Property of Fox (Mayhem Makers: Bastard Boilers MC)

28. Fox

FOX

Darkness envelops me, a suffocating shroud as I struggle to claw my way back to consciousness. My body aches as if it's been through a brutal ordeal, the metallic tang of blood lingering in my mouth mixing with the stale air that chokes me. The coarse ropes binding my wrists to the frigid metal folding chair bite into my skin, sending waves of pain through me.

Brea . The thought of her being here sent a pang of fear through me. I knew I had to wake up and find her.

As I slowly blink back into reality, disjointed fragments assault my senses—jarring noises and flashes of agony. And then, there she is. Chained to a rusty table at her wrists and ankles, she appears lifeless. I watch, praying that her lungs draw in air.

Please don’t be dead.

"Brea!" My voice erupts hoarse and frantic, echoing off the grim surroundings. Fear grips me, fueling a desperate need to break free. I have to get to her. Every futile struggle against the unyielding bonds intensifies the dread creeping over me.

Despite my violent attempts to escape, I am met only with cruel resistance that mocks my efforts. It becomes clear that breaking free is not just for her salvation but mine as well. The thunderous pounding of my heart drowns out all other sounds, reverberating off grimy walls while ominous creaks resonate above us.

“Brea!” I shout again, my voice cracking under the strain of panic. It pierces the thick, suffocating atmosphere, but she doesn’t respond. My breath quickens, desperation clawing at my throat as I shift my body against the chair, the ropes biting deeper into my skin with each movement. I force myself forward with the chair. The legs scraping across the concrete floor, squealing with each shift.

“She isn’t going to hear you,” a voice declares from the darkness. The man who I now know is Tank, her stepdad, slips from the cover of darkness. The man who had brutally beaten me when I came to Bloomington to seek him out. Not expecting to walk into a fucking trap with his entire club at his back. I watched the clubhouse for a few hours until I was sure it was safe. A quick and easy in and out. Turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I’d walked into a trap and woken up here in this warehouse god knows how long after.

“What did you do to her?”

“She’s a little drugged, but she’s fine,” he shrugs. “Well, fine for now. I have big plans for her.”

Tank stalks toward her, allowing his hand to fall onto her hair, fingers tangling through her curls as if he owns her. My stomach twists in a primal fury, the sight inflaming something within me hotter than the pain. His hand slips lower, wrapping around her delicate throat before he squeezes. “Did she suck your cock? I’ve always wondered how it would feel to have her lips wrapped around me. Maybe I should test that out. She’s my property after all, even if she’s been sullied by you. Nothing a little bleach and hot water can’t fix, though.”

The very thought of him laying a hand on her sends a surge of violent energy coursing through me.

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” I roar.

“What are you going to do about it? You going to stop me? I’d love to see you try.”

“It’s just us,” I force out. “Even playing field.”

“Unless you can break iron chains, which, judging by how much you’re struggling right now, you can’t, seems like the advantage is to me.” He releases his grasp only to shove two of his thick, bloody fingers into her mouth. “I can do whatever I want to her, and you can’t stop me.”

Brea's eyes snap open as she gags on his fingers. The panic in her gaze meets mine, and I see the moment she realizes where she is and who looms over her. My chest constricts, aching with the urgency to shield her from this monster.

“No,” she breathes, the word barely escaping her lips as Tank pauses, disbelief tinged with amusement in his eyes.

“Look who decided to join us,” he chuckles darkly, stepping back just enough so she can see me, still bound to that damned chair.

Rage blinding me, I wrench against my bindings, feeling the roughness of the chains tear at my flesh. “Brea!” My voice falters. My heart races with a peculiar mixture of fury and fear. She is the focus of this hellish nightmare, and I am helpless to do anything but watch.

Tank grins, removing his fingers and licking them one by one. “She tastes good, no? Bet her cunt tastes even better.”

“Please, no,” she whimpers.

“I won’t let you violate her.”

“Yes, you will. In fact, you’ll get the front seat to the show. It’s not just me who has been itching to fuck her. After years of her parading around in her tiny shorts and skin-tight tops, I can finally do something about it. Then, when I’ve had my fill. My brothers will have their turns. She’ll be our little plaything.”

Tank shifts to the end of the table, pulling a knife from his pocket. It hovers over until he shifts to her waist, hand dipping between her legs before slashing. The rip of her jeans filling the space around us. “Get away from me! Don’t you dare touch me!” She kicks her legs against the restraints at her ankles.

