be. “Almost made me forget the mess her father made. Almost.” His implication hung in the air, a dark cloud of unspoken history. My blood ran cold. Karl Ingalls Sr., the serial killer who had blazed a trail of blood and destruction in his wake before Declan killed the son of a bitch. A knot of pure, unadulterated rage tightened in my chest, a familiar beast stirring from its slumber. But with the rage came a cold dread, a chilling certainty that this was not just about revenge for the past, but a deliberate, calculated torment aimed at my vulnerabilities.
My face was a mask of cold fury, but behind my eyes, a battle raged. I wanted to believe King could command his men, that his word was law. But the sight of Karlyn, so vulnerable, so broken, ignited a desperate, reckless impulse.
I knew King was warring with himself. He could order Sypher to trace the call, to do the calculated, strategic thing. Or he could rip this place apart with his bare hands, a futile act of pure, unthinking violence that would achieve nothing but his own destruction, and potentially Grace’s too. I saw the options laid out before him, stark and unforgiving: preserve his reputation and his men by playing the calculated game, or shatter everything in a desperate gamble to save the woman he loved more than he ever thought possible. I knew with a sinking heart that whatever choice he made, a piece of him would die with it.
And with one look at Sypher, he made his decision.
Fingers flew across Sypher’s keyboard as he broke into King’s phone, tracing the call. I stood beside him, resolute, and watched as his hands clenched into fists, the urge to smash the screen, to silence the digital breadcrumbs, warring with the chilling necessity of following this trail.
He was King. The president of the Silver Shadows. He was supposed to be untouchable. But right now, I knew he felt utterly exposed, a pawn in a game he had never intended to play.
“You’ve got until dawn. Meet me at the falls in Wyoming. And bring the fucking bitch!”
“JACKSON!”
“KINGSTON!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ravage
Our names ripped through the air, raw, primal cries that clawed at my very core, echoing the frantic thunder in my chest. We burst from the clubhouse’s shadows, the scent of stale beer and desperation clinging to us like a shroud. The asphalt bit at my soles as we sprinted, the sour tang of fear and adrenaline flooding my mouth. My hands, slick with sweat, fumbled with the ignition, the roar of the engine a violent, beautiful symphony against the pounding of our shared fear.
With a guttural scream of defiance, I slammed the throttle, tires spitting gravel as we tore from the compound. Kingston was a blur beside me, his own beast unleashed, a dark silhouette against the sickly neon glow of the streetlamps. Behind us, the guttural growls of our brothers’ engines rose in a desperate, unified chorus, a promise of vengeance etched in fire and steel.
We were no longer men; we were predators, hunting the dawn.
All I could think of was getting to her. Every cell in my body ached, demanding I find her. She was my world, my sanity, the only goodness I had left in my soul. I refused to think about anything else but her. She was all that mattered. I was nothing, a husk of a shell without her.
The wind whipped past me, stinging my face as I sped down the open road. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat echoing with her name. I could barely hear the roar of engines behind me over the pounding in my ears, but I didn’t care—nothing would stop me from reaching her.Nothing, my mind screamed, a desperate mantra that battled with a colder, sharper voice whispering in the back of my skull.
The world blurred past as I tore down the road, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum, a frantic rhythm against the icy knot of dread tightening in my gut. Each turn of my wheels brought memories of her flooding back—the laughter we shared, a ghost tickling my ears, promising a warmth I suddenly felt I’d betrayed. The promises whispered on late nights now felt like chains, binding me to a past I was actively trying to outrun, a past that demanded I be the man she believed in, a man I was rapidly failing to be. And the hope she ignited in me when everything else seemed lost. That was the cruelest torment, a beacon I was chasing while simultaneously questioning if I deserved to reach its light. I gripped my handlebars tighter, desperate. Unwavering purpose warred with a gnawing self-loathing. I would reach her, no matter what the cost. But what was the cost? Was it the miles I was racking up, the physical toll? Or was it the erosion of who I once was, the person who had earned that hope? The answer, I feared, was a price I was already paying, and the true payment was yet to come.
Trees blurred past, headlights slicing through the darkness as I leaned forward, urging my bike to go faster. There was no room for fear or hesitation—only the unyielding need to see her safe, to hold her in my arms again. Every second counted; every mile felt endless, stretching between us like a living nightmare I was desperate to escape.
