Parking my bike felt like dying.
Standing up after a brutal crash was a level of exhilaration nothing else could rival.
Adrenaline was my bread and butter. I remembered the first time I understood this about myself—a stupid preteen with a dumpster find skateboard. Owning a motorcycle was an unattainable dream back then.
At the rundown skatepark near the Alpha orphanage, I’d seen someone attempt a 900. They’d busted their neck. I knew I could do it though. And I almost did. I finished the second rotation, but I hadn’t gotten enough air. I slammed into the top edge of the halfpipe at a bad angle. That brutal wipeout left me with three broken fingers, road rash down half my body, and a concussion that made the world tilt for days. But in those first moments after impact, as pain exploded through my system, everything had been crystal clear. The world had never looked so sharp, so vivid, so present. I'd been fully in my body, fully alive. I’d just met the guys around that time. While I was laid up, they stayed by my side every moment possible.
Maybe that’s why the memory of that massive wipeout stayed so vivid over the years. It solidified our pack. My broken bones somehow healed something busted in all of us.
Since then, I'd chased that clarity in increasingly risky ways. The DemonX stunts helped—the danger, the adrenaline, the constant risk of serious injury. But lately, even that hadn't been enough. The performances felt rehearsed, predictable. Safe, in their own fucked-up way.
“Goddamn piece of shit. Where the fuck is the motherfucking leak?” Angry grunting interrupted my memories. I blinked, the garage coming into focus. The nearest canopy door was tilted up, and the lights were on inside. The whirr of a small space heater carried out into the chilled air.
“Just fucking cooperate!” The voice growled again.
So, it had been Kane getting pissed earlier. There was no mistaking his voice, not at this distance. Didn’t sound like hismood had changed in the short time it took me to traverse the compound.
A deafening crash sounded from the innards of the garage. I took a step forward, then stopped when I heard proof Kane wasn’t dead.
Instead of getting closer, I retreated a few feet. Which was smart, since seconds later a socket wrench was hurled outside from the garage. After that, came an impact driver. Then a jack. A detached steering wheel.
My pack brother let out a guttural, animalistic sound, then an oil filter arced through the air and slammed into the metal fence separating our compound from the street beyond.
Moving to the side, out of the line of fire, I leaned up against one of our light posts. Several dotted the grounds, bright enough to turn a moonless midnight into midday if we wanted. They stood useless in daytime of course. Just hanging around, no purpose. Waste of fucking space like…
I stopped the thought before completion. Still, the final word—me—tried to shove its way out. I clamped my lips tight and told my brain to fuck right off.
Kane continued to curse, but he didn’t throw anything else.
Standing still again, I felt antsy. I started flipping the knife with wild abandon again. The blade became a blur of movement, almost singing as it sliced the air. Catch, flip, catch, flip. Every time the sharpness failed to find purchase in my body, frustration built. The monotony was maddening. Each successful catch only made me more determined to feel the throbbing, distinct pain of a knife wound.
"Come on," I muttered, hurling the knife, watching it rotate endlessly. Still, my fingers found the handle.
My legs were beginning to freeze, the black jeans little protection. I stomped my feet several times, trying to warm them up. I kept tossing the knife upward, watching numbly as ittumbled end over end. Kane’s continued cursing and muttering quieted. The compound around me faded—the half-pipe ramps, the practice equipment, the project cars, the stunt props. Everything reduced to this: metal, motion, the anticipation of pain.
Except the pain never came.
I shook my head and my gaze drifted to the line of motorcycles parked near the fence. Our casual rides, not meant for performances. Kane's classic restored vintage Triumph. Asher's sleek black Ducati. Fallon's custom Indian, all chrome and leather. My own modified Pierce.
And Xander's prized Harley-Davidson. His first bike, rebuilt from the ground up. It had been a goddamn rust bucket when he’d brought it home. It was his baby; the one he disappeared on when the noise in his head got too loud. Midnight blue paint flecked with silver. Chrome polished to a mirror shine. Custom leather seat that he treated with some special oil every damn Sunday like it was a religious ritual.
I caught the knife one last time, holding it still as my focus shifted entirely to Xander's bike. My blood hummed with sudden purpose. I pushed his buttons every chance I got lately.
Xander, who could read each of us like open books. Xander, who carried the weight of DemonX on his shoulders and never complained. Xander, who knew exactly how to bring me back when I spiraled too far into my own head.
Xander, who would absolutely lose his shit if someone damaged his precious Harley.
The decision crystallized in an instant. I measured the distance, calculated the throw, factored in the wind and the weight of the knife. Twenty feet. Easy shot.
I pulled my arm back, took a breath, and let the blade fly.
It spun through the air with deadly precision, a flash of silver against the dark rubber of the rear tire. The knife sank into the thick tread with a satisfying thunk and buried to the hilt.
For a moment, I just stared. Part of me couldn’t believe I’d actually fucking done it.
Then a slow grin spread across my face as I imagined Xander's reaction. The cold fury in his eyes. The tight set of his jaw. The absolute certainty that he would make me pay.
That was what I needed. Not the dull pain of a knife slip or the fleeting rush of a dangerous stunt. I needed Xander at his most elemental—Alpha anger focused entirely on me. The kind of confrontation that would force me fully into my body, into the moment. There was nothing like a good brawl with one of my brothers.
