Chapter 29 #2
Raven rolled, fast, catching the twin's wrist as the knife in his hand came down.
The blade kissed his cheek—just enough to draw blood—before Raven twisted the arm, forcing it back.
Raven heard the pop when he pushed the man's shoulder out of place.
But the sick fuck just grunted, then headbutted him with a sharp and sudden blow.
Raven reeled, vision swimming. The twin straddled him, with his knife primed to stab him in the chest. Raven struggled to maintain enough momentum to overtake him and bring it down.
"You're too slow, Raven. Too careful."
Raven's right hand released his hold and shot up, grabbed the man's throat, and squeezed. The knife wavered. Raven bucked his hips, rolled them both, and slammed the twins' heads against the floor once, twice, until the laughter stopped.
The knife clattered to the floor. Both men lunged. Raven reached it first.
He didn't hesitate. He stabbed—wild, desperate, not aiming, just needing to land something.
The blade sank into the Collector's thigh, deep and deliberate. The man screamed, kicked, and thrashed. Raven pinned him, breath ragged, eyes feral.
"This isn't about pride," he said, voice low. "It's about ending you."
He yanked the blade from the twin's thigh. Blood followed. The man screamed again.
"You took her," he said. "Now I'll take your life."
The Collector coughed, blood in his teeth. "Then do it."
Raven raised the blade again—
From behind him, a sound. A voice. "Stop."
"Marcus, don't you dare kill him," she said, voice low and possessive. "You promised I could have him. You said he was mine. You owe me that much—after everything you've done to me."
Raven hardly recognized Elanah. But her words sliced through Raven's focus, just long enough for Marcus to pull free of his grip.
Marcus bucked hard, using the momentum to flip their positions.
Raven hit the ground with a grunt. The breath torn from his lungs.
Marcus's hands clamped around his throat—tight, merciless.
Raven clawed at his grip, but the weight was crushing, the pressure building behind his eyes. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
The edges of the world began to blur. Darkness crept in, slow and final.
Fucking Elanah.
Then—release. Raven gasped for air. It was like fire dancing through his system as his lungs screamed for more.
The fingers around his throat slackened. Marcus's weight shifted.
Raven gasped, coughing, vision swimming. When he opened his eyes, it was Cyndi's face staring down at him. Her expression was unreadable—calm, almost detached. In her hand, he spotted a machete, its blade soaked in blood.
She'd hit Marcus hard in the head with one solid blow. It was clean cut. His head was cleaved in half, the remains slumped beside Raven like a half-processed carcass.
Raven pushed the body off him, chest heaving. The silence that followed wasn't peace—it was panic. Where the hell was Mynx? Her mother?
Cyndi didn't speak. She didn't need to. She was covered in blood, both her own and Marcus's.
"Cyndi—are you okay?" Rave asked.
Cyndi merely nodded and stared at Marcus's body as if she was afraid to look away.
Raven took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Prying the machete from her hand. She was too calm. She was in shock. Raven needed to get them home. He pushed her into Jeremy's waiting hands. She wobbled and then looked at Raven.
"He can't hurt us, not anymore. Can he?"
"No, little one. Not anymore." Raven said.
Raven ran to Mynx. "It's okay, Butterfly, I've got you hold on."
"You found us," she said, her voice trembling with relief. "I was so scared. I thought I'd never see you again."
"I'll always find you, Butterfly," he said, voice thick with regret. "I'm sorry this happened to you. Sorry, I failed to protect you. I warned you—my life isn't a place love survives."
"Raven," she said softly, "I haven't told you this before, but now feels right." Her voice didn't shake like he expected; it was strong as she continued while he released the last restraint.
"I love you. And no amount of danger will ever keep me away. You didn't want to find love—I know that. But it found you. And it's not letting go. Raven," she said softly.
"I love you too, Butterfly," he whispered.
He kissed the top of her head, careful not to touch the rest of her—too many cuts, scrapes, bruises. She'd fought like hell.
Raven took a breath, steadying himself. He had her now. And he wouldn't lose her again.
"Let's get you out of here," he said. "Back to Dr. Emily. Back to safety."
"I'm fine, but I'm worried about Cyndi." Mynx wobbled again, and he quickly lifted her into his arms, cradling her close. Her head rested gently on his chest. "Can we go home now, please?"
"Yes, Butterfly. I'll take you home." Raven held her like the rest of the world had gone silent.
Time could wait.
The chaos could wait.
She needed him now—more than ever.
And for once, he let himself need her too.
"Did you see this, boss?" Jeremy asked.
Etched into the stone, jagged and deliberate, was a single line:
In the end, they all scream.
The carving wasn't fresh. Its edges worn down by time and obsession, each groove deepened by a hand that needed the words to mean more than just the truth that Marcus clearly tried to live his life by.
Raven's gaze dropped to the grotesque display beneath the inscription.
Skins—claimed, branded, remembered—stitched into a crown that didn’t shine. It bled. Marcus built it not to wear, but to bear witness to the betrayal he'd worn. A monument to the cost of legacy.
Every brick, every word, every shadow on the wall—designed to twist reverence into rot.
He didn't just defile the name.
He desecrated it. Each piece bore a name, a symbol, a fragment of identity torn from someone who'd screamed too late. The stitching was crude, but deliberate. Reverent, almost. Like Marcus believed he was building something holy from its aftermath.
Raven’s stomach turned—not at the gore, but at the intent. This wasn’t madness. It was a manifesto. A message carved in flesh for the Godfathers, for the world: he was a King, whether they crowned him or not. Sick fuck.
"Leave it. I’ll send a crew. Marcus wanted the world to see him—who he was, where he came from.
That was always the point. But I wouldn’t give him that.
" Raven was done letting ghosts dictate the shape of things. The club was his now. And the only truth that mattered was already in his arms—alive, defiant, and worth every war he’d ever fought to have.