I slowly park my Forty-Eight Harley Davidson on the side of the nearly empty street. A broken streetlight flickers above my head, while the rest are completely off. The street is quiet, except for the snoring of a homeless man sleeping in the alley a few feet away. At least, I think it’s a man. I get off my bike and pull a cigarette from my new pack. After a glance across the street, I cross the road, lighting the cigarette with the Zippo lighter I keep in the pocket of my leather biker jacket. The parking lot on the other side is empty, indicating the 24/7 diner is just as deserted. When I reach the doors, I turn around and kneel down, leaning my back against the wall. I’ve been more stressed than usual lately—and that says a lot. I finally let myself relax now that I’m feeding my nicotine addiction and close my eyes. But not long after, I hear a car approaching and open them again. A truck pulls into the parking lot and parks like an аs hole, taking up two spaces. I narrow my eyes against the harsh headlights shining directly at me and take another drag from my cigarette before dropping it to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of my combat boot. “Miss Larkson?” A man approaches me, and I give him a quick once-over. I know who he is—I hired him a couple of weeks ago. We’ve only spoken over the phone, so I’ve never seen him in person until now. I think his name is Vince, but I’m terrible with names. He’s short, bald, and slightly overweight. He’s wearing a raincoat over a thick sweater, and I cringe. It’s fking hot—even if it’s 4 AM and the temperature’s cooled down a bit. “That’s me.” “Good. Do you want to, uh, go inside?” Vince—if that’s even his name—asks while glancing over my shoulder at the diner door. I stare at him for a beat too long, just to make him squirm, then lift my chin and walk into the diner. Immediately, the stench hits me, and I wrinkle my nose. The place reeks, like there’s a dead animal rotting in one of the corners. Lovely. The interior is old, filthy, and cheap. I take a seat in the far corner, facing the door, and lean back. Vince sits across from me, still looking uncomfortable. I nod at the disinterested waitress trudging toward our table. “How can I help you?” she asks, pulling out a tattered notebook. She doesn’t even look at us—her eyes are fixed on something outside the window. She looks suicidal, honestly. But I would be too if I had to work in a place that smelled like decomposing rats. Her hair is greasy, her makeup looks two days old, and her non-existent eyebrows are drawn on in crooked lines like she used a ruler while drunk. Her uniform needs to be washed—badly. God only knows what it’s stained with. “Coffee and blueberry pancakes,” Vince says. I glance at him and grimace. He ignores me and smiles at the waitress. She nods, scribbles down the order, and walks away. “I didn’t come all the way here for a dinner date,” I say sharply. “Tell me what you found so I can get going.” I tap my heel irritably against the floor and meet his eyes. I don’t have time for this—I need to keep moving. Vince nods and pulls a large envelope from his jacket. “Right, uh, I found something you might be interested in,” he begins. I let out a heavy sigh. “After opening your adoption file, I found out it was a closed adoption. But I managed to connect the time of your birth and your age to your birth mother. You were given away when you were about a year old. Since you came from a small town, it wasn’t hard to figure out who your mother was.” I glance up at him, then at the waitress who practically throws the plate of pancakes and coffee onto the table. This bltch is seriously getting on my nerves. If she keeps this up, I might smash her face into the Dam table. I force myself to ignore the violent urge and look back at Vince. “Right. Uh, your mother died five years ago of a dr*g overdose. But you have an older brother and a father. Your mother’s name wa—” “I don’t give a fk about her.” Vince swallows hard, a bead of sweat rolling down his face. “Right. Your father is fifty years old. His name is Damon Montague. Your brother is thirty—Steven Montague. They’re both in an MC called the Highway Demons. Your brother is currently the president. Your father was president before him and the original founder of the club. All the information I found is in this file.” He pushes the envelope toward me and waits for a reaction. I stare out the window, taking in the quiet street and drawing a deep breath. Of course my family isn’t normal. A fking biker club? Seriously? I look back at Vince, the private investigator. After a moment, I reach inside my jacket and pull out another envelope—this one with $400 in cash. I set it on the table, and Vince immediately grabs it and starts counting, ignoring the nasty-looking pancakes in front of him. I stand up, take the envelope with the files, and walk out.

The cement floor I’m lying on is cold. I shiver and try to ignore the black spots forming in my vision. My whole body hurts, and I let out a small whimper. The welts on my legs are infected, and pus is dripping from them. I know I need a doctor, but Sir only calls one when the wounds are life-threatening. I hate Sir—my master, my torturer. The middle-aged man who brought me to this huge house when I was only five years old. Took me out of the overpopulated orphanage that was more than happy to let him take a child off their hands. He stole everything from me—my life, my freedom, my innocence—the moment I stepped foot into this house. A child screams in the distance, and I try to detach myself from the sound. I know what’s happening. I know it’ll be my turn again soon, once I’ve healed a bit more. The screaming gets closer, the voice growing weaker until it turns into soft sobs. This girl must be new—she sounds young. I feel pity, but a darker part of me is relieved. Another person means more time for me to heal. More time alone. More time away from Sir. The door opens, and I look up. The comforting darkness around me is disrupted by the faint light spilling in from the hallway. It stings my eyes, making me squint and g***n. A guard enters, carrying a plate of the usual: cold, watered-down soup, hard bread, and a small cup of lukewarm water. He also sets down a bucket—for relieving myself. I try to push myself up to reach the food, but I’m too weak. Another whimper rises in my throat, but I force it back down. I can’t show weakness. I have to be hard. Detached. Cold. The guard leans against the wall, arms folded over his bulky chest, smirking. He enjoys my pain. I can see it. I’m glad Sir makes it clear that no one else can t***h his Dolls. Because I know that look in the guard’s eyes. desire. He wants me like Sir has me. I cringe and crawl toward the plate. It takes forever, and by the time I reach it, I start eating straight from the bowl. I no longer feel ashamed to eat like an animal. I know what I am—nothing. Just a toy for Sir. I learned that quickly. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. I don’t even know how old I am. I look down at my thin, broken body. Bruises, welts, and old scars cover my once porcelain skin. My bones press through my skin, and I barely have any brests. But there’s hair growing in places there wasn’t before, so I must be a teenager by now—if what the older girls said in the orphanage was right. I haven’t seen the sky since I left the orphanage. Haven’t felt the wind in my hair or the sun warming my skin since that day. I don’t even remember what it feels like. After I finish eating and drinking, the guard roughly shoves me aside and takes the plate. He leaves the bucket and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the lock clicking still breaks my heart. I want to cry, but I’ve already cried a lifetime’s worth of tears. I’m completely empty. –––––––––––– I open my eyes and throw the dirty blanket off my body. I’m sweating and breathing hard. Getting up, I glance at the cracked mirror hanging on the wall near the door. I look like hll. Sweat drips down my skin, my eyes are wide, and my shirt is ripped, my brests fully exposed. Must’ve torn it while thrashing in my nightmare. I rip the shirt off, toss it into the trash, and head into the dingy bathroom. A cockroach scuttles across the sink like it owns the place. hll, maybe it does. Who knows anymore? I step into the sorry excuse of a shower and scrub the terror of the dream off my skin. It’s funny—how numb I am to everything now, yet still haunted by the past. Pathetic. After the quick shower, I pull on a black string thong, my black leather pants, a gray tank top, my leather biker jacket, and combat boots. I’ve got a small b'cup, so I don’t wear a bra. They just make me uncomfortable. I tie my dreadlocks into a low ponytail and look for my phone. 6:00 AM. Good. I’ve still got a three-hour drive ahead of me. I pack my shift into my black leather backpack and grab my hunter knife and Glock. I don’t go anywhere without them. I tuck the knife into the hidden pocket I stitched inside my boot, pulling my jeans over it so it stays concealed. The Glock goes in the back of my pants. Then I walk outside. I hate motels like this, but they’re cheap—and no one asks questions. I walk to my bike, load my gear into the duffel bags, and straddle the seat. With a smooth motion, I start it up and ride out, heading into the rising light. Three more hours to go. Toward a small town in the middle of the Nevada desert.

