Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 35

Last thing I remember is lying in bed thinking about Lola. About what I want from her. With her. This isn't the end—it's barely the fucking beginning. Maybe I'd make it official, call her my girl. Or maybe I'd see how far into the darkness she'd follow me. Test her limits with the Reapers. One thing I know about Lola Kemper—give her an edge to walk, and she'll dance on it.

Then everything goes black.

Rough hands drag me forward. The hood over my face tells me exactly what this is—Reaper business. Probably payback for the shit with Jack. Fine by me.

The familiar smell hits me before anything else. Same place where I first sold my soul to the Reapers. Concrete and metal and musk.

A boot connects with the back of my knees. I drop, hard. Bite back every curse I want to spit at them. Not the time. Not the place. I don’t like being treated like a fucking dog.

When they rip off the hood, I keep my head down. Stare at the gray concrete. I can feel them in front of me—a wall of judgment in masks. No one is at my sides. Just me and whatever the fuck is going on here.

My heart's hammering against my ribs, but it's not fear. It's anticipation. Come on, you bastards. Show me what you've got.

"Brody Skylar Black." The voice echoes off the walls like a gunshot. "You stood before us not too long ago with a proposition that we couldn't say no to. You succeeded where others have failed. You brought justice where it needed to be served."

I lift my head at that. A fucking compliment? Now this is interesting. I lean back, meet their stares head-on. Noah's there, but the rest—they're the ones we never see. The real power. Red masks hiding faces that probably run half this city.

"Your actions have earned you more than just our attention." The voice belongs to the tallest mask, red like fresh blood against black cloth. "We're offering you full membership in the Reapers."

My pulse kicks hard against my throat. This is it—the real fucking deal. No more being the guy on the outside, running errands and proving himself. I've played their game, waited, planned, executed. And now I'm in.

The masks watch me, waiting. They know what this means to me. What I've sacrificed to get here. The shit I've done would make most hockey players piss themselves, but that's the difference between them and me. I was made for this—the violence on and off the ice.

"However." Another mask steps forward, this one with a jagged crack running down its center. "Full membership comes with absolute loyalty. Break our rules, question our authority, step out of line..." He lets the threat hang there like a noose.

A TV flickers to life on the wall. The image makes my jaw clench—Jack, looking like he went ten rounds with a meat grinder. Blood matted in his hair, face swollen beyond recognition. He's breathing, barely. Part of me wants to smile. Fucker played with fire, tried to take what's mine. Now he's learning what that costs.

"I accept." The words come out strong, certain. This is what I've wanted since I first heard about the Reapers. But there's one thing I won't negotiate on. "Lola Kemper remains off limits."

The room goes silent. I can hear my own heartbeat, steady now. Sure. This is the hill I'll die on if I have to.

The main mask—the leader—tilts his head. Studies me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Then she falls under your protection. Her safety, her actions, her discretion—all of it becomes your responsibility."

What he's really saying hits me hard: if Lola fucks up, it's my head on the chopping block. But that's fine. That's perfect. Because anyone who wants to get to her has to go through me first, and I've got a growing list of shit that proves how it usually ends.

"Lift your left hand."

I raise it without hesitation. This is what I've bled for.

"Repeat after me." The leader's voice drops lower, each word like ice down my spine. "In blood and shadow, I bind myself to the Reapers."

The words taste like copper on my tongue. "In blood and shadow, I bind myself to the Reapers."

"My life for the brotherhood. My death for our cause. No loyalty above this oath, no mercy for our enemies."

I repeat it, feeling each word sink into my bones. This isn't just some bullshit fraternity pledge. This is a death pact.

"Should I betray this oath, let my death come slow. Let it come at the hands of my brothers."

The final words barely leave my mouth when a fist crashes into my jaw from the right. Fucking hell. My head snaps back, vision blurring. Before I can recover, they're on me.

Boots to the ribs. Fists to the face. Someone's got my throat, driving knuckles into my temple. I taste blood, feel it running down my chin. But I don't fight back. This is the price of admission—proving I can take it as good as I give it.

Every hit is a reminder: this is what being a Reaper means. Pain is just the beginning.

"Welcome to hell," Noah whispers as the others back off. They fade into the shadows like they were never there, leaving me spitting blood onto concrete.

"Stand the fuck up," Noah barks. "Let's go."

I push myself up, ribs screaming. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. Noah claps my shoulder, hard enough to make me wince.

"Welcome to the brotherhood." His voice carries both a warning and a promise. "Glad to have you."

I straighten despite the pain, tasting blood and victory.

They think this is hell?

I'm already home.

Everything hurts when I hit the ice for morning practice. Good. Pain means I earned it.

Jack's not here. His spot on the bench is empty, and nobody's asking why.

I take the first drill at full speed, letting my body work through the stiffness. Coach keeps yelling about positioning, but I'm already three steps ahead. The puck feels right today. When I shoot, it's all power—no fancy shit needed.

During scrimmage, I steal the puck from Thatcher like taking candy from a fucking baby. He turns, but I'm already gone, weaving through defense like they're standing still. The goal comes easy. Too easy.

"Fucking hell, Black," Thatcher mutters, skating past. "Let’s run it again."

I don't respond. Just line up for the next play. By the end of scrimmage, I've scored six times and laid out two defensemen. Coach isn't sure whether to be pissed or impressed.

Caleb catches up to me as I'm heading off the ice. He eyes the bruise on my jaw, the split lip.

"Rough night?" he asks, voice low.

"You could say that."

Thatcher skates up on my other side. "Heard about it." He taps his shoulder where the Reaper tattoo sits under his jersey. "Congrats."

I crack my neck, feeling the ache of last night's beating.

Watching the rest of the team scatter out of my way as I head to the locker room? That feels pretty fucking good.

Caleb claps my shoulder. "Party after the game on Friday."

I give him a glance, questioning what kind of party.

"It’ll be fun. Leave the mask at home."

I start taking off my gear and I grin. The mask will be everywhere I go.