"Shut up." Slash's grin was all teeth. "Finally, someone talking sense. Come here, pretty boy. Nice and slow."
I walked toward him. Ten feet. Eight. Six. Jake's eyes found mine—one swollen shut, but the other clear with panic. He tried to shake his head, tried to warn me off. I winked at him.
Four feet. Close enough to see the sweat beading on Slash's forehead. Close enough to smell his fear underneath the bravado. "That's far enough." He adjusted his grip on the gun. "Now, here's what's going to happen?—"
I moved.
Not toward Slash. Toward his gun arm. My left hand caught his wrist, shoved it upward—the shot went wild, punching through the ceiling. My right hand, still gripping the tactical pen, drove into the soft meat of his inner elbow.
He screamed. The gun dropped.
I caught it, spun, had it pressed under his chin before he could blink.
"Here's what's actually going to happen." My voice didn't shake. My hands didn't tremble. "You're going to walk out of here, get on your bike, and deliver a message to Viper."
"What—what message?"
"Tell him Kai Nakamura says hello." I leaned closer, let him see whatever was in my eyes. "And tell him if he comes near my family again, I'll finish what I started."
I stepped back, keeping the gun trained on him. "Go. Now."
Slash stumbled toward the stairs, cradling his arm. At the doorway, he turned, hatred burning in his eyes.
"This isn't over."
"It never is." I smiled without warmth. "Looking forward to it."
He ran.
The second he was gone, I dropped beside Jake. "Hey, hey—I've got you." I was already assessing damage, fingers gentle on his battered face. "Can you tell me where it hurts?"
"Everywhere." He tried to laugh, choked on it. "Arm's bad. They—they twisted it."
Dislocated shoulder. I could see it now, the way the joint sat wrong under his skin.
"I need to put this back," I told him. "It's going to hurt like hell, but it'll feel better after."
"Just do it."
Axel appeared at my side, knife out, cutting the ropes binding Jake to the chair. "Hold him steady."
Tank and Irish took positions—Tank gripping Jake's torso, Irish holding his legs. I took his arm, felt the wrongness of the joint.
"On three. One?—"
I popped it back in on two. Jake screamed, then sagged with relief.
"You said three," he gasped.
"I lied." I was already checking his other injuries. Split lip. Bruised ribs, maybe cracked. Concussion likely. "We need to get him back to the clubhouse. He needs rest, ice, monitoring."
"I'll call Blade, have him bring the truck." Tank was already pulling out his phone. "Faster than bikes with him like this. It won’t take long."
Axel crouched beside me, and I felt his hand on my back—warm, steady, grounding. "You good?"
"I'm fine." I finished my assessment, sat back on my heels. "He'll be okay. Nothing permanent."
"I meant you." His grey eyes searched mine. "What you did back there?—"