Hard music fills the overcrowded, dimly lit clubhouse. My brothers are fked up, like always—fking women on tables, getting blowjobs, having threesomes on the floor, and doing lines of coke. I sit at the bar, watching the chaos from a distance. My Prez, Devil, sees me and takes the seat next to mine. “Not joining again?” he asks while nodding toward Linch, one of the Soul-Eaters, who’s currently choking on David’s /cok. “fk no,” I say, taking a huge gulp of my lukewarm beer. “Another,” I tell the bartender, Whiskey. The huge man lifts his chin and slides me a new bottle. “You need to get over that shift, man. Nothing’s better than the sweet feel of wet, tight cave,” Devil grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “Don’t concern yourself with my /cok,” I reply. I’m fking tired of people telling me what to do. I fking hate women. I don’t want them to fking t***h me. I nearly killed one once when she tried to rub herself on me—and I really don’t feel like doing that again. I don’t hurt women unless they’ve harmed the club. I just don’t want them near me. hll, I don’t want anyone touching me. I can barely handle my brothers, let alone some slvt who’s just hunting for a patched-in di'ck. “Whatever you say, man.” Devil gets up from his seat and grabs Linch by the hair. She likes being dominated, so she enjoys Devil dragging her toward a chair. It’s obvious from her face—desire shines in her eyes, and she l***s her thick, fake l**s. I turn away just before Devil shoves his /cok into her still cvm-filled mouth and finish my beer. “Uh… hey.” I turn and see a young woman. She must be new, because everyone in here knows not to come on to me. If I ever needed release, I’d grab a bltch, put her on her knees, and get off right then and there. And even that doesn’t happen often. I’m a sick, aggressive piece of shift, and I know it. Apparently, this chick doesn’t. She bites her bottom l*p, trying to be s*******e, and looks up at my six-foot-five frame. She steps closer, slowly. I let out a low growl. “the fk do you want?” Her eyes widen, but there’s still desire in them. Crazy bltch. She likes the danger I give off. “You were sitting here alone, and I thought you could use some company,” she says, trying her luck. I know this type. She sees an opportunity because the others are too scared to get near me. She wants to be an old lady and thinks I’m a good candidate. “I’ll give you ten seconds,” I say, looking down on her. She smiles, stupidly thinking it’s a good sign. “Ten seconds to disappear before I break that little n**k of yours.” I’m only half bluffing. Devil would kill me if I hurt new blood. Well… he could try. I get blackouts. And when I do, I really don’t give a fk whether you're a woman or not. The girl stumbles back, trips over her own foot, and lands hа'rd-on her @ss. A few people around us snicker, laugh, or look a little worried. She scrambles up and half-walks, half-runs out of the clubhouse. “AW, GIRL, YOU CAN COME TO ME—I’LL GIVE YOU A GOOD TIME!” Rios, one of my brothers, shouts after her. The girl on his l*p glares and pushes her fake nuts into his face, trying to win his attention back. Rios just laughs and smacks her @ss. I get up, fed up with this shift, and head for the stairs. The world spins, and I only now realize I’m more drunk than I thought. With a lot of effort, I make it to my room and stumble inside. I slam the door shut behind me, strip off my clothes, and toss them to the floor. Only my cut is neatly folded and placed on the closet. My room is my safe haven, though it’s small—just a bed, a tiny bathroom, and a closet. There are holes in the walls, stained with blood from one of my blackouts. I never bothered to clean that shift up. It’s a warning to anyone who thinks about entering. Nobody’s allowed in here but Devil. I trust my brothers with my life, but I don’t want them in my space. I sit on the bed with my back against the wall and close my eyes. I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep. ––––––––––– As always, I wake up on the ground, facing the door. My back hurts, and I grunt as I get up. Stretching my arms over my head, I walk into the bathroom and take a cold shower. Still n@ked, I walk back into the room and dig around for some jeans and a shirt. Eventually, I find some that look clean and get dressed. Lastly, I throw on my cut and walk out the door. The bar’s already clean, and most of the Soul-Eaters are gone. The kitchen’s filled with hungover brothers—and a grinning Rios. bаst3rd never gets hangovers for some reason. I sit next to Devil and jerk my chin up at the others. “Morning, VP,” or “Morning, Killer,” they mumble. I grunt in response. The kitchen is one of the biggest rooms in the clubhouse, with a long table that can seat around fifty people. Most of the brothers live here, so a big kitchen is necessary. It’s the only room that’s always clean since the Soul-Eaters basically live in here during the day. It’s their job to clean up after our messes. We pay them with a small weekly allowance, a roof over their heads, and protection. Bee Tessa, the club’s promoted Soul-Eater, smiles at me and sets down a plate of toast and coffee before walking off. She knows which brothers like what when it comes to food—hence her promotion. She pays attention and keeps the others in line. “We’re having Church in two hours,” Devil says, and we all nod. We’ve been having problems with some of the dr*g runs, so this was inevitable. Three runs raided in a short period—if we don’t fix this, we’re gonna have problems with a dr*g lord. None of us want that. “HELLO!” someone screams. My brothers go quiet and turn toward the door. We abandon our food and rise, moving in that direction. Some of the guys look curious, others pissed that someone just walked into our clubhouse. One by one we move through the open doorway, until I nearly run into Rios, who stops abruptly. “Fuuuuuuuck me,” he mutters. I look over his shoulder and have to agree. Yeah. fk me sounds about right. The chick standing in the middle of the bar is hot as hll. Too bad I don’t want anything to do with her gender—because she would’ve been my type. Young, slender body, small buubs, nice little @ss. Black and grey tattoos peek out from under her leather jacket. Her dark green and black dreads are tied in a high ponytail. She’s tiny too—probably around five foot two. If I wanted to, I could snap her in two with one hand. She looks around, completely unfazed by the thirty or so huge, jacked bikers surrounding her. “I’m looking for a… Damon Montague,” she says, checking a small slip of paper. My eyebrows shoot up, and I glance at Devil, who’s now glaring at the girl. “the fk you want with him?” he growls. His voice is threatening, but the girl couldn’t care less. “None of your fking business,” she says, matching his tone. Dam. Girl’s got balls. Devil has a nasty rep—almost as bad as mine. His name wasn’t given to him for fun. The methods he uses for killing or ‘talking’ aren't jokes. “Trust me. It’s my fking business,” Devil says, stepping closer. Now they’re nose to nose—well, as close as they can be. The girl barely reaches his shoulders. “And how is that?” she dares him, eyes cool. “He’s my old man,” Devil says. In the corner of my eye, I see Chaos—Devil’s father. As usual, his face gives nothing away. “Ah, that’s fine then,” she says. “I’m Violet. Apparently… you’re my older brother. Steven Montague?”

