Chapter 48
FORTY-EIGHT
Ruin
I make a quick stop at the common bathroom to freshen up, but the warmth of Charlotte’s body still clings to me—soaked into my skin, my bones, everywhere.
A part of me wants to turn right back. Crawl into bed with her and stay there for another hour… or forever.
But club business calls. It always does.
If I’m being honest, there’s a darker part of me that’s ready for it. Eager, even.
Because a few dozen yards from here, the men responsible for all of this are rotting in the dark. We made sure of that—no light, no comfort. Just a basement of one of the empty houses in our compound.
Exactly what they deserve.
I catch Ryder, Hound, and Healer’s attention as I limp into the main room. Their expressions shift instantly, eyes scanning me head to toe.
That’s when it hits me.
I left my cut behind in Charlotte’s bed.
“Fuck,” I mutter, waving over a prospect. “You—go to Charlotte’s room and grab my cut.”
He nods and turns immediately.
“Stay at her door,” I add sharply. “Not a single foot inside. Got me?”
“Yes, Prez.”
I turn back to my officers—only to find Hound smirking like an asshole, while Healer is doing a piss-poor job of hiding his own amusement.
Bastards.
Ryder, though, just watches me with a knowing look. A quiet, almost approving smile tugging at his mouth.
“Got the girl, huh?” he says.
I shrug, trying for casual. “She got me. Not sure if I got her… yet.”
He huffs out a laugh, giving my back a careful slap.
A few seconds later, the prospect returns—my cut in one hand and something else clutched in the other.
“Here, Prez,” he says, handing me my cut.
Then he slips two tablets of ibuprofen into my palm before heading to the bar fridge.
“Uh…”
Christ, is he—
He’s back with a water bottle and a fucking protein bar. “She told me to—yeah…” he says awkwardly. “I let it slip that you’re… heading out.”
Motherfucking heart—stop beating so damn fast.
I ignore the snorts and snickering behind me and gulp down the meds with the water. After taking two bites out of the bar, I tuck it into my cut.
“She pack you a snack, Ruin?” Hound mutters, absolutely useless.
“Shut the fuck up,” I shoot back, but there’s no heat in it. None at all.
Because she did technically order the prospect to do this.
Charlotte. My girl—
No. Don’t get ahead of yourself, asshole.
But still.
“She also said—uh—to get your dressing changed,” the prospect adds, scratching the back of his neck like he wants to be anywhere but here. “Before noon.”
Ryder straight up turns away, coughing into his fist. Healer isn’t even pretending anymore—he’s smiling like a smug bastard.
I stare at the prospect. “I’ll handle it. You done?”
“Yes, Prez.”
“Good. Fuck off.”
He bolts.
The second he’s gone, Hound lets out a low whistle. “Damn. She’s found the leash, brother. How long is it?”
I flip him off, but I can’t stop the grin tugging at my lips. Can’t fucking stop it. Because she thought of me. Told someone to make sure I’m okay.
For a second, everything else dulls out. The noise, the club, the blood, the mess waiting for us—all of it fades under the quiet, steady warmth blooming in my chest.
“Creepy-ass smile, Prez,” Healer mutters.
“Yeah?” I drag my cut over my shoulders, rolling them back despite a dull ache still lingering in my arms. “Get used to it.”
Ryder bumps his shoulder into mine. “You’re gone, brother.”
I huff, smirking. “Ask me if I give a fuck.”
Gone. Completely.
And I don’t even want to find my way back.
??????
A cloud of rank filth slams into my face the second I step into the basement.
Boots echo behind me as my brothers follow, the door creaking shut.
At first, I can’t see a damn thing. Not even a sliver of light reaches this place—the windows are boarded up tight, sealing these animals in their own rot.
Then a bulb flickers on overhead. And I finally see them.
The monsters who somehow managed to stay alive for a week in this hell we made for them.
Hands bound. Chained above their heads.
Just like I was.
My jaw tightens.
The smell hits harder now that I can see the source. Piss. Shit. Decay. It’s so thick it burns the back of my throat. I swallow it down, refusing to react.
They blink slowly, brows furrowing against the light. To them, it must feel blinding after days in darkness.
Pity. It’ll be the last thing they ever see clearly.
Hound drifts to a corner, leaning back against the concrete like he’s settling in for a show. Ryder drags a rusted iron chair across the floor, the scrape loud, deliberate. Healer stands beside me.
I don’t move. I just stare. Watch them piece it together.
Delirium still has a grip on them. They look at me like I’m not real. So I make sure they understand.
I grab the short hose from the pipeline along the far wall and turn it on. Water blasts out.
I aim it straight at them. They choke, sputter—and then their mouths open.
Pathetic.
They start lapping at the stream like desperate things clawing for survival.
A low chuckle comes from Ryder behind me.
I cut the water off.
Slowly, their eyes clear. Focus sharpens and recognition hits. And with it—anger. Defeat.
I can see them struggling beneath the weight of these feelings.
Good. I want to add one more to it—fear.
I step forward, crouching in front of Scar. “Morning,” I murmur, a slow smirk pulling at my lips.
He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t fight the chains.
He knows.
“How’re you finding our service, Scar?” I tilt my head.
A guttural sound tears from his throat. Not even a proper growl—just broken noise. The water barely helped, I guess.
“C’mon now,” I mock softly. “Not enjoying the… accommodations?”
“F-fuck… y—” he tries, but his voice shatters before the word lands.
I chuckle. Then glance over my shoulder, signaling to Healer.
He steps forward, calm as ever, pulling out two syringes from his kit.
That’s when I hear it.
“W-what… what are you—”
Hellfire.
I turn my head just enough to meet his eyes. “There you are,” I say quietly. “Was wondering when you’d open that mouth.”
Healer doesn’t wait. He mercilessly drives the needle straight into Scar’s thigh. Then Hellfire’s.
Both men jerk instinctively, but it’s weak. Sloppy. Confused.
“What… what the—” Scar slurs, panic creeping in.
I rise slowly, brushing my hands together. “Relax,” I say, almost soothing. “It’s just a little something to help with the pain.”
Their breathing picks up.
There it is. That fear.
“It’s a paralytic,” I add casually. “Localised. You won’t feel anything below the waist.”
Their eyes widen. Bodies straining against