“Stay still,” he orders her, pressing his arm across her lower belly to hold her still as he cuts away her clothes, tossing the scraps of fabric onto the ground as he exposes her.

“Keep fighting, baby,” I roar at her. “Don’t give up.”

“Yes, please do. It’s more fun when they fight back.”

She squirms as if every instinct within her screams for escape. “No, no, no, no!”

He finishes his work on her jeans, leaving nothing but the denim on her calves still intact. I watch in horror as Tank steps to the end of the table, jerking the chains at her ankles and pulling her farther down to the end of the table. Her ass just on the edge of it. He pulls the chains tautly, forcing her legs apart and exposing her wholly.

The sight is a visceral blow, anger amplifying my desperation. "Let her go!" I scream, my voice raw with panic.

Tank chuckles, a sick satisfaction in his eyes as he leans closer to Brea, his breath hot and rancid. “She’ll scream enough for the both of you. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

“Brea, hold on!”

“You think you can save her? Look at her.” He gestures to Brea, whose terrified eyes meet mine. “She’s already lost. Just like you. You’re going to die today, but not before you watch me and my club fuck her.”

I grit my teeth, frustration bubbling beneath my skin as I twist against my restraints once more. The chains bite deeper into my wrists, sharp pain awakening every nerve in my body. But I keep pushing against them. I refuse to fail.

“She’s your fucking stepdaughter, you sick bastard,” I yell. Doing or saying anything I can to pull his attention away from Brea. Away from what he intends to do even for a moment.

“Was,” he admits, listlessly playing

My lungs still in my chest. “You’re married to her mother.”

“Unfortunately, that's no longer the case. Her mother is on a long, one-way business trip to an isolated location.”

"You murdered your wife."

"I did,” he admits freely. “Dolores was simply a tool to my plans. We did have fun at first, but the fun goes away once they hit forty and their tits start to sag. Now that she's gone, I can finally take what rightfully belongs to me."

“You're a monster,” Brea spits, glaring at him through watery eyes.

“Never claimed to be anything else, sweetheart.”

The screech of a metal door scraping on metal echoes through the space. Seconds later, Tank’s club comes into view.

“About time you got here,” Tank orders. “You were about to miss the main event. Raider, make sure her wrists are secure. Wouldn’t want her getting a chance to take a swing at us.”

“You get a taste yet?” one of the other men says, stepping to where he can see Brea’s exposed skin. I can barely process the words spilling from Tank's mouth. He’s discussing gang raping his stepdaughter like he’s trying to decide what to order off a fucking menu.

“Not yet,” he smiles. “I like to play with my food first. You know that.”

“What are you going to do with him?” he says, jerking his head towards me. “Want me to take care of it?”

“He gets to watch. Why don’t you give him a front row seat?”

The man laughs as he stalks towards me. His large hands gripping the back of my chair, dragging me over within a few feet of Brea’s ensnared form. Tank steps forward. With one swift motion, he pushes his hand against Brea’s chin forcing her gaze upon mine. I can barely breathe, the chill in the air tightens around my throat as I watch Tank bear down on her. His grip on her chin is unrelenting. It's like a physical manifestation of everything wrong in this world. My heart pounds so loud I swear it could drown out even his depraved laughter.

“Look at him,” Tank snarls through gritted teeth, “watch how helpless he is. I want you to watch him break when I take you.”

“Brea, baby, I am so sorry,” I sob.

“It’s not your fault,” she cries. “I should have never left.”

“Don’t say that, firefly. Don’t let him break you.” I want to reach out to her, but my chains restrict me from trying to comfort her. To protect her from what we both know is coming. “Keep your eyes on me. Focus on me.”

“I love you,” she mutters.

“Don’t say that now. Say it when we’re both safe. Not when you think this is goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” she cries over and over again like a mantra, trying to soothe herself for what’s coming.

“How about we get this started already?” One of his members interjects “I’ve gotta pick up my kids in an hour.” The idea that this man is here, about to steal away Brea’s innocence, all the while having kids, makes me retch.

“You’re right,” Tank smiles, looking directly at me. “We’ve all waited long enough.”

Tank releases his hold on Brea, tugging at his fly while he stalks to the end of the metal table. I watch in horror as he settles between her open legs. He pulls out his half-flaccid cock, giving it a few pumps before stepping forward into position.