It’s kind of funny, seeing the supposedly scary man in front of me turn into a statue after I told him he was my big brother. Still, I keep my stone-cold mask on and glare at him. After a minute or so, he recovers and glares back. “I don’t have a sister.” Too bad he doesn’t sound very convinced by his own words. He should work on that. “Yeah, well, like I said—that’s what I’ve been told. If you want, we can do a fking DNA test. Just to be sure.” I’m not 100% convinced either, even though we do have the same eyes. He’s a big man—a handsome one—with a dark and dangerous air about him. Dark hair, a medium-length beard, and an old-school mustache that suits him surprisingly well. “As far as I know, I don’t have a daughter.” A deep, cold voice suddenly cuts through from somewhere behind the line of big bikers. I take a step back so I can see past my brother—and find another huge man staring daggers at me. He’s older, with salt-and-pepper hair. If this is my father, then Dam, he’s aging well. He doesn’t even look like he’s fifty. Strong, muscled build, the same height as my brother, and intense eyes. The same eyes as mine. The same eyes as my brother. That same cold look must run in the family. I sigh and pull out the envelope my private investigator gave me, stepping around my brother. He doesn’t stop me but immediately follows when I move toward the man I assume is my father. I look up at him, ignoring everyone else, and hand over the envelope. He snatches it from my hands and opens it roughly. While he studies the information inside, I glance around. The bar is spacious, with leather couches and a sleek, black wooden counter. Three stripper poles stand in the middle of the room, each carefully positioned so you can see them from every angle. A pool table sits in the corner, cues neatly hung on the wall, the balls arranged in a perfect triangle. The bar looks spotless, and the alcohol bottles are lined up with military precision in glass cabinets hanging above the counter. This place is clean—for a biker bar. Only the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and cigars gives it away. I turn around and spot the massive logo of the MC painted on the wall: a black, realistic-looking skull grinning on a red background. Behind the skull are huge black angel wings, and a blunt hangs out of the creepy grin. Above it reads "Highway Demons," and below: "MC" and "Nevada." All the men around me wear that same logo on the backs of their cuts. Some have many patches on the front; others only have their names. But every one of them bears the infamous 1%’er patch. I know enough about MC culture to recognize that only fully patched members are present—and I haven’t figured out if that’s a good thing or not. On the opposite wall, there's another heavily decorated space. A trophy wall… or more accurately, a hunting wall. I know what it means. I’ve seen it before. Different cuts are nailed to the wall—colors from rival clubs, marked as enemies. Some of them also have Highway Demons patches—traitors from within. Those patches are slashed through, probably with a huge knife, and the front patches are burned, leaving only charred fabric behind. Every club has traitors, if you ask me, so it’s no surprise this one does too. You can’t trust everyone. I look back at my father, whose face is now contorted with fury. My brother’s turned pale—still angry, but now also shocked. I guess my sweet mother managed to keep me a secret from them too. bltch. “WHAT the fk IS THIS?!” My father’s roar shakes the room. A few of the bikers take a step back. I don’t flinch. “My private investigator gave it to me. Problem?” Some of the bikers look at me like I’ve lost my Dam mind. Joke’s on them—I lost my mind a couple of years ago. “THAT fking bltch!” He slams a punch into the beautiful bar, splintering it slightly. Such a waste. “I totally agree,” I say, nodding, until I catch a warning glance from my brother—who seems to be waking up from his shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” my brother says, and I frown. “Why are you apologizing for something you had no control over?” I ask him. Humans are weird. Sometimes I really don’t get their behavior. “…Right. Anyway, while our dad’s over there losing his shift, I should probably introduce myself. I’m the President of this club—but you already knew that. I go by Devil, but you can call me whatever feels comfortable. Our dad goes by Chaos… and well, you can probably guess where that name came from.” I blink. Is he serious? “You’re awfully trusting for someone in your position. Shouldn’t you, like, demand a DNA test first?” Devil smirks, amusement flashing in his eyes. “We probably will, but I knew our mother—and she was a bltch.” Yeah, I figured. I glance behind him to see Chaos pacing back and forth like a caged animal, mumbling to himself. Huh. So crazy really does run in the family. “Calm down,” I say. He stops and glares at me with eyes that almost burn my skin—but I’m not intimidated. “Lose your shift after we know for sure.” Devil actually has the audacity to laugh. But Chaos marches up to me and towers over me. Before I can move, two massive arms wrap around me and lift me clean off the ground. “What the fu—” “I don’t need no godаm test. I should’ve known the moment I saw you with Devil. You were mine. That bltch left around the time she probably started showing, and I didn’t think much of it. She always walked out, sometimes for months at a time. To think she actually hid away to give birth to you—and never even told me? That pisses me off. I should’ve fking known.” “You have a fked-up taste in women,” I inform him. Also, I really hope he puts me down soon—I’m starting to lose air. Thankfully, he does. He puts me down and stares into my eyes. It’s strange, being looked at by someone with the exact same eyes as yours. “You’re home.”

