Staying focused, I don’t look at any one female longer than necessary. I can’t. Not if I wanna get us outta here in one piece. They’re nothing more than bodies in chairs—faceless victims. I can’t identify them and make this any more personal than it already is.

  I step forward—out of our shadows and into the light. Enough to expose myself to the enemy. To become the key player in tonight’s game. Power vs. power. Them vs. us. They’re about to become the pawns on my playground. Welcome to the show.

  A man dressed in an expensive black suit and tie steps behind our girls. “Hello, Gunz,” his thick, Russian accent articulates.

  To appear less threatening, I relax my stance and cross both arms over my chest. “Hello, scumbag.” My tone’s flat as I tip my chin in slow greeting, my eyes meeting his in strength.

  A smile splits the Russian’s lips. He chuckles, dark and amused. “Ah, yes. Funny, American.”

  This is new. An outsider working with Remy. Perhaps his empire spreads further than I anticipated. Or… he brought in the big dogs to help in this fight. Either way, I’m ready for anything.

  In a show of arrogance, the Russian rests a palm on Niki’s shoulder and the other on Beth’s as he stands between their chairs. A row of thick, gold rings shine under the lights. I wanna laugh at his antiquated mob boss routine. It’s cute.

  The scumbag arches a bushy brow in challenge.

  See.

  I told you he thought he had something there.

  Arrogance only gets you so far.

  I remain impassive and yawn because I can, my posture lazy, like I have all day.

  If he were up against a man like Big, the room would’ve erupted in chaos by now. But I’m not Big. There’s a reason I’m here, and he isn’t.

  The brothers behind me grumble their discontent as his faction mocks us in muted laughter from across the way.

  Yuk it up, boys. You won’t be smiling when your families welcome you home in body bags.

  When I don’t give the Russian the reaction he seeks, he does what any egotistical, small dicked bastard would and forcefully removes Beth’s blindfold before he gropes one of her breasts. It’s cold and callous. A silent tear treks down her cheek as she winces in pain. My gut tightens in response, dying to step in and help. But I can’t. Not yet.

  He arches that same brow again. What a cocky, cocky man. A sinister smirk follows at the corner of his mouth.

  A brother curses behind me. Another snarls. I say nothing. Give nothing.

  “You son of a bitch!” Runner bursts through the doorway and advances on the Russian, not caring about anyone but Beth. Stupid asshole. On instinct, I lurch forward to grab his cut and yank the jackass to safety. I barely get ahold of his back before he twists out of my grasp and powers on, giving zero fucks.

  Beth’s watery eyes widen in disbelief as she croaks around her gag, seeing him for the first time in forever.

  “Beth!” he roars at the same moment the familiar sound of a gun discharging pulses through the air.

  I dive for Runner. Hitting him from the side like a linebacker, we collapse on the floor in a mess of limbs, knocking the wind out of my goddamn lungs as I land on top of him. He doesn’t move. I roll off and turn him onto his back. Blood seeps into the carpet, turning the blue an ugly shade of blue-black as it pools beneath us.

  “R-un-Runner, where you hit?” I wheeze as I lean up to jostle him. He still doesn’t respond.

  “Runner!” I punch him in the shoulder, waiting for him to open his eyes, groan, something. To give me hell like the stubborn asshole always does.

  He does jack all.

  I press a finger to the side of his unshaven throat.

  Blood trickles down the side of his forehead. That’s when I see it, the hole just below the hairline. The specks of brain matter on the ground around us. In shock, I blink once to focus, then look down at the blood on my hands, at the blood on my shirt, and it soaking into the denim of my jeans.

  He’s dead.

  Someone killed my brother.

  An asshole he may have been, but Runner was still my brother. Will always be my brother.

  A pesky tear finds its way from my eye before I swipe it away with the back of my hand. I lay a palm upon Runner’s still heart and wish him a farewell. Emotions I don’t wanna acknowledge unfurl in my chest—ugly, raw, and dangerous.