I need her to focus on something else other than what’s about to happen. Tank moans as he forces his cock between Brea's thighs.

“Eyes on me, firefly. Keep your fucking eyes on me,” I shout, my voice cracking under the strain of my rage and despair. The world narrows around us, the darkness of the room collapsing in as Tank presses closer. Everything within me screams to burn the floor beneath him, to tear this whole place apart and drag her away from this hell.

Suddenly, the ground shudders beneath us. A low rumble resonates through the room, shaking dust from above and causing faint glimmers of light to flicker from every corner like a swarm of fireflies caught in a windstorm. The tremors grow stronger until they become an unbearable force. I’m not entirely sure if it's terror coursing through my veins or sheer adrenaline at this point.

In that split second, time stretches impossibly thin. Brea’s eyes dart open wide as she senses it too. The foreboding wave crashing toward us both and for just one brief moment silence suffocates all sound. Tank’s twisted grin fades into confusion, my own desperation hanging like broken glass on a precipice about to fall.

Then it happens. A colossal explosion erupts with violent fervor against our backsides. Light swells, a blinding flash envelops everything, an ethereal mix between dawn's glow and hellfire consuming me whole. I feel myself being hurled backward as if someone unhitched gravity itself. There is a loud crash as the chair I am chained to shatters underneath the force and my weight, freeing me from its confines but not the chains. I roll onto my side, my injuries screaming for me to stop.

But there’s no stopping now. I crawl across the debris-strewn floor, each movement a searing fresh agony in my torso, yet I push through it—through every ounce of pain and despair that threatens to pull me under. The vision of Brea’s form pinned beneath the overturned table pushes me forward until I reach her. Blood trickles down her temple like crimson tears.

“Firefly,” I rasp as panic surges in my chest. “Brea!” My voice is raw with desperation as if calling out for some magic savior to lift this horror away from us both.

The room blurs into an inferno of reds and oranges swirling together. I reach Brea just as Tank gets to his feet, stunned. His cock hanging from his undone pants like a limp worm. Tank sees me, grabbing me by my shackled legs, pulling me towards him. I fight against him, my heart pounding like a war drum. I twist and kick with everything left in me.

“Get off me, you bastard!” I snarl as Tank’s grip tightens, his hands rougher than ever, sinking into flesh that is already tender. With more force than I thought possible given our position, I twist myself onto one elbow and drive a fist straight into Tank’s jaw. He stumbles back but not far enough for comfort: fury burns in his eyes again as he lunges forward once more, just as several shots ring out, followed by heavy footsteps approaching closer amid shouts demanding order amidst it all.

“Fox! Get down!” A voice bellows in the distance, and I barely register it over my own heartbeat.

Tank lets out a primal roar of anger as he lunges for me again, but his movements falter. Something is off about him. In shockingly slow motion, I see three bullets strike him square in the chest. A blossom of crimson unfurls on Tank's shirt like grotesque flowers breaking through concrete. He stumbles backward, confusion flashing across his features before they’re washed away by sheer disbelief.

I freeze mid-fight as time fractures once more. “Fuck…” The curse escapes my lips just as Tank collapses at my feet. His mass crashing onto dusty concrete with an almost synesthetic thud.

Van stands behind him. A smoking gun in his hand. He rushes forward, dropping to his knees next to me. Eyes flickering with a mixture of fury and relief. "You okay?”

“Get to Brea! Get her out!” I shout back through gritted teeth before another pain shoots through my side. “She’s pinned under the table. Check Tank’s pockets. He might have the key.”

Van nods, urgency lacing his movements. He pivots on his heels, charging for Tank’s lifeless body.

I can hardly breathe as I watch Van scramble over the heap that was once Tank, every muscle in my body tight with adrenaline. My mind races a mile a minute.

Van's fingers probe through the wreckage of Tank’s clothes with deft precision. Each second passes as if they have their own heartbeat.

"Come on," Van mutters through gritted teeth, frustration layering his voice as he digs deeper into pockets cloaked by blood-stained fabric. “Got it.” With one triumphant yank, he retrieves it.

I watch, my heart pounding, as Van rushes to Brea's side. The table that pinned her down looms like a monstrous beast. Van's muscles strain as he grips the edge, his face contorting with effort. He heaves the table off her, the screech of metal against concrete piercing the air.