fk me, she is fking hot. It’s been three fking days since that hot piece of @ss walked through the club’s door—which means I’ve had a*******n for three fking days. And fk, she just keeps getting hotter every time I see her. It’s pissing me the fk off. Violet walks across the bar, and like the rest of her family, she doesn’t show much—just that cold face of hers. It’s like a fking gene the three of them have. The only difference is that Violet wears her cold mask 24/7. Devil immediately warned the brothers not to “fking t***h, taste, smell, or look” at his little sister, but I already know most of them are struggling to follow that order. The Souleaters have noticed the attention she’s getting, and like the biches they are, they’re out looking for drama. “How long are you staying?” Candy asks Violet as she walks past, stepping in front of her so she can’t walk away. Violet looks at the bltch, a flash of disgust in her eyes, though she keeps her face otherwise neutral. “None of your business, now is it?” Violet replies. She steps forward like there’s no one in her way and keeps walking. One thing I’ve noticed about Violet—not that I’m watching her or anything—is that she really couldn’t care less about anything. It makes me wonder about her past. I know Devil and Chaos wonder the same. You can see it in their eyes when they look at her. One of the things I’ve learned from always watching from the sidelines is how to read people. It helps a lot in my kind of work, and I’ve perfected the skill over the years. “Killer.” I turn around and see our Sergeant-at-Arms leaning against the bar. “What do you want?” I grunt. “We got a meeting with Pierce.” Finally, something to do. I get up from the leather couch I’ve been sitting on and jerk my chin toward Wilhelm and Jaxon. Jaxon’s our Enforcer—a tough son of a bltch. Wilhelm is our Road Captain—also a tough son of a bltch. Jaxon hardly talks. He’s a psycho kind of son of a bltch. Like me, he prefers staying on the sidelines. People—even most of the brothers—tend to avoid him. Wilhelm, on the other hand, is our bartender on the side. The happy-go-lucky kind of son of a bltch. Devil tried to hire other bartenders in the beginning, but Wilhelm always drove them away. I remember him telling us, back when he was a prospect, that his family used to own a bar and that bartending makes him feel at home. After that, Devil stopped looking and let his Road Captain do whatever the hll he wanted. And then there’s Iren—the easygoing but cold motherfvcker. Loyal to the core. Brutal to anyone who tries to harm the club. He never knows when to shut up, though. Always testing people’s limits, which is why he’s been punched in the face more times than I can count. “We got a meeting,” I tell Jaxon and Wilhelm before heading outside. It’s hot as hll in the desert, and I really want to get on my bike and get some shift done. I’ve been still too long. When I sit still too long, I get agitated. When I get agitated, people die—or come close to it. I mount my bike and watch Iren, Jaxon, and Wilhelm do the same. “Let’s go.” –––––––––– I take a seat across from Pierce. Wilhelm, Jaxon, and Iren stand behind me, “protecting” me in case shift goes south. Pierce has a similar setup—three bulky dudes in suits standing behind him. “Someone raided another run yesterday.” Pierce picks up a crystal glass from the table and starts mixing a drink. If you didn’t know him, he’d seem calm—but I know the fker. He’s on edge, ready to explode at any moment. “I’ve lost thousands of dollars with that little raid. And let’s not forget the other raids over the last few weeks.” “We’re working on it,” I tell him. And we are. Sherlock, our computer guy, has been digging into the raids—scanning highway cameras, pulling plates from cars in the area during the hits, and trying to figure out who’s got the balls to rob not just a big fking MC, but also the biggest dr*g lord ruling most of Nevada. “And yet this is the fourth time someone’s fking raided my runs? I made a deal with you to protect the runs. You think I’m a fking i***t? Are you fu'ckers robbing me?” Pierce looks ready to put a bullet between my eyes. I’m ready to put one between his if he keeps talking to me like that. He’s known for his short temper, mood swings, and impulsive bullsh*t. fking deals. I told Devil this was a bad idea from the start—but of course, why listen to your VP once in a while? Devil had gotten bored with the gentlemen’s clubs, bars, garage, and po'rn business scattered around Nevada and wanted to dive into drvgs. We’d done dr*g runs back in the early days of the club, but quit when the heat got too bad. A club like ours runs better independently—no outsiders. But Devil had other ideas. “We’re not fking robbing you, Pierce. One of my runners was killed in the first raid. One of my brothers. We’re looking into it.” I keep my voice low and controlled. I didn’t really know Mad, the guy who died in the first raid. Dead on arrival—his head crushed when his bike crashed. He flew forward and got smashed under the tire of the dr*g van. The truck ran over his head, and from what I’ve heard, it wasn’t a pretty sight. “Work it out, Killer. I like you guys. Don’t make me eliminate you and your fking club.” Pierce downs the rest of his drink, gets up, and walks out of the private room. “fker,” Jaxon hisses through his teeth. “Let’s get the fk outta here,” Wilhelm mutters. I stand, grab the bottle of rum from the table, and take a huge gulp. “Let’s go.” We walk out of the fancy-@ss restaurant, making people glance up in fear—and then quickly look away. With long strides, I head to my bike. Without waiting for anyone, I ride off.