  Closing both eyes for a beat, I inhale a single, profound breath and hold it there as the ache spreads, as my Zen sloughs off, and the glue holding my jagged pieces together melts into a puddle of nothingness. No longer held captive, tendrils of darkness leak into my vision. Most of the world fears our prez because he’s the giant, the dick, the face of the Sacred Sinners… but they don’t know me. They don’t know what happens when I let go. The calm one. The rational one. The one with a murky past he won’t talk about. The boy sold by his mother to the neighborhood whores. The one who unleashes his evil within the confines of depravity. On those willing.

  I’m done.

  Clenching my jaw, my abs, my pecs, I expel my breath in a rush and twist my head slowly to the side. The room falls quiet, watching the Russian watch me, waiting for a pin to drop. Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all.

  Smoothly dropping onto my back, half on top of Runner, I rip my gun free from my cut and shoot. You wanna fuck with the Sacred Sinners, you wanna fuck with me, you wanna kill my brother, you wanna touch my women? You’re gonna die.

  The first bullet hits the Russian bastard in the shoulder. He staggers backward, catching himself on the top of Niki’s chair in obvious shock. There’s more where that came from.

  In the confines of the office, brothers and enemies alike engage as I clamber off the floor to handle business. A group of bikers carry chairs laden with our women out of harm’s way, doing their best to cover them with their own bodies as they run for safety, under a cloud of deafening gunfire.

  Tables are knocked onto their sides as shields. Lace and Kade slice and dice their way through a throng of enemies. Trusting my fellow brothers to do their job, I focus on him—my prize.

  “You killed my brother!” I loom over the Russian bastard as he squirms in pain on the floor, blood seeping from too many holes. “You did this.”

  His cronies wouldn’t have ended Runner without his consent. They wouldn’t have cut our women’s hair off or tied them up without the orders to do so. They know the rules.

  Watching his eyes widen in horror, knowing these are the final moments of his existence, I kick the son of a bitch in the side. He groans a high-pitched, pathetic sound. Unsatisfied by his reaction, by how easily he succumbs to his wounds, by his lack of fight, my upper lip curls back over my teeth in an ugly snarl. I spit on his face, varnishing it in my hatred. On a whine, the fucker clutches his stomach as tears trickle down the sides of his face. Pussy. I straddle his form, one foot on either side, and aim true, at the exact spot they ended my brother. “Fuck you!” The bullet carves a pit right where it belongs. The Russian’s body jerks one last time before I watch the remnants of his soul escape, headed to whatever afterlife.

  Good riddance.

  The scent of pennies suffuses the air as the Grim Reaper stakes his claim one by one through the office. Those who live clear out, leaving behind nothing more than a brutal war field—a cemetery.

  Checking for signs of life, just to be certain, I nudge bodies with the toe of my boot. Nobody moves. Not an inch. Not a breath. Good.

  White Boy, coated in bodily fluids, sidles up to me as I flip a deceased biker onto his back and cut off his patch to take home to his family. I shove it into my rear pocket for safekeeping. I may not know this man, Jimbo, but I respect his sacrifice.

  I press my thumb to the center of his forehead. Rest in peace, brother.

  “You hit?” White Boy asks as he flips another fallen Sacred Sinner onto his back.

  I kneel beside the young male and press my thumb to the center of his skull, or what’s left of it. Rest in peace, brother.

  White Boy removes the guy’s patch and hands it to me. It, too, joins the other.

  “You hit?” the pain in the ass repeats when I don’t answer the first time.

  Can’t he see I’m busy? I side-eye him, unimpressed. He raises a brow, challenging me. Fine. My bones crack like I’m a thousand years old as I stand long enough to get my brother off my ass.

  With flourish, I scan my legs, shake ‘em a little for show, then check my torso and arms. Everything seems just peachy, ’til a finger grazes my side, and my adrenaline begins to wane. I stumble forth and catch myself on the closest wall.

  Shit. Fuck. Fuckin’ shit.

  Heaving a pained breath, I grip my side. Blood squishes through the hole in my cut, bathing my palm in red.

  Goddammit!

  White Boy turns me around by the shoulders and props my back against the wall. Grabbing me by the chin, he forces me to look him in the eye.

