Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Bloodhound
I don't remember the drive back to the clubhouse.
One minute I'm carrying Vanna to the truck, her body shaking against mine, blood on her lips and terror in her eyes.
The next, I'm pulling through the gates, the compound rising up around us like a fortress.
The whole ride, she didn't speak.
Just sat curled against the passenger door, arms wrapped around her stomach, staring at nothing.
I kept my hand on her thigh, needing to touch her, needing to remind myself she was still here.
Still breathing. Still alive.
But my mind was somewhere else.
My mind was in that alley, imagining what I would do to Virgil when I found him.
The things I would do with my hands.
The sounds he would make before I let him die.
I park the truck and kill the engine.
For a moment, we just sit there in silence.
The compound is quiet around us, the January cold seeping through the windows, our breath fogging in the air.
"Van." My voice comes out rough. "We need to get you inside. Get you looked at."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." I reach over and gently turn her face toward me.
In the fading light, I can see the damage clearly now.
The swelling on her left cheek where he hit her.
The split in her lip, crusted with dried blood.
The way she winces when I touch her jaw.
And around her throat—
Bruises. Dark, angry bruises in the shape of fingers.
His fingers wrapped around her neck, squeezing, choking, claiming.
Something cold settles in my chest.
"Can you walk?" I ask.
She nods, but when she tries to open the door, her hands are shaking too badly to grip the handle.
I'm out of the truck and around to her side in seconds, pulling the door open and lifting her into my arms.
"I can walk," she protests weakly.
"I know. Let me carry you anyway."
She doesn't argue.
Just presses her face into my neck and holds on.
I can feel her trembling against me, feel the wetness of fresh tears soaking through my shirt.
Every step I take toward the clubhouse, my rage grows hotter.
The common room goes quiet when I walk in.
Ruger's at the bar with Tildie, Maddox is in the corner working on something with his hands, a few prospects are playing pool.
They all look up when the door opens, and I watch their expressions shift as they take in what I'm carrying.
Tildie's on her feet immediately, her face going pale. "Jesus Christ. What happened?"
"Not here." I don't stop walking. "Our room. Now."
Ruger catches my eye as I pass.
I see the questions there—the concern, the anger already building—but he doesn't speak.
Just gives me a short nod that says we'll talk later, and lets me go.
Our room is quiet and dark.
I lay Vanna on the bed as gently as I can, like she's made of glass, like she might shatter if I move too fast.
Then I switch on the lamp, and the warm light makes everything worse.
The bruises are darker than I thought.
More extensive.
They wrap around her throat like a collar, purple and black and angry.
I'm going to kill him.
I'm going to find him and I'm going to make him suffer.
"I'm going to get the first aid kit," I tell her, keeping my voice steady even though everything inside me is screaming. "Don't move."
"Garrett—"
"Don't move."
I find the kit in the bathroom and bring it back, along with a wet washcloth and a glass of water.
Vanna's sitting up now, her back against the headboard, her knees pulled to her chest.
She looks so small.
So fragile.
Nothing like the fierce woman who walked out of that rehab facility two weeks ago.
This is my fault.
I should have been there.
I should have gone into that pharmacy with her instead of letting her walk into an alley alone.
I sit on the edge of the bed and start cleaning the blood from her lip.
She winces but doesn't pull away.
"Tell me again," I say quietly. "Everything he said. Everything he did."
"Garrett, I already—"
"I need to hear it again." I meet her eyes. "I need to know exactly what I'm dealing with. Every detail. Everything."
She's quiet for a long moment.
I can see her replaying it in her mind, see the fear flickering across her face.
Then she starts talking.
She tells me about the alley.
About Virgil appearing out of nowhere, blocking her escape.
About the things he said—the debts she supposedly owes, the years he "kept her high."
About the way he slammed her against the wall, wrapped his hand around her throat, touched her.
My hands are steady as I clean her wounds, but inside, I'm on fire.
"He put his hand between my legs," she whispers, and I have to close my eyes for a moment. Have to breathe through the rage that threatens to consume me. "Over my clothes, but—he was rough. He squeezed. It hurt."
"I'm going to kill him."
The words come out flat.
Matter-of-fact. Not a threat. A promise.
"He said I belong to him." Her voice cracks. "He said when he comes to collect, I'll have to do whatever he says. That I'll have to—" She can't finish, but she doesn't need to.