I’ve never had such an overwhelming breakfast as this one. There are at least forty people in the kitchen, talking over one another, swearing, cursing, yelling. I’m not used to so much noise while eating, and I want to leave. I also feel someone staring holes through me. It’s been like that since I first got here, and it's getting on my last nerve. I know who it is—I’ve caught him more than once. The handsome-as-hll, tall, dark biker. Piercing brown eyes, dark brown hair, and a beard that’s absurdly attractive and suits him perfectly. His whole body is covered in black and grey tattoos, along with some piercings. He’s a feast for the eyes, but I don’t like the feeling of being stalked, thank you very much. I finish my breakfast and get up from my seat. Instead of doing what I normally do—going to my room and spending most of my time there—I walk over to my “stalker.” “Stop fking looking at me.” I stand before him. God Almighty, he’s taller than I thought. I have to strain my n**k just to see his face. He looks at me with a strange expression, saying nothing. That pisses me off even more. “If you have nothing to say, stop staring at me. Creeps me the fk out.” With that, I walk away, ignoring everyone who’s now looking at me. I know what they’re thinking. I’ve heard them talk about the big guy. I think they said his name was Killer. Wonder where that name came from. People mostly try to avoid him. Women just look at him—probably to use his image later when they’re alone or when they’re fking someone else. He’s sx on a stick, so I can’t really blame them. When I walk outside, I run into my brother, Devil. “You look healthy,” I tell him after getting a good look at his face. He looks hungover as fk. “I feel healthy.” Grinning, I shake my head and step aside. I might be his sister, but I know I have to show respect toward the Prez. Devil gives me one final smile before walking into the kitchen. As I make my way to my room, I see a couple of Souleaters in front of the stairs. I sigh. This was bound to happen sooner or later. I know this type of woman—I’ve seen them too many times in my short 22 years of life. “What?” I stop two feet away from them, shove my hands in the pockets of my all-time favorite jacket, and plant my feet apart. “You need to leave,” bltch #1 tells me. They’ve been introduced to me, don’t get me wrong, but my brain has a habit of forgetting unimportant information. This girl is just a hole that learned how to talk and grew a brain. A small one, but it’s there… probably. “I told you before that I don’t give a fk what you say, didn’t I?” I remind her. God, I’m already bored. I need a hobby. “We were here before you. You just walk in like your cave’s made of gold because you’re the Prez’s little sister. Looking at us like we’re shift, even though you’re just jealous we can fk the guys. Don’t act like you’re all that, skinny bltch.” Uh, what? “Body-shaming is the best you can come up with?” I raise an eyebrow and glance down at her body. She’s skinny too, with big buubs and a big @ss. Probably fake, though. No one has a perfect pair of buubs like that. “We’ve warned you enough. You’re not wanted here. No one’s saying anything because of the Prez and Chaos, but even they want you gone. Your mama threw you away for a reason. Get the hint,” bltch #2 hisses. “And here I am, still not giving a fk. I think Devil has enough balls to tell me if he didn’t want me here. He doesn’t need your /cok-suking mouth to talk for him.” I try to walk away, done with this dumb conversation, when bltch #3 grabs me by the dreads, pulling me down the stairs. I manage to stay on my feet, but I’m off balance—physically and emotionally. I don’t handle aggression toward me well. I lash out. In the corner of my eye, I see two more Souleaters approaching, probably thinking they can protect their sl'utty friends. Problem is—they don’t know me at all. bltch #1 tries to punch me, but I catch her fist and shove her against the wall. bltch #2 goes for a knee kick, but I spin and high-kick her in the right buub. I hope it pops. That’d be hilarious. bltch #3 charges, and I hook her in the face. Satisfaction floods me when I hear the crunch of her nose breaking. She screams. I chuckle and hit her again, this time in the temple, knocking her out. bltch #2 recovers and charges at the same time as bltch #1. Again, I see them coming. I grab bltch #1’s hair, slam her head into the wall, then kick bltch #2 in the stomach. She doubles over, gagging, giving me time to knock out bltch #1 with another wall smash. The two other biches freeze nearby, wide-eyed. They don’t move. Maybe they actually have a few brain cells. Who would’ve thought? bltch #1’s face is bloody and unrecognizable when I’m done. I turn to bltch #2, half-sprawled on the floor, shaking and surrounded by her own vomit. Pathetic. I stare at her a moment before kicking her in the side of the head. I’ve never been nice—no point starting now. “What the hll?” Oh, right. Other people live here. I turn and see most of the brothers pouring out of the kitchen. Devil looks furious—but there’s pride and admiration in his eyes too. “Just a question, big bro,” I say. “Do you always let biches speak for you, or were they lying about you not wanting me here? I’m guessing the latter, but hey—you never know.” I wipe the blood off my knuckles with my jeans and wait for his answer. “biches were lying. I never even talk to them. I just fk ’em,” Devil says. He’s not looking at me, though—he’s eyeing the unconscious women on the floor. “They’re out. Tell them that when they wake the fk up. I don’t have time for biches causing drama like this.” The Souleaters nod and, with the help of a few prospects, drag the women away. “I can handle it, you know. Don’t have to send cave away.” Devil looks at me, then throws his head back in a laugh. “Dear sister, they’re easy to replace. The brothers like new blood anyway. Don’t worry about their di'cks.” “Whatever you say.” I shrug and catch Killer watching me again. God, he pisses me off. It pisses me off more that he gets me hot and bothered when I don’t want him to. I head upstairs to my room. I’m exhausted—I haven’t been sleeping lately. I lie down on the floor, needing the familiar chill of it against my skin, and curl into a ball. Before long, I fall asleep, letting the exhaustion take me. I can’t breathe—but I don’t care. I know I should feel pain, but I stopped feeling a long time ago. Sir grunts. He’s on top of me. I should see his face, but I’m blind. My brain has blocked everything out again. I don’t feel my body. I’m not here. I hope he kills me today. I hope he loses control. But he doesn’t. He flips me over and ties my hands to the bedpost, arching my back, exposing everything. “You make me do this. It’s because you’re so beautiful.” Smack. The sound of leather striking skin. He’s whipping me with his belt. I don’t feel it. “My sweet little doll. Only I can destroy you. Only I can take your beautiful, pure skin and ruin it. I’ll make you more beautiful. Only for me. Only, ever for me. You’re mine. No one else will want you. Only me.” I don’t respond. I stopped talking a while ago. Please—lose control. Kill me. Please. The belt cracks again. And again. And again. I think I feel my blood dripping down my legs. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Black spots blur my vision. My body is shutting down. Yes, finally. He stops. I feel him move closer. “So beautiful, so pretty, so deceiving. You make me do this. It’s your fault.” His hands wrap around my n**k, choking me. He’s inside me again. I don’t feel him anymore. I don’t feel anything. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. My brain shuts down from the lack of oxygen. The world turns darker. My body rocks from Sir’s thrvsts. His breath is hot against my ear. I used to feel disgust—now I barely register the sound. I don’t care. I just want him to kill me. I just want to sleep. Sir jerks behind me. He’s coming, filling me with filth. His hands tighten around my n**k. I hope, this time, I don’t wake up. Knowing my luck, I probably will.

