I can feel the violence building in him like a pressure change before a storm. I imagine him stalking down the table, hauling men up by their collars, breaking noses until someone squeals.
It would be satisfying. It would also make me look like I needed him to do what I can do myself, and if I am supposed to be the leader of the Raiders I have to act like it.
“Someone was pussy enough to throw it,” I bark. “The least you can do is be brazen enough to fucking own it.”
The egg drips onto the floor in a viscous ribbon. I don’t wipe it off. I want whoever threw it to get the full show.
“Who threw the fucking egg?” I snarl, letting the question roll out of my mouth lazy and dangerous.
My gaze travels down the right side of the table first, then the left, meeting eyes where I can, letting people see exactly how little I’m in the mood for games.
“I did,” a deep voice says, followed by the scrap of a metal chair.
The man from before—the one who called me cartel whore—pushes to his feet. He doesn’t slink or shrink. He stands up with the smug righteousness of a man who thinks he’s untouchable. He’s taller than I realized sitting down, broad through the shoulders, a thick neck rising out of his cut. His patch reads JOHNSON. Council. That tracks.
“Yeah,” he says, lifting his chin. “That was me.”
A few of the other council members shift uncomfortably, but none of them tell him to sit. Cassandra goes very still, eyes darting between him and me, something like apprehension lurking under the practiced pout of her mouth.
I study him for a beat. “Johnson, right?”
He smirks. “So you do listen when we talk about you.”
“That what you call that?” I ask. My voice stays calm. “Talking? Because I call this a dick move.”
He gestures to the egg streaking my shirt. “That’s me showing the club what a joke this is. A bottom bitch being head of the Raiders, might as well pull my drawers down and let the Vipers fuck us.”
A low swell of whispers rolls through the room, catching on my name, on Xavier’s empty chair, on the fact that I’m still standing here instead of running. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, nerves tightening in a slow, suffocating coil as every murmur sharpens into judgment. My pulse kicks hard enough to bruise, but I lift my chin anyway, refusing to let them see me flinch.
“If you wanted to get fucked Johnson,” I reply. “All you have to do is ask.”
“Bitch!” Johnson jerks like he’s been yanked forward on a wire, as he lunges toward me, rage blotting out the last of his common sense. He makes it half a step before Asher rises beside me, cracking his neck from side to side.
“One more step,” he says, voice low enough to chill bone, “and I will fuck you up.”
A sharp flicker of panic pulses through me as Asher settles next to me. His protectiveness digs between my ribs—steadying and suffocating at the same time. I can feel every watchful eye in the room waiting for him to snap, waiting for me to hide behind him. I won’t.
I touch his arm, not gently. “Asher,” I murmur under my breath, forcing steel into my voice even as my pulse stutters. “Calm down.”
His jaw flexes, but he holds.
Johnson smirks like he’s just won something. “Asher, this is between me and the leader of the club,” he snarls, licking his lips like a hungry animal. “You can’t get involved. Club rules.”
A cold clarity settles over me, slicing through the nerves and the noise.
“Fine, then you come up to my face and you challenge the leader of this club with fucking respect,” I say, meeting his gaze without blinking, “you do it to their face. Not with eggs from halfway down the room.”
A few laughs crackle at the edges of the hall, quick and startled. Johnson’s eyes narrow.
“You want me gone, you want to prove I don’t belong here?” I continue. “Stand up—good. Now walk your ass down here and try to make me move.”
“Valentina,” Asher says under his breath, a warning or maybe a question.
I don’t look at him. “He threw first.”
Johnson takes a step out from in front of his chair. The men sitting near him lean back to give him space, eyes bright with the promise of a spectacle. He rolls his shoulders like he’s loosening up for a bar fight. His gaze flicks once to Asher, then up to the empty balcony rail where some patched members lean to watch.
“You sure you want this, girl?” he calls. “Because once we start, I’m not going to pull punches because you’ve got a pussy between those thighs, but I will kiss it better when I’m done with you.”