Brea lies there, motionless, her skin pale against the dark floor. My breath catches in my throat as Van kneels beside her, his hands shaking slightly as he reaches for the shackles binding her to the table—the key glints in his grip, a tiny beacon of hope in this hellish nightmare.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, willing the lock to give way. Each second feels like an eternity as Van fumbles with the key, his usual steady hands betraying his urgency.

Finally, with a satisfying click, the first shackle falls away. Brea's wrist, raw and angry from her struggles. Van moves swiftly to the next one, his movements more assured now. One by one, the restraints fall away, the sound of metal hitting concrete echoing in the cavernous space.

As the last ankle shackle is removed, Brea stirs. A soft moan escapes her lips, and I feel a surge of relief so intense it's almost painful. Van gently cups her face. “You still with us, Brea?”

Van's eyes meet mine, a silent understanding passing between us. With a quick flick of his wrist, he tosses the key in my direction. It arcs through the air. I stretch out my bound hands, desperation fueling my movements. The key lands with a soft clink against my chains, and I fumble to grasp it. The cold metal of the key slides against my skin as I struggle to maneuver it into the lock. My heart pounds in my ears. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead, trickling down my temple as I twist and turn the key, praying for it to catch.

Finally, I feel the mechanism give way. The lock springs open with a satisfying click that reverberates through my entire being. The chains fall away, clattering to the ground, and for a moment, I'm overwhelmed by the feeling of freedom. But there's no time to relish it.

I push myself up, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle in my body. The world tilts and sways around me as I force myself to move, crawling across the debris-strewn floor towards Brea. Each movement sends shockwaves of pain through my battered body, but I grit my teeth and press on. Nothing matters except getting to her.

Van's eyes lock with mine, a flicker of relief passing through them. "She's alive, Fox. Breathing's shallow, but she's hanging on."

"Get her out of here," I order, my voice raw and desperate. "Now!"

As if on cue, the air around us erupts in gunfire. The sharp cracks of pistols and the deeper boom of shotguns blend into a deadly symphony. Muzzle flashes illuminate the smoky air like lightning in a storm cloud.

I realize with a start that it's not just Van who's here – the entire Bastard Boilers MC has come. Through the haze, I catch glimpses of familiar faces, their expressions set in grim determination as they engage Tank's men in a fierce firefight.

Van doesn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he scoops Brea into his arms, cradling her limp form against his chest. Her head lolls against his shoulder. He hunches over her, using his body as a shield.

"I've got her," he shouts over the din, his eyes meeting mine one last time. There's a promise in that look. A vow to protect her with his life. Van disappears through the smoke, Brea's limp form cradled against his chest. The acrid haze swirls around them, obscuring their retreat until they vanish like ghosts. My heart lurches, torn between relief that she's safe and the primal need to follow, to protect.

But I can't. Not yet. My body screams in protest as I force myself to move, every muscle crying out in agony. I grip the chair I was chained to, my knuckles white with the effort. The metal is cold against my palms. With a grunt that feels like it's ripped from my very soul, I haul myself to my feet.

The world tilts and spins, a kaleidoscope of smoke and flashing lights. I blink hard, willing my vision to clear. As the dizziness subsides, the scene before me comes into sharp focus.

Across the room, Azrael and Orion are pinned down behind a stack of crates. Their guns blaze, muzzle flashes illuminating their grim faces in staccato bursts. Azrael's eyes are narrowed in concentration, his movements precise and deadly. Beside him, Orion grins ferally, the thrill of battle lighting up his features.

A Hellion pops up from behind an overturned table, his gun aimed squarely at Azrael. Time seems to slow as I react instinctively. My hand finds a discarded gun next to Tank’s body on the floor beside me. I grip it, the metal cold and heavy in my palm. Without conscious thought, I raise it, aim, and squeeze the trigger.

The recoil jolts through my arm as the gun bucks. The Hellion's head snaps back, a spray of crimson misting the air. He crumples, his shot going wide.

Azrael's head whips around, his eyes locking with mine. A flicker of surprise crosses his face, quickly replaced by grim approval. He nods once, a silent acknowledgment, before turning back to the fight.

The gun feels like an extension of my arm now. Adrenaline courses through me, dulling the pain and sharpening my focus to a razor's edge. I scan the room, picking my targets with cold precision.