The bon'nerl I’m having is starting to cause me some serious pain. I’m not used to discomfort. hll, even some of the brothers think I’m either gay or have ED. But after watching Violet beat the shift out of those souleaters, the fker’s been hard. I want to jerk off, find release. Too bad I can’t—Devil called for Church right after the fight. “That motherfvcker.” Right—Pierce. Devil wanted to talk about Pierce. “Tried convincing him we had no part in it, but I don’t think he believed us.” Devil frowns, resting his head back on the huge leather chair and closing his eyes. “Sherlock, you find anything?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Looks like they fking disappeared into thin air after the raid. They probably headed into the desert instead of taking the road. Easy to vanish out there.” “fk… Wilhelm, I want you and Rios to ride out again. Take some prospects with you. Don’t go solo. Talk to people, see if someone saw something. Anything.” “Sure, Pres.” Wilhelm lifts his chin at Rios, our Tail Runner. He goes everywhere Wilhelm goes, unless it’s something higher-level, like meetings. Rios grins, happy to finally fking do something. After the third raid, Devil wanted his bikers kept close. It’s almost like a Dam lockdown. No one leaves alone, and the few old ladies we have moved back into the compound. Four hours later, Church is finally over. Like usual, I make my way toward my room when I hear heavy breathing. Not the good kind. The distressed kind. I pause, trying to figure out where it’s coming from, and realize I’m standing in front of Violet’s room. The breathing gets louder, more labored. I don’t know what the fk to do. I haven’t said a word to the girl yet, and the one time she talked to me, she was seriously pissed off. I found that kind of cute. Wait. What? I take a step back, ready to walk away, but it’s hard to ignore the sound of her now-pained gasps. “motherfvcker.” I knock first. No answer. I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching, then open the door. Only, it barely cracks open before it bumps into something. A grunt follows, and I look down to see Violet on the floor—curled in a ball. She looks small, fragile. Not at all like the girl who took on three biches earlier like it was nothing. I step quietly into her room and close the door behind me. A small whimper escapes her throat, and I’m at a loss. What the hll am I even trying to do? I fking hate women. Still… watching this chick suffer doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe it’s because she’s my best friend’s little sister. I scoop her up from the floor and carry her to her bed. She fits in my arms perfectly, and somehow, I’m not even disgusted by having a woman in my arms. Before I can set her down, she shifts in my hold, sniffing me, then buries her face into the crook of my n**k. Her breathing begins to slow. Did I just calm her down… by doing nothing? Are women that easy to soothe? I lay her down and try to move away to cover her with a blanket, but her hand grips my cut and pulls me back down. Okay. So women aren’t that easy to calm. Should’ve figured. I try to remove her hand, but she’s got a death grip, and I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t need Devil’s crazy @ss on mine. I grunt and kick off my boots. The bltch wants me close? Fine. She gets me close. I wrestle my cut off—no easy feat with her clutching it like it’s her lifeline. I peel off my shirt and slide into bed beside her. Not even a second passes before she curls around me. One leg slung over mine, one hand on my chest, fingers tangled in my chest hair, and then she rolls her whole body on top of mine. Her cave grinds into my h*p. I clench my teeth. This was a bad idea. Part of me wants to shove her off the bed and bolt in the opposite fking direction. But the other part… wants her even closer. Wants us fused together. She smells so Dam good—like green apples and something warm and clean. I feel like a fking teenager again, getting another hа'rd-on just because some chick is lying on me. Wasn’t I supposed to hate women? “Devil’s gonna fking kill me,” I mutter. Or maybe I’ll end up brain-dead—since my /cok’s hoarding all my blood.

I expected to wake up on the cold floor, but instead, I feel a warm, hard surface—with a heartbeat? I turn my head and see the handsome Killer. He’s asleep. And fking beautiful. Wait… why the hll is he here? I shoot up and look around. Yeah, this is still my room, and this is still my bed. So why is he here? Is he a psycho or something? “Hey.” I shake him, trying to wake the big giant who’s taken over my bed. “Dude, what the fk? Wake up. What are you doing here?” I shake him harder. Without warning, a fist comes flying toward me. I'm lucky I have quick reflexes, or he would’ve pounded my face flat. “WHAT the hll, DUDE?!” His eyes open, a faraway look in them, then he blinks. “the fk…” he grunts. “Yeah, uh, that’s my question. What are you doing in my bed?” I ask as he moves and gets off it. “You were having a nightmare, so I checked on you. You were lying on the floor, and when I tried to move you, you wouldn’t let me go.” Killer talks with his back to me as he grabs his clothes and starts getting dressed. I take the opportunity to check out his figure—his very, very, very $exy, tattooed back. How is a person this well-built? It’s like someone carved a perfect man out of stone and turned him into a breathing, living human being. “Stop looking at me like that.” I snap out of my h9rny daze and look up at him. He’s frowning, clearly not enjoying being checked out. Never met a biker who didn’t like the attention of a woman. Then again, I’ve noticed he’s different from every other biker—or any healthy man, for that matter. Maybe he’s gay. The hot ones always are. “fk you. My room, my rules. You came in here, so I can check you out if I feel like it.” When was the last time I go't lаid? A year ago? Too long. Way too long. Too bad I can’t attack this handsome, annoying, broody bаst3rd. My brother might have a heart attack. I wait for a response, but I don’t get one. Killer just turns around and walks out of my room. I sigh and look for my cigarettes. Nothing better than a smoke right after waking up. I find the pack under some clothes, pull one out, and light it with my Zippo. I lay back down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Now that I’m alone, I can think. I’ve never woken up this relaxed before. But I won’t let him know that. I will never show a man my weakness again. I’d rather slit my own throat. Perfect timing—my phone goes off. Cigarette dangling from my mouth, I get up and start looking for the Dam thing. Haru: “bltch, you better answer your godаm, motherfucking, piece-of-shift phone. RIGHT NOW.” …Okay. I press the call button and wait for my best friend to pick up. She answers on the second ring. “WHAT the hll TOOK YOU SO LONG, YOU LAZY bltch?” I pull the phone away from my ear, cringing. “What the hll, Haru. I was sleeping. What do you want?” “You need to get me out of here! I was on my way to you because I got into a fight with my boss—which got me fired, by the way—and some psycho customer followed me all the way down here. I’m hiding in the bathroom, and I know he’s outside. I’m at the bus station on the