“W-We won’t say anything,” one of the women says as she steps forward.
One of her friends grabs her hand and tries to pull her back into the group.
“Some of us didn’t want to be here in the first place.” She glances over her shoulder at a girl who could be more than fifteen, then stares at me. “Please.”
Reaper tilts his head to the side, studying her. “I know you.”
She nods. “I was Hawk’s sister.”
Reaper’s eyebrows shoot up. “Thought you were dead. Jet, yeah?”
“Yeah, and I might as well have been.” Jet looks around at the dead men on the floor.
Justice walks into the room, and Reaper gives him a chin lift. “Get them all back to our clubhouse.”
Jet takes another step forward. “I’m not trading this life for another shitty one with the likes of you.” Her eyes blaze with defiance.
Reaper laughs. “I don’t take sloppy seconds, and you won’t be. We just need to make sure we’re all on the same page, and after a reasonable amount of time, you can all leave.”
Justice moves forward, and she cocks her head to the side. Whatever he sees in her eyes causes him to stop.
“Give me your word we won’t be used like whores or slaves or whatever the fuck your gang does.”
Reaper laughs and points his knife at Jet. “I like you. You’ve got balls.” The smile falls off his face, and he moves right into her personal space.
I wince inwardly, knowing if it were me, I’d back down, but damn if this woman doesn’t have a spine. Jet doesn’t step back, and she stares Reaper in the eyes. They stay locked like that until one of the other women lets out a sob. Reaper stares past Jet, then nods.
“You have my word. No one will hurt you, but you will come to our compound. This is non-negotiable.”
Jet steps back and nods. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Reaper quirks an eyebrow at her. “Time to go.”
Justice steps forward. “Ladies, if you’ll all follow me?”
Jet puts her arm around the young girl, and they follow Justice out.
“You did the right thing,” I say to Reaper.
He shrugs. “Make it rain, Highway,” Reaper says, his voice an undercurrent of darkness in the silence that follows death.
I pull the matches from my pocket, striking one against the rough side of the box. The flame flickers to life, small and insignificant against the carnage around us. But its power lies in what comes next. I flick the match into the pooling gasoline, a simple gesture that ignites an inferno.
Flames roar to life, greedy tongues licking up the sides of the clubhouse. Heat washes over me, and for a moment, I feel like the devil himself. The fire devours everything, consuming the evidence of our retribution with hungry fervor. Crimson Wheelers, their clubhouse, their secrets—all of it turns to ash and smoke under the wrath of the Royal Bastards.
“Let’s ride,” I call out, my voice hoarse but steady.
There’s nothing left here for us but echoes and embers.
***
The rumble of my bike is a familiar comfort as we ride back to our territory, the morning air washing the stench of blood and gasoline from my nostrils. I can’t wait to see Lyric, to feel something other than the adrenaline and cold resolve that’s been my companion.
The Royal Bastards’ clubhouse comes into view, and my heart kicks up a notch.
Home.
Safety.