  “Let me see.” He peels my cut to the side, and shoves my t-shirt up my abs, exposing the hole. It leaks steadily onto the waistband of my jeans, coating my belt. He reaches around my back to probe for an exit wound. No dice.

  “You gotta see Doc,” he confirms, doing an I-told-ya-so eyebrow wiggle, as if he saw me get hit. Who knows… he might have. But if he thinks I’m seein’ Doc, no, the fuck I’m not.

  I push his overbearing touch away and cover the hole with my palm, to staunch the bleeding. “I need to see the girls.” All of ‘em. The bullet can come out later. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot, nor will it be the last. I’m not dying today.

  “After you fix that.” He waves to the wound. “Bonez is already outside. The girls have been removed from their chairs. They’re safe. You, not so much.”

  Rolling my eyes, I shove off the wall to go see them. To make sure Kit knows I’m here for her. That I came. I should’ve been the first face she saw when they removed the blindfold. I need to be there. I need to touch her. To hear her voice. To tell her Adam’s okay. That Big’s got him.

  “Stubborn asshole.” White Boy hooks an arm through mine and escorts me like an old crippled from the room, despite my grumbly protests. We hobble over several bodies before we reach a hallway teeming with brothers. Many of them mend flesh wounds with packets of gauze and tape on their own as others take a beat to catch their bearings. Can’t say I blame ‘em. It’s been a long night.

  “How’s your mom and Jade?” I ask as we amble through the warehouse, pretending I’m fine.

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Brother…”

  “I knew whatever happened to them would be bad. Now it’s real.”

  “They’re still breathin’.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Truth be told, neither do I, but I’m not about to tell him that.

  “We’re gonna get ‘em help.” It’s the best positive, self-help, mumbo jumbo I can muster at the moment.

  Wind knocked outta his sails, White Boy shrugs both shoulders, nearly touching his ears. “I know.” He sighs as they drop. “But what about Jade’s son? He’s gotta see his mom like this. Then Blimp and Mom… Fuck… He’s messed up.”

  “That’s why I told him to stay in the truck.” There’s no way on God’s green earth Blimp could’ve witnessed his old lady tied up like that and not gotten himself killed trying to rescue her. Like Runner. For all his toked-up chill, he’s protective. He’s also the size of, you guessed it, a Blimp. Despite the fact he owns a gun shop, he’s not stealthy. He’s the backup man. The slow-and-steady blow-you-apart-with-a-sawed-off kinda brother. The one great for a lookout, or from a distance, but up close, when emotions run high, he’s more liability than asset. I knew that going in, which is why I lied about the getaway driver. He’s a smart cookie. He knew what I was doin’ as I was doin’ it. We’ve been friends most of my life.

  “We did this,” White Boy declares with too much vehemence.

  “We didn’t do shit,” I return with just as much, if not more, intensity.

  “They’re like this because of us. Because of who we are.” My brother pounds the center of his chest with a fist, stacking all the responsibility on his shoulders.

  Not down with the martyr horseshit, I shake my head, and I do it well. “No. They’re like this ’cause some sick motherfuckers prey on women and boys… and they don’t like us meddlin’ in their business,” I rationalize to keep the kid’s guilt in check. He doesn’t need this kinda baggage. That’s for us ancient fuckers to carry. We’ve got the grit to manage it. He needs to live his life to the fullest—fuck, fight, and have a blast on the back of his Harley, with the wind in his blond hair. Not nightmares of blood staining his hands. Pussy and booze. Smiles and rock-n-roll. The shit men sign up for when they become a Sacred Sinner. Violence might be a byproduct of our brotherhood, but it’s not the heart of us. We do what we gotta do to make the world a better place for those we love and those who can’t fight for themselves. I happen to think it’s honorable. Maybe that’s just me, though. I’m not some twenty-something, fresh-faced baby. I’ve bled Sacred Sinner far longer than many of these fuckers have been alive, including him.

  We don’t speak much as we finish navigating our way outta the warehouse, me grittin’ my teeth with each step.