west side of that godаm small town of yours. COME GET ME.” I glance down at my phone and see it’s past midnight. Haru used to work—well, used to—as a stripper. I’ve known her since childhood. She was one of the Dolls that Sir had collected over the years. She’s only two years younger than me, but she arrived at Sir’s mansion around the same time I did—making her just three years old when she fell into the hands of that monster. We became friends because she was in the cell next to mine, and we were able to communicate through a small hole in the wall that no one knew about. We escaped our hll together when I turned eighteen. After that, we lived on the streets—digging through garbage cans for food, running from men with wandering hands, and sleeping under bridges, benches, or in metro stations. We had a close bond and only parted ways half a year ago. “I told you to stop stripping. Look what happens. You know how men get—lose brain cells the moment they see buubs,” I mutter while getting dressed, balancing my phone between my head and shoulder. “Yeah, well, I needed the money. What else was I supposed to do, Lev? I have no education. No talents other than stealing—nothing like you. And I just wanted to live a danger-free life for at least a little while.” I open my door and walk down the hallway. “Whatever. I’m coming for you now. Just stay there. I’ll be there in… fifteen minutes?” “Yeah, take your time. It’s not like there’s a maniac screaming outside with a gun, ready to do whatever he wants to me.” “Ah, you can handle him. See you soon.” “WHA—” I hang up the phone the moment I reach the bottom of the stairs. The bar is filled with bikers, and for the first time since I’ve been here, there isn’t some or'gy going on. Soft music plays in the background. People are nursing beers, chatting, relaxing. I spot some of the old ladies sitting with their men, talking to each other. I haven’t met any of them yet—not that I’m particularly interested. I make my way toward the door when someone grabs my arm. I turn and see my dad towering over me. “Where are you going?” “Do I have some sort of curfew no one told me about? I’m going out. I need to pick someone up.” I shake him off and step back, glaring. “Take Jaxon with you. Protection.” I gape at him, shocked. “Why the hll do I need protection? I’ve been fine on my own for a while now, thanks.” I try to walk away, but Chaos already calls for Jaxon. I move faster, hearing the door close behind me, and head toward my bike. Footsteps follow. Jaxon, along with that massive guy named Iren, approaches. Iren’s grinning, and Jaxon looks like he wants to shove a gun in his mouth. Nice. “Don’t come with me on my account. I can find my way around,” I say as I mount my bike and put the keys in the ignition. “Nice try, princess,” Iren says, still grinning, “but that’s not gonna happen. I like my tongue.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “Tongue…? Do I even want to know?” “No,” Jaxon mutters. I shrug it off and wait for the big, bad boys to get on their bikes. “Where to?” Iren asks, still grinning for some reason. “West Bus Station.” x-x-x-x We arrive at the bus station five minutes earlier than planned. I rush to get off my bike and look around. I spot the creep almost immediately. The man looks rough—greasy hair, a beer belly, and old, dirty clothes that probably haven’t been washed in three years. He’s pacing in front of the public bathroom. I glance over my shoulder and see Jaxon and Iren getting off their bikes. “Don’t get involved,” I basically order them. They look taken aback, but before they can respond, I step toward the pacing man. As I get closer, I hear him mumbling something, making him even creepier than he looked from a distance. “Hey!” I shout, making the creep look up. Without warning, I knock him out with a punch to his temple. Stepping over his now-unconscious body, I walk toward the public bathroom. “HARU, you can come out now.” After only a couple of seconds, my best friend walks out. She looks good, all things considered. Haru is Asian—tiny as fk. Her hair is styled in a bob cut now, and for once, it’s her natural color: black. The only thing that sets her apart from most Asians are her striking, piercing, cold blue eyes that make you wonder if she can see into your soul. Haru is a beautiful woman, but that’s exactly why Sir chose her in the first place. When she gets close enough, she looks over my shoulder and stares at the fat man on the ground. “Nice,” she grins, hugging me. “Didn’t see the need to talk to him,” I explain. But knowing Haru, she doesn’t need an explanation. I take her in now that she’s closer and let out a sigh. “Which one are you?” Haru looks up at me and grins an evil grin. Great. Haru, like me, has a fked-up, shattered mind. But while I detach and numb myself to everything, she escapes reality entirely. I think the fancy term is Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID. I haven’t looked into it deeply, but it was weird seeing my best friend’s personality change from time to time, so I did some research. She has three different personalities. Unlike typical cases—or so I’ve read—she remembers what she does when she’s someone else. “Who’s the hot fella over there? The big, grumpy one?” she asks while I’m spaced out. I catch her l*****g her l**s, eyes raking over the man standing a few feet away. I glance over my shoulder, though I don’t really need to. I know who she means. “Jaxon. One of my brother’s men.” “You found your brother? Is he hot?” I shake my head, already wondering if it’s a bad idea to bring her with me when she’s like this. I call her personalities Dark, Light, and Grey. Dark is the hardest to handle: aggressive, sexual, unpredictable, hard, mean, sneaky. Grey is my favorite. She’s a mix of both Light and Dark—confident, loyal, brave, smart, funny, but still a little sexual, a little mean when needed, and rough around the edges. Light is quiet, almost mute, scared of anything that moves. She hides in dark corners. Light is probably the part of Haru’s soul that Sir broke—the part that needs protecting. “Haru, please don’t jump him. We need to go home, and I really don’t want to wait around in the middle of nowhere so you can fk some guy in a public bathroom.” “I can fk him on his bike, no problem.” I decide to ignore her and walk back to my bike. “Everything good?” Iren asks me. I nod and half-turn so I can introduce Haru. “This is Haru, my best friend. She basically got fired from her job and came looking for me.” “Hello,” Haru purrs, still eyeing Jaxon. And Jaxon still looks like he wants to put a gun in his mouth. Poor guy. “Get on my bike,” I tell Haru, leaving no room for argument. Haru nods, and I see the shift in her eyes. Now that I’m here, she doesn’t need to protect herself. She whimpers softly, her shoulders tensing, and I see her retreat inward. “fk,” I mumble and carefully take her hand. “Come on.” Haru trembles and looks up at Iren and Jaxon. I can see their confusion at the sudden change, but I shoot them a look that tells them not to ask. “Do you mind sleeping in my room, at least for tonight?” I ask Haru as she climbs onto the bike behind me, grabbing me as tightly as humanly possible. I feel her nod as I start the engine. “Good.”