One by one, the Hellions fall. Some to my bullets, others to the relentless onslaught of the Bastard Boilers. The air is thick with gun smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Suddenly, a figure looms before me. One of Tank's men, his face twisted in a snarl of hate. He swings a heavy chain, aiming for my head. I duck, feeling the rush of air as it whistles past my ear.

Off-balance, I stumble. The gun slips from my grasp, clattering across the concrete floor and sliding out of reach. I stumble backward, my back hitting the wall as the Hellion advances, chain swinging menacingly.

"You're gonna pay for what you did to Tank," he snarls, eyes wide with rage.

I scan the area frantically, looking for anything I can use as a weapon. The chain whistles through the air, a deadly arc aimed at my skull. I throw myself to the floor, my body screaming in protest as I hit the concrete. The impact sends shockwaves of agony through my battered frame, stealing the breath from my lungs. The chain slams into the wall where my head was just moments ago, sending chips of concrete raining down on me.

I try to push myself up, but my arms tremble beneath me. The adrenaline that's been fueling me is fading fast, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. Every injury, every bruise, every cut comes roaring back to life. It feels like my very marrow is on fire, each movement sending fresh waves of pain coursing through me.

The Hellion looms over me, a twisted grin distorting his features. His eyes gleam with a sadistic light as he raises the chain again. The links catch the dim light, a metallic constellation promising nothing but pain. I can see the muscles in his arm tensing, preparing to bring the makeshift weapon down on my prone form.

My vision narrows, focusing on the chain as it begins its downward arc. I brace myself for the impact, knowing there's no way I can dodge in time.

But the blow never lands.

A blur of motion erupts from my peripheral vision. Asher, moving with lightning speed, tackles the Hellion from the side. They crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs, the chain clattering away harmlessly.

Asher and the Hellion grapple on the floor. The Hellion may have size on his side, but Asher fights with the focused rage. His fists rain down on the Hellion's face, each impact punctuated by a sickening crunch.

I force myself to my feet, swaying dangerously as the room spins around me. My eyes lock onto the discarded chain. With trembling steps, I make my way towards it, every movement an exercise in agony.

Just as my fingers close around the cold metal links, I hear a shout of warning. "Fox, behind you!"

I whirl around, chain in hand, to see another Hellion charging at me. Without thinking, I swing the chain in a wide arc. It connects with a satisfying thwack, wrapping around the Hellion's neck. His momentum carries him forward, and I use it against him, yanking hard on the chain.

The Hellion's feet leave the ground as he flips over backward, crashing onto the concrete with a bone-jarring thud. Before he can recover, I'm on him, wrapping the chain around his neck and pulling tight. His eyes bulge as he claws desperately at the metal links cutting into his throat.

"This is for Brea," I snarl, tightening my grip.

The Hellion's struggles grow weaker, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. Just as his eyes start to roll back, a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

"Fox, it's over," Azrael's voice cuts through the red haze of my rage. "Let him go. We need him alive for questioning."

I blink, coming back to myself. With trembling hands, I release the chain. The Hellion gasps and coughs, gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Azrael quickly zip-ties his hands behind his back.

As the adrenaline fades, exhaustion crashes over me like a tidal wave. My knees buckle, and I would have hit the floor if not for Azrael's steadying grip.

"Easy, brother," he murmurs, supporting me. "It's over. We've got you."

I look around the room, taking in the aftermath of the battle. Bodies litter the floor, most wearing Hellion colors. The surviving enemies are being rounded up by our guys. I lean heavily against Azrael, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The room spins around me. The acrid scent of gunpowder mingles with the metallic tang of blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that threatens to overwhelm me.

Azrael's grip on my arm tightens, his eyes scanning my battered form with barely concealed concern. "Fox," he says, his voice low and urgent, "where's Brea?"

I swallow hard, my throat raw and aching. "Van," I manage to croak out. "Van got her out. She's safe." The words taste like relief on my tongue, a balm to the terror that's been gripping my heart.

Azrael nods, a flicker of relief passing over his usually stoic features. "Good," he says. "We'll get you both checked out as soon as we're clear."

From across the room, Asher approaches, his eyes blazing with a cold fury I've rarely seen. Blood spatters his cut, a grim testament to the violence we've just endured. He looks from me to the subdued Hellions, his jaw clenching.

"I want my shot," he presses, his voice low and dangerous. "I've waited long enough for this."

Azrael regards his brother for a long moment, then nods. "The floor is yours.”