  The parking lot’s a circus as we exit the building through the front. The first thing I latch my sights on is Bonez’s big head tending to Niki in the open bay of an ambulance. One of two they brought, parked side by side. I scan for you-know-who and find feminine, tatted arms embracing Loretta next to a wild-eyed Blimp, staring a possessive hole straight through his old lady. Never blinking. Not moving. Just lookin’.

  Kit releases her friend when Blimp speaks to her. Rubbing something from her eyes, my lady turns and… fuck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  KIT

  Those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes. They tether our souls across the headlight-lit expanse as I stumble forth in oversized sweats like a newborn colt, nearly falling on my ass to get to him. Gunz’s arms widen to catch me, his hands bathed in red. Not caring about anything but him, I dive into his embrace, arms locking around his middle. He staggers backward to keep us upright and groans as he absorbs me, wrapping me up tight. Warmth and him. Leather and comfort. Muscles and man.

  Unable to control it a moment longer, my internal dam crumbles into a million pieces at my feet, and I weep into his chest. Vicious, full-bodied agony rips from the depths of my being. Fat, salty droplets soak into his shirt. He’s here. We’re together. I’m alive. He’s alive. The torture’s over. The relief’s immense.

  Gunz whispers sweet nothings against the top of my new beanie. The warmth of his breath bathes my bald head through the knit fabric. I clutch the back of his shirt until my knuckles ache, never wanting to let go.

  “I’ve got you. I’m here now, love,” he vows.

  In response, I shudder violently, then hiccup as an all-consuming wail wrenches itself from the knot in my belly, up my throat, and through my mouth, needing to be liberated. I let it go because it doesn’t give me a choice.

  Just as he’s been with me through it all. My shelter against the storm. My solace. Gunz holds me, strong and unyielding. I want to tell him how much this means to have him here but can’t. Not yet. Another horrible noise erupts from my lips. I try to swallow it down, but it doesn’t fucking care.

  Stuffing my nose between his pecs, I breathe in the scent of death and him—of spice, laundry, and sweat. I close my eyes and relish the present. Not the past. Not inside the building. Not the emotions. I ignore the ache in my legs, as I struggle to stand for too long. I can’t let go. Not yet.

  I breathe.

  In.

  Out.

  Calming myself.

  When they cut us from our chairs, they dressed us, mended our surface wounds, and fed us protein bars. They didn’t taste like much. It couldn’t fill the void in my middle. The rot there, poisoning me from the core out, has changed me forever. No food could ever fix it. I don’t know if anything can. Not for me, not for any of us women. Not after what we went through.

  “Gunz.” The breathy accentuation of his name comes from Niki. I do my best to tune her out. She’s in love with him. We all know it. He’s all she spoke about in the closet. He, too, was her solace. If I was selfless, I would let him go to care for her like he has me. But I can’t. Horrible or not. Selfish or not. I just can’t.

  I know I don’t know Gunz well. Not like Niki. Not like Beth or Loretta. Not like Jade. I’m new. He and I have spent a total of three nights together, just three, and look where we are. The first time, he gave me the biggest gift anyone could receive. The second, he gave me another. I couldn’t tell you what it is or what it means. I just know he feels big… he’s important. I should’ve known it the night we met all those years ago. How special he is. The rebel who fucked me into oblivion. For many years, I often wondered how he was. How his life turned out. In the parking lot of a warehouse, wrapped in his arms, now I know.

  “Sweetheart.” Gunz jostles me.

  I rub my face on his shirt to dry the tears. “Yes?”

  He breathes in, his chest expanding. “I gotta go see Doc. But I want ya with me.”

  I pull back just enough to look up at his face—pale skin, a grimace, sweat dripping down his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

  Beside us, wrapped in a cocoon of their own, White Boy rubs Jade’s back. “He got hit,” he answers for me.

  “Hit?” Huh… how?

  “Yeah. Here.” Gunz peels back the edge of his cut, exposing his side. There’s a hole through his stained shirt.

  Brow furrowing, I take a small step back and watch blood leak from his body. “What… the… why didn’t you say anything?” I glance down at myself. I’m stained, too, in his blood, on the matching side.