God I love her. She's worth everything to me. And even though I couldn't say it last night or it would've turned out different this morning, if she left, I would've left with her.
I would’ve taken my chances.
Maybe they really would kill me. It’s happened before. I haven’t seen it, obviously. It took me thirteen fucking years to earn my patch for reasons I won’t get in to. And that means I never really belonged. There were always secrets between me and my Badlands brothers. Prospects get left out of business like that.
But I would’ve risked it. I would’ve hoped that I had the respect from enough of them that I’d be the one to walk away clean.
I love these men like brothers. Brick, maybe even like a father.
But there will never be another Savannah Ashby in my life.
Mine.
Today, though—I don't have to think about that.
Only eight, I remind myself.
Only eight.
Savannah is neither Ashby nor outsider now. She's something undefined. Something dangerous, for sure.
My eyes trace the edges of her silhouette, seeing in her the same war that's etched across my skin—the angel and the demon locked in eternal combat.
"You good?" I ask, walking towards her with my hand out, ready to touch what's mine.
She nods once. Doesn't smile.
Smiles are for cameras and liars.
I feel the brand on my chest throb in time with my pulse. The angel's sword piercing the demon's heart—the war I carry everywhere.
The ink that tells my story so I don't have to speak it.
And then, the mood changes. A celebration swells around us like high tide. Music is softer now. Not the rage of last night’s claim.
The welcoming of a new woman is a softer affair.
I lead her to the center of the room. Savannah and I start pressed together, her hip against mine, my hand on the small of her back. We dance. We linger together. A team. We keep hold of each other as the hours pass.
But as the day deepens, as the evening draws near, we drift.
Not apart—just finding our orbits.
I lean against the wall, nursing a beer I've barely touched. My ribs throb with each breath, but pain's just background noise now. Always has been.
Savannah moves through the crowd like she was born to it. My brothers part for her, some with respect, some with hunger they know better than to act on. Her golden hair catches the dim light, a halo against the smoke and darkness. Strange how something so bright can belong in a place built from shadows.
I don't need to guard her every step anymore. She's claimed now. Protected. But my eyes follow her anyway, tracking her path through the bodies and bottles. It's instinct, like my fingers finding the outline of angels on my skin during those sleepless nights in The Pit.
"Your girl's a natural," Diesel says, appearing beside me. "Didn't expect that."
I nod, watching Savannah laugh at something Chains says. "She's adaptable."
"Eight votes against," Diesel mutters. "That's eight brothers waitin' for you to slip."
In prison, I read the Bible cover to cover three times. Not from faith—from boredom and the need for stories bigger than concrete walls. Mark 5:9 gave me my name, but it's what came after that haunts me now. The demons begged not to be sentaway. They pleaded to remain among the living, among the familiar.
I understand their fear now. The terror of exile from what you love.