I take Haru straight to my room when we get to the compound. Ignoring everyone around me, including my brother and father, I head up the stairs. Haru is gripping my arm like a lifeline, trembling. I slam the door behind us with my foot and lead Haru toward the bed. “Don’t worry, you’re safe. You know I’d never let anyone hurt you again.” Haru looks up at me, and after a couple of silent minutes, her eyes shift and her body begins to relax. “I hate when that happens.” Haru flops down on the bed and stares at the ceiling. She’s turned Grey. That’s good. “Thanks for being my friend, Violet.” I snicker in response. “You’re the only person who understands me. Like I’d want to lose you,” I say. “Where’s your stuff? Did you just take the bus here without bringing anything?” Haru shrugs and lifts her head off the mattress to look at me. “I don’t have anything valuable anyway. Why waste energy on that?” “Uh, maybe clothes? You planning to walk around here n@ked? Not a great idea, if you ask me.” Haru lets out a soft laugh and sits up cross-legged on my bed. “You can lend me some of your clothes. I have enough money to buy my own, so we can go shopping tomorrow.” I frown. She knows I hate shopping. “Are you trying to piss me off?” “I like to tease you from time to time, so yes. Got a problem with that?” I hold my hands up in defeat. I should’ve known. “Fine. We’ll go shopping tomorrow.” “Thanks. Love ya.” I just grunt in response and head into the bathroom. “Use my toothbrush and anything else you need.” “Oh, like old times. How exciting.” I let out a chuckle. Normal people might find it gross to share a toothbrush, but after a life of rat-filled cells, dirty floors, and garbage dinners, I couldn’t care less about germs. I brush my teeth and hand the toothbrush to Haru when she walks in to take a shower. While she brushes, I lean back against the wall. Thin white lines mark the back of my best friend, nearly identical to mine. Only mine are bigger. Nastier. Uglier, no doubt. “Stop looking at me. I get shy,” Haru jokes. “Liar,” I smile. Someone knocks on the door. I meet Haru’s eyes in the mirror. “Stay here,” I tell her. She nods, and I step out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Leaving some space between me and the main door, I answer. “What?” “We need to talk.” Great. My brother probably talked to my cute bodyguards and now wants answers. I’d hoped this could wait until morning—it's already 2 AM and I’m exhausted. Opening the door just a crack, I glare up at my brother. “Can’t this wait?” “No.” I sigh and step out of my room. “Let’s talk somewhere else,” I tell him. Devil raises an eyebrow, but I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That was the plan.” I follow him downstairs and notice we’re heading to the so-called Church Room—the one I wasn’t allowed to enter before. I guess I’ve been promoted? When I walk in, I realize this isn’t a one-on-one meeting. My dad, Killer, Iren, Wilhelm, Jaxon, Sherlock, and two other guys whose names I’ve already forgotten are sitting around a long table. “Sit down,” my brother orders. I fight down a nasty response. I’m not a Dam dog. Still, I play the good girl and take the only empty seat—the one at the other end of the table. “So, what do you want to know?” I’m not stupid. They want to know about Haru. “Who’s the girl?” my father asks. “A friend.” “And how long is she staying?” “For as long as she wants,” I reply, already feeling defensive. “Look, Violet. You can stay here because you’re my sister and the daughter of one of the Founders. But your friend’s a different story. We have rules. If she wants to stay, she has to work, become a Souleater, earn her place. Or she could become an old lady. But that probably won’t happen, knowing my boys.” I stare at my brother in disbelief. Anger boils inside me, and I do everything I can to push it down. For now. Did he just say they want to turn my best friend into one of their sl*ts? “Excuse me?” I ask, needing to make sure I heard him right before I lose my shift. “She either becomes an old lady or a Souleater,” Devil repeats, serious—like he didn’t just sign his own death warrant. I stand, pushing my chair back so hard it falls. My mind blanks. Tunnel vision kicks in. My breathing slows. The rage vanishes. I go cold. “You want to use my best friend for your little fuckfests?” My voice is calm. Detached. Ice-cold. “Listen, sis—” I leap onto the table before he can finish, walking across it past the “brothers” who’ve wisely stayed silent. I crouch in front of my brother, staring straight into his eyes, tilting my head slightly. I’ve been told I look like a psychopath when I get like this—and from the look on my brother’s face, it must be true. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before. “Be careful what you ask of me, brother. Don’t be stupid. You’ll regret it,” I whisper. My father stands, pointing a finger with a scowl. “Know your place, Violet. Devil might be your brother, but he’s still your President. It’s either that or she’s out. That’s how this club runs.” I laugh, knowing it sounds anything but pleasant. “You’re asking me to let your filthy brothers t***h my friend? My fking sister—with or without blood? You should understand how a bond like that works. Isn’t this club all about brotherhood?” I rise and stretch my legs. “Anyone who touches her is dead. You want her gone? Fine. I’ll leave too. I don’t give a fk about you. You may be blood, but that means nothing to me right now. Make a decision. She’s treated the same as me, or we’re both out.” “You can’t make decisions like that!” my father nearly yells. “I can. Watch me.” My brother looks furious. He closes his eyes, taking a few calming breaths. When he opens them, he meets my gaze. “Fine.” “Devil,” my father warns. “This is my club now, Chaos. I want my sister more than I want to please my brothers with some fresh cave.” My father leans back in his chair, shaking his head. “Whatever you say, Prez,” he mutters, clearly unhappy. I glance at the bikers who had the sense to stay silent. I read the names “Cig” and “Maker” on the cuts of the two I didn’t know. I meet every pair of eyes at the table before turning back to my brother. “I’ll say this one more time. If one of your brothers touches her, they’re dead. Don’t think I’m joking.” With that, I jump off the table and storm into the bar, slamming the door behind me. I climb onto one of the tables and shout loud enough to grab everyone’s attention. “You all saw a girl walk into the bar with me just now. I’m only going to say this once. t***h her, and you’re fking dead.” I turn to the group of Souleaters lounging by the bar or perched on bikers' laps. “And you Souleaters over there—if you t***h her, look at her, or even speak to her, I swear I will stitch your STD-infested, dirty caves you call pu'ssies shut. You got me?” I don’t wait for an answer. I catch my brother stepping out of the meeting room. My father stands behind him, face thunderous. Devil looks pissed—but there’s pride in his eyes too. What a weirdo. I hop off the table and head upstairs. Some bikers smirk as I pass, amusement lighting their eyes. Probably think I’m bluffing. They shouldn’t. They don’t know me, and they sure as hll don’t know the life I’ve lived. Back in my room, I exhale and lean against the door. The tunnel vision fades, my breathing returning to normal. Haru sits on the bed, her head tilted slightly, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, she opens her mouth to ask—but I cut her off. “It’s not important. If someone fks with you, tell me. I’ll handle it. Got it?” Understanding flashes in Haru’s eyes. She nods. “Come on. Let’s sleep.” Haru shifts to the other side of the bed, giving me space. I ditch my boots and toss my jacket and pants into a corner. I slide in next to her. Her arms wrap around my stomach, hugging me tight. A calm I haven’t felt in years settles over me. Within minutes, I’m asleep.