Then, I gesture toward the edge of the clearing where the youngest members of our family are currently kneeling in the dirt, their faces alight with discovery. “It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s them.” I watch Boston and Carolina as they share a quiet moment of wonder over a wildflower, their innocence so sharp it feels like a physical weight in my chest. “They don’t understand the blood and the history that built these walls, theyonly know the kindness we show them. Protecting that purity from the storm the Dragons are brewing is the only thing that matters now.”
“Fuck, Jersey. Could you be any more perfect?”
His words hit me like a physical blow, the weight of the compliment staggering me. I’ve never been calledperfectbefore, in the life I lived with my parents, that term was only for the dolls my mother collected or the fake reputations they maintained while they all but checked out on their only kid. Hearing it now has my skin prickling with heat and a heavy dose of disbelief. I’m not sure how to process it, especially when I feel so damn fractured and held together by nothing but sheer willpower and the desperate hope that I don’t fail the two people relying on me.
I shift my gaze back to Boston and Carolina, needing to ground my thoughts in their pure joy so I don’t spiral from the intensity burning in Slayer’s eyes. To a man like him, maybe my willingness to be their protector looks like perfection, but to me, it just feels like the first time I’ve actually done something that matters. I want to tell him I’m a long way from perfect, that I still have nightmares about those scald marks and the predators who let their hands roam, but the silence of the woods is too damn peaceful to ruin with the wreckage of my history. Instead, I just stand there, letting the word settle over me and wondering if I can ever truly be the woman he sees.
That night, Slayer stayed for dinner, filling the small space of my trailer with a presence that was both grounding and overwhelming. We crowded around the tiny dining room table,our knees occasionally brushing in the cramped quarters, but for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel the urge to retreat into a corner. The simple banter flowing between Boston, Carolina, and Slayer created a symphony of normalcy that left me feeling more complete than any academic achievement ever had. I watched as Slayer patiently helped Carolina navigate her plate, his large, scarred hands moving with a gentleness that seemed to baffle and soothe her all at once.
I was no longer a bystander watching life from the sidelines. As Boston recounted his discovery of the “blue birds” with a wide-eyed enthusiasm that had us all grinning, the isolation of my childhood felt like a fading nightmare. Sitting there, sharing a meal I had prepared with my own hands for people who truly saw me, I realized that the crevices I once called home could never compare to the refuge we were building right here.
Slayer, catching the way I’m spiraling into my own head, leans in, his shoulder brushing against mine in a way that sends a jolt of heat through my veins. The sheer proximity of him is both a comfort and a mind-boggling distraction. “You alright there, Jersey girl?”
“Yes,” I reply, my head bobbing as I try to find my center amidst the swirling emotions of the day. “I’m just trying to connect some dots and make sense of everything.” The transition from my solitary trailer life to this bustling, shared existence is a lot to process, even if it is exactly what I've always craved.
“Need to talk it out?” he asks, sounding genuine and sincere. His gaze is steady, searching mine with a level of concern that makes my breath hitch. He isn't just asking out of politeness, he wants to be the sounding board I need when my thoughts get too loud and I need to talk them out.
“Nope, I think I’m getting there all on my own,” I announce, giving him a shy smile. “But if I do need you, I’ll seek you out.” I realize then that for the first time, I don't have to handle the heavy lifting of my life in total isolation. Having him at my back, even if I’m not ready to divulge every piece of my history just yet, gives me the strength to keep moving forward.
CHAPTER
TEN
Slayer
Sleep eludes me.Every time I drift off, the darkness is filled with the sight of Jersey, her eyes locked on mine as she takes me into her mouth. The memory is a relentless, physical pull that leaves me tangled in the sheets of my bed, my skin buzzing with a heat that no amount of cold water can kill. In the heavy silence of the room, the only sound is the frantic thrum of my own pulse, a rhythm that mirrors the way she moved—deliberate, tentative, and so damn breathtaking that it makes my lungs ache. I can still feel the silk of her hair brushing my thighs and the soft, hitching gasps that punctuated every inch of her progress. It wasn’t just the physical release I was dreaming about, though that was enough to shatter my composure, it was the trust she placed in me, a man whose hands are stained with the very violence she’s spent her life hiding from.
The sharp contrast of her innocence against the gritty reality of my world creates a constant, gnawing friction in my gut. I’ve known plenty of women, but none who look at me with that intoxicating mixture of vulnerability and dawning fire. Shepossesses a quiet, resilient beauty I know I don’t deserve—a woman who was once scared of her own shadow but finally found the strength to stand on her own two feet.
Staring at the ceiling, I find myself tracing the flickering shadows as the sun begins to rise, mapping out a future where Jersey isn’t just a guest but a permanent fixture in my life. Every dreamed touch and every whispered “Slayer” feels like a brand seared onto my soul. It’s a reminder that I’m no longer just fighting for the patch, I’m fighting for the woman who makes every turbulent thing in my life feel like home. If that means I spend my nights haunted by the heat of her memory and the ache of what could be, then I’ll consider it the best damn penance I’ve ever had to pay.
Heavy thoughts weigh on my mind as I finally disentangle myself from the twisted bedding, the cooling sweat on my skin a reminder of the restless hours. Today is the day I have to face my brothers. I’ve faced down rival gangs and stared into the barrel of a gun without blinking, but the prospect of facing my brothers today isn’t something I’m looking forward to.