"He's never going to touch you again." I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me. "Do you hear me? Never. I don't care what I have to do. I don't care what it costs. That man is never getting near you again."
Tears spill down her cheeks. "He threatened the baby. He said he'd cut—he said he'd—"
"Stop." I pull her into my arms, holding her tight against my chest. "Stop. Don't say it. Don't even think it. It's not going to happen. I won't let it happen."
She sobs against me, her whole body shaking.
I hold her through it, stroking her hair, murmuring words I'm not sure she can hear.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is that she's here.
She's safe, and I'm going to make sure she stays that way.
When her tears finally slow, I pull back and look at her.
I really look at her.
The bruises on her throat are darkening.
Tomorrow they'll be purple and black, a perfect map of Virgil's violence.
Her cheek is swollen, her lip split, her eyes red and raw from crying.
And underneath all of that—underneath the fear and the pain—I see something else.
Shame.
"This isn't your fault," I tell her.
"Isn't it?" She laughs bitterly. "I'm the one who racked up debts with a drug dealer. I'm the one who—"
"You were an addict. You were sick. And he took advantage of that." I grip her shoulders, making sure she hears me. "Whatever you did back then, whatever you owe him—none of it justifies what he did today. None of it gives him the right to put his hands on you. Do you understand?"
She nods slowly, but I can tell she doesn't quite believe it.
That's okay.
She will.
Eventually, she'll understand that she's worth protecting.
Worth fighting for.
Worth killing for.
"I need to call talk to Ruger and call church," I say. "Tonight. This can't wait."
"Church?" She looks alarmed. "Garrett, you can't tell everyone—"
"I'm not telling them the details. But I am telling them there's a threat. And the club is going to handle it." I press a kiss to her forehead. "That's how this works, Van. We take care of our own. And you're ours."
She's quiet for a moment. "What are they going to do?"
"Whatever it takes."
Church convenes at nine.
The chapel is the back room of the clubhouse—a long table surrounded by chairs, the walls lined with old photos and club memorabilia.
This is where we make decisions.
Where we vote on things that matter.
Where we handle business that can't be handled in the light of day.
I've sat at this table a hundred times.
Voted on runs and deals and disciplinary actions.
But tonight feels different.
Tonight, the business is personal.
Tonight, I'm asking my brothers to kill a man.
Every seat is filled.
Ruger sits at the head of the table, his expression grim, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the wood.
To his right is Coin, his jaw tight with tension.
Maddox is next, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on me with quiet fury.
Then Bracken, fidgeting with his lighter, looking like he's already ready for a fight.
To Ruger's left is Ounce, me, then Porter.
The prospects wait outside—they're not full members yet, don't get a vote—but everyone who matters is here.
Krypton. Daemeon. Wraith. Satyr.
Everyone who'll have a say in what happens next.
"Bloodhound called this meeting," Ruger says, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation. The room falls silent immediately. "So, let's hear it. What's going on?"
I take a breath.
I've been thinking about how to say this since I carried Vanna through the door.
There's no good way.
No way to make it sound less ugly than it is.
So, I just say it.
"My wife was attacked today. A man named Virgil—he used to be her dealer, back when she was using. He cornered her in an alley behind the pharmacy on Fourth Street. Put his hands on her. Made threats."
The room goes still.
I can feel the tension ratcheting up, the anger building like a storm cloud.
These men have seen me at my worst—seen me drunk, grieving, broken by Vanna's relapses.
They know what she means to me.
And they know what it takes to lay hands on a brother's ol’ lady.
"What kind of threats?" Coin asks, his voice tight.
"He says she owes him money. Years of debts from when she was using. He wants to collect." I pause, forcing the words out past the rage that wants to choke me. "He also threatened the baby. Said if she doesn't do what he says, he'll cut it out of her."
"Jesus fuckin’ Christ," Bracken mutters, his lighter clicking faster.
Maddox's hands curl into fists on the table.
The wood creaks under the pressure.
He doesn't speak—he rarely does—but the look in his eyes says everything.
He's ready to kill someone.
Just point him in the right direction.
"He also touched her," I continue, my voice flat. Emotionless. If I let myself feel this right now, I'll explode. "Put his hands on her body. Her throat. Between her legs. Over her clothes, but—" I have to stop. Breathe. "He violated her. Made it clear that if she doesn't pay up, he'll do worse."