I watch as Asher stalks towards the captured Hellions, his eyes burning with a fury I've never seen before. The room falls silent, the air thick with tension as he approaches. Even the other Bastard Boilers step back, giving him a wide berth.

"Which one of you fuckers killed Kennedy?" Asher's voice is low and dangerous. It sends a chill down my spine despite the sweltering heat of the room.

The Hellions exchange glances, their faces a mixture of fear and defiance. No one speaks. The silence stretches on, broken only by the distant wail of sirens and the crackle of flames from somewhere in the building.

Asher's patience snaps like a frayed wire. In one fluid motion, he draws his gun and levels it at the head of the nearest Hellion. The man's eyes widen, fear replacing the bravado that had been there moments before.

"I'll ask one more time," Asher demands. "Who killed Kennedy?"

Still, no one speaks. I can see the muscles in Asher's jaw working, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords. His finger tightens on the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. I flinch involuntarily, my ears ringing as the Hellion's body slumps to the floor, a neat hole in his forehead. Blood and other matter splatter the wall behind him, a macabre scene.

I watch in stunned silence as Asher's rage unfolds before me. The gun in his hand seems to have a life of its own, an extension of his fury. Two more shots ring out in rapid succession, each one punctuated by a spray of crimson and the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

The remaining Hellions shrink back, their bravado crumbling in the face of Asher's cold, methodical vengeance. I can see the fear in their eyes, smell it in the air, mingling with the acrid stench of gunpowder and blood. My own heart pounds in my chest, a primal part of me recognizing the predator in our midst.

Asher's eyes are chips of ice as he surveys the remaining captives. His gun, still smoking, tracks from one face to another. The silence stretches, taut as a wire, ready to snap at any moment.

Then, like a dam breaking, one of the Hellions cracks.

"It was Tank!" he blurts out, his voice high and reedy with terror. "Tank ordered the hit on Kennedy!"

Asher freezes, his gun trained on the man who spoke. I can see the muscles in his jaw working, processing this information. When he speaks, his voice is dangerously calm. "Why?"

The Hellion swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "It was...it was a message," he stammers. “Tank wanted to send a message to your club. To show you he meant business."

Asher's eyes narrow, his grip on the gun tightening. "And you just went along with it? Murdering an innocent woman?"

The man's eyes dart frantically between Asher and the gun. "We...we didn't have a choice. Tank would've killed us if we refused."

A bitter laugh escapes Asher's lips, devoid of any humor. "And now I'm going to kill you anyway. Funny how that works out."

The Hellion's eyes widen in terror. "Please, I'm sorry! I didn't want to do it!"

Asher's face twists into a snarl. "Neither did Kennedy."

The gunshot echoes through the room, and the Hellion slumps to the ground, a look of shock frozen on his face.

Asher turns to the remaining captives, his eyes cold and merciless. "Anyone else want to confess?"

The room falls silent, save for the whimpers of the surviving Hellions. Asher's gaze sweeps over them like a predator deciding which prey to take down next. Azrael steps forward, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Ash," he says softly, "we need some of them alive for questioning. We still don't know how deep this goes."

Asher's jaw clenches, his finger twitching on the trigger. For a moment, I think he might ignore his brother's words and finish what he started. But then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

"Fine," he concedes, lowering his gun. "But when we're done with them, they're mine."

Azrael squeezes his shoulder once before turning to the rest of us. "Alright, let's wrap this up. The cops will be here soon, and we need to be long gone by then."

The club springs into action, securing the remaining Hellions and gathering any evidence we might need. I try to help, but my legs buckle beneath me, the adrenaline that's been keeping me going finally giving out.

Orion catches me before I hit the ground. "Whoa there, brother. Let's get you out of here."

“Probably a good idea. I’m about five minutes away from being dead weight.”

As Orion half-carries, half-drags me out of the building, I can feel my body rapidly shutting down. Every step sends shockwaves of pain through my battered frame. The world around me blurs, colors smearing together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

"You know," Orion grunts, adjusting his grip on me, "I always figured I'd be carrying a damsel in distress out of danger someday. Just didn't expect that damsel to be your ugly mug, Fox."

I manage a weak chuckle, wincing as it jars my bruised ribs. "Sorry to disappoint. Left my ball gown at the cleaners."

"Shame," Orion quips, his voice strained with effort. "You've got the legs for it."