Killer’s voice was calm, cold. “You wanna act like she’s yours, Tool? Then you should’ve acted like it three months ago. Instead, you ghosted her. Let her sit alone. Let her bleed alone. Now, you wanna act like she means something to you? Not without going through me.”
Tool swung first—wild, reckless. Killer ducked it, driving a fist into Tool’s ribs so hard the crack echoed like a gunshot.
Tool grunted, staggering back, but Killer was already on him. Another hit, this one to the jaw, then a hard elbow that split Tool’s lip wide open.
“You put your hands on her again,” Killer growled, “and I’ll break every bone in your fuckin’ hands.”
Tool tried to recover, lunged, but Killer sidestepped and slammed him against the side of the building. The impact rattled the siding and dropped Tool to his knees.
Brandi flinched but didn’t look away.
Angel muttered, “Damn,” under his breath.
Romeo shook his head. “Told you.”
Killer grabbed Tool by the collar, yanked him up just enough to look him in the eye.
“She ain’t yours,” Killer said coldly. “And she never deserved the way you treated her.”
He let go, and Tool collapsed to the ground, coughing and bloody, pride shattered across the pavement.
Gypsy finally stepped forward; his voice was sharp as a blade. “You want respect, Tool? Start actin’ like it. Until then, stay the fuck away from her.”
Tool didn’t answer. He just stayed down; the fight drained right out of him.
Killer turned, offering Brandi a steady hand. No claim. No drama. Just the quiet, solid bond of two people who knew they had each other’s backs.
When Brandi started to walk off, she gave Killer a small nod—grateful, fierce—and turned her back on Tool without a second thought.
Every brother watching understood the message loud and clear:
Killer hadn’t been protecting his property. He’d been protectinghis sister.
And in the club, that bond was just as sacred.
Killer led Brandi through the entrance to the front patio, away from the brothers still lingering out front. The cool night air cut between them, but neither said anything right away.
Brandi hugged herself, her hands shaking just a little from the adrenaline still working through her system.
Killer glanced over at her. “You good?”
She nodded, but it was stiff. Mechanical. Not real.
“Bran,” he said, voice lower now. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I’m fine,” she rasped. Then, after a second, she added, “I’m just tired of it. Tired of him... acting like he gets to decide when I matter.”
Killer leaned his shoulder against the wall, studying her. “He’s a dumbass,” he said simply. “A mean, selfish dumbass who didn’t know what he had when he had it.”
She let out a shaky laugh. It wasn’t happy. “Yeah. Tell me how you really feel.”
He cracked a half-smile. “I’d need a couple shots of whiskey first.”
For a long moment, they just stood there, the distant thump of music and voices spilling from the beer garden the only sound.
Then Killer nudged her gently with his shoulder. “You ain’t alone, Brandi. You never were. You got family here—even if some of us are stubborn sons of bitches.”
Brandi’s eyes burned, but she blinked it back. “Thanks, Killer.”