I know exactly what’s coming. The brothers will be waiting, their faces masks of stone as they uphold the laws I helped forge. There’s no easy way out of a club sanction, especially not for the VP. If I want them to respect me, I have to be the one to bleed for it when I break our orders. My ribs already ache in anticipation of the impact, a residual pain that follows every move I make.
“Shit,” I mutter as I finally stand and make my way toward the ensuite, my feet heavy on the floorboards. I start the shower and step inside, not waiting for the water to warm, needing the sudden, sharp reality of the cold to snap me out of my own head.
The icy spray hits me like a physical shock, knocking the lingering remnants of sleep and those heated dreams of Jersey from my mind. I lean my forehead against the cool, damp tile, letting the water sluice over my shoulders as I try to find my center amidst the internal wreckage of my own making. I have to be the wall today. I have to take every hit and stay standing, proving to every brother on the compound that while I might have faltered when it came to Boston, my loyalty to the Kings remains absolute. Once I walk out of my bedroom and head for the arena, there’s no room for hesitation—only the reality of the atonement I owe.
I move with a grim, practiced purpose, snagging my heavy boots and sliding into my cut. I know that once I step into that ring and face the firing squad of my brothers, I’ll have to strip it off. We don’t allow our leather to be damaged or disrespected in any way, it’s our most sacred article of clothing, the visual representation of our brotherhood and the weight of the life we carry. To have it stained with blood would be a disgrace I’m not willing to have blemish it, even if that blood is my own.
Stepping out of the clubhouse, I take one last deep, steadying breath of the quiet morning air, inhaling and enjoying the silence while it lasts. I’m fully aware that when I return to my room I’ll likely be bedridden for days, if not weeks, nursing the physical cost of my choice. But as I look toward Jersey’s trailer, I know I’d pay this price ten times over to ensure Boston and Carolina stay exactly where they are—safe, sheltered, and far from the stark reality of the outside world.
The arena is thick with a heavy, expectant energy as I walk in. Indiana steps up to me, his hands reaching out to take my cut. His face is a blank mask, the iron-clad discipline of a Sergeant at Arms firmly in place. But as his fingers brush the leather, his gaze flickers, and the first kink in his armor is exposed as he asks me, “You ready for this, brother?”
I meet his eyes, seeing the regret he’s trying to bury. He was one of the votes that put me here, and I don’t hold that against him seeing as I was the first one who voted. He’s holding the line, just like I taught him to. Every man at that table had a duty to uphold, and Indiana is no exception. The laws of the Kings aren’t suggestions, they're the only thing keeping us from total annihilation. “As ready as I’m gonna be,” I grunt, the words sounding like I have shards of glass in my throat. The ring is waiting, a circle of brothers who will soon become my judge and executioner, and the debt I owe is about to be collected in full.
Indiana grips my cut tightly in his hands, his knuckles white against the dark leather. He knows as well as I do that once I step into that circle, the title of Vice President doesn’t mean a damn thing. I’m just a man who broke the bonds of brotherhood, and the brotherhood demands a blood sacrifice to balance the scales. “Stay strong, VP,” he suggests, his voice dropping to a low rumble only I can hear. “If anybody can pull this off with their head held high, it’s you.” The flicker of regret in his eyes is almost harder to take than the physical punishment I am about to endure, a reminder that my choice to ride alone had strained the very foundation we all relied on.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I state, squaring my shoulders and trying to find a center that isn’t vibrating with adrenaline. The brothers close in on me, forming a wall of denim and resolve that makes the vast arena feel like a coffin, a senseof claustrophobia encases me, making it hard to draw a breath. I look at Icer, whose face is a mask of unyielding stone, and Nova, whose gaze holds a fractured sympathy, realizing that for this to work, they couldn’t be my friends for the next thirty minutes. They have to be the enforcers of a code I have personally helped sharpen.
Riptide walks in front of me, his eyes level with mine, burning with a mix of leadership and localized fury. The weight of his disappointment is a physical presence in the room, heavier than any blow I expect to take. There’s no room for apologies anymore, the table has spoken, and the verdict has been written in the silence of the room. “Today, you shed blood for the club, and once your price has been paid, we go back to business as usual.” He doesn’t blink, and neither do I. The first hits are going to be the easiest to take, fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need to stand tall. It’s the ones that come after, when the muscles are screaming and I’m already on my knees, that will prove whether or not I’m still fit to wear the patch.
As the president, Riptide will land the first blow. It is his right and his burden to lead. When it comes, a brutal crack of bone against flesh, it rocks me back on my feet. The world tilts, blurring into a haze of gray and red as I bend over and fight for my next breath. The impact of Riptide’s fist has my brain rattling against my skull, and the metallic tang of blood begins to pool in the back of my throat. The air feels ladened down, thick with the scent of angst and sweat, but I force my knees to lock, refusing to go down before the real work begins. I can feel the eyes of every brother on the back of my neck, a silent pressure that is heavier than the blow itself. When I finally manage to stand upright, I look him in his eyes, showing him the same steel that put me at this table, and nod my head.
“Next!” he screams, his voice a gnarly edge that cuts through the stagnant air of the arena as he steps back into the circle. The atmosphere shifts instantly, turning from expectant to lethal. Icer is next up and I groan internally, the sound lost in the frantic thrum of my own pulse.
This is gonna be brutal.
