I scan the room, taking in the sterile smell of antiseptics and the sight of Reaper leaning against a wall. His eyes are locked on the woman.
“Talk,” Reaper demands, and I can feel the threat in his voice vibrating in my chest.
She shrugs, nonchalant even with her arm busted. “Tore lots of things,” she says casually as if discussing the weather.
“Coincidence, my ass,” Reaper snaps, stepping closer. He’s a predator cornering his prey. “The photo. Why’d you take the other half?”
Her head shakes, and she frowns. “Didn’t take nothing.”
Reaper’s stance tightens, coiling like a spring. “Bullshit,” he spits out.
Justice finishes securing the sling and steps back. It’s meant to make her feel safe and think she’ll be released, but it’s all an act. Her eyes dart around the room, perhaps sensing the deceit, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.
A silent moment passes. “Better start making sense,” Reaper warns, his voice low and dangerous.
I squeeze Lyric’s hand, a silent reminder that I’m here and with her.
Lyric’s fingers entwine with mine. “The other half…” Lyric says, her voice hesitant, “… it might be back at the house. Under all that mess… we didn’t sift through all of it. I found it ripped intwo and assumed…”
Reaper’s heavy sigh cuts through the tension, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly—a stark contrast to the coiled intensity from moments ago. “So, it ain’t the Locos then,” he concludes, almost to himself but loud enough for us to catch. The relief in his voice doesn’t quite mask the underlying frustration. “Just a crazy woman causing havoc.”
Lyric flinches beside me, and I pull her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Reaper’s eyes meet mine, a silent nod passing between us. We’ve been through worse scrapes, but every time danger nips at our heels, it leaves a mark. This time, it’s a reminder that even in our world, sometimes the chaos is just madness, not the enemy trying to destroy us.
The infirmary door squeaks open, a slice of light slicing the dimness. Jet’s unmistakable silhouette fills the gap. She takes one step in, two, then freezes like she’s hit an invisible wall.
“Foxy,” she breathes out, her voice barely a whisper but loaded with a thousand unspoken words. Her eyes lock onto the woman we’ve been grappling with, and I see something flicker across her face—fear, recognition, disgust? Hard to tell.
Jet backs out, retreating into the shadows as if she’s seen a ghost.
Justice, who’s been doing his best to bandage up Foxy’s broken arm, shoots a look at the woman. “What’d you do to Jet?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.
Foxy, sitting on the edge of a cot, her good arm cradling the sling, shrugs. There’s no remorse there, no fear either. It’s like she’s discussing the weather, not the potential fallout of her actions.
“Those other chicks?” Foxy says, a sneer curling her lip. “They ain’t like me. They were there for one thing only.” She spits the next words out like they’re poison. “Lying on their backs. Servicing the Crimson Wheelers.” She laughs, and it’s a sharp,ugly sound. “Nothing but whores.”
I clench my fists, hands are balled up in tension while anger builds. This woman, this… Foxy, she’s got a lot of nerve. But I’ve got to stay cool, keep my head.
“Watch your mouth,” Justice warns, the threat clear in his tone.
Foxy smirks like she’s untouchable and doesn’t care what comes next.
Reaper’s gaze locks onto Foxy, ice-cold and merciless. The air in the infirmary thickens with tension, and I can damn near taste the danger on my tongue.
“Time to go,” Reaper says, his voice flat as a dead engine.
He doesn’t need to raise his voice. Doesn’t have to. His presence alone commands the room. Justice nods, stepping forward, his large frame blocking the light as he moves toward Foxy.
“Move,” Justice grunts, no hint of a question in his tone.
Foxy stands, her smirk finally wiped off her face. She knows better than to argue. They all do when Reaper’s got that look in his eyes—the one that spells out trouble with a capital T.
They march her out, Reaper leading the way, Justice at the rear, like she’s some kind of prisoner. Which, hell, maybe she is. Maybe she has always been. The clubhouse door swings shut with a sound that echoes like a final verdict.
“Where are they taking her?” Jet asks behind me.
“Doesn’t matter,” I reply, keeping my voice low. “It’s club business.”
But my gut twists, uneasy.
