“Oh fuck.” He doubled over, gut clenching so hard he nearly vomited. “Oh, fucking fuck. It’s gotta be Demo. Fuck, Screw, did he fucking take Beth?”
“I don’t know, brother, but we’ll find out.”
“I’m on my way.”
“No. Go to the clubhouse. There’s nothing for you to do here. A few of the stores have cameras in the back alley. I’m going to see if there’s footage. I’ll call you as soon as I find anything.”
Saint’s hands shook with a combination of rage and fear. Demo would die today. Saint had killed before and made peace with it.
Self-defense—justified.
This would be different.
This would be fucking pleasure.
He’d watch the light drain from Demo’s eyes and enjoy every damn second.
“Saint!” Screw snapped. “Keep your shit tight. Okay? Beth needs you.”
He rolled his shoulders, trying to dislodge the murderous desires, but they remained. At least he was able to answer Screw. “I’m good. Just find some fucking useful footage.”
“Will do.”
Screw disconnected, and Saint mounted his bike. He peeled out of the driveway and shot down the road, engine roaring and tires squealing. In record time, he haphazardly parked in front of the clubhouse and rushed for the entrance. Before he got off the bike, Screw called.
“You were right. It was Demo,” he rushed to say before Saint had the opportunity to speak. “He beat the fuck out of Melody and left her lying in the alley. Beth found her and tried to help. Demo showed up and tossed them both in the back of a van. I got the plate number. Maverick is running it now. I’m on my way to the clubhouse.” He hung up before Saint responded, but that was fine. He’d heard everything and didn’t have time for chitchat.
Blood boiling, he sprinted toward the clubhouse.
Saint didn’t bother knocking, even though he no longer belonged.
The clubhouse door swung open hard enough to rattle the frame, and every head inside snapped toward him. All conversations died mid-sentence. Chairs scraped across the floor. Hands stilled on beers and cue sticks, and a few went to their knives on belts or guns in holsters.
Copper stood near the bar, broad shoulders rigid beneath his cut. His green eyes went flinty the second he saw who dared to enter in such a dramatic way.
Saint walked straight to Copper.
No cut. No patch. Just denim, boots, and the weight of everything he’d lost sitting heavy in his chest.
“You have some fucking nerve,” Copper said, his voice calm in the way that meant violence was already decided.
Saint stopped an arm’s length away. He lifted his chin and stared his president in the eye. “Beth’s gone,” he croaked, voice breaking.
The room went silent as a graveyard at midnight.
Copper’s jaw flexed. “What did you say?”
“She’s missing.” Saint didn’t look away. Didn’t soften the blow. “She was at the salon while I had a repo job. Screw went to meet her. Her phone was there, but she was not. There’s some blood in the alley out back and tire tracks.” His voice wavered. “She… she didn’t walk away on her own.”
A ripple went through the room, anger, alarm, and fear sharp as broken glass.
“I know I lost the right to be here. I’m not here to argue that, but there’s no fucking way I’m walking out that door and letting you find Beth without me. You can throw me out on my ass, and I’ll come right back in. You can beat me bloody, and I’ll fucking crawl back in. Short of killing me, there isn’t a goddamn thing you can do that will keep me from being here to find her.”
That gave Copper pause. His eyes narrowed, and then he nodded once. He might be a pigheaded MC president, but he’d take every hand offered to search for Beth.
“What do we know so far?” he said, shifting into crisis management mode.
“Demo has her.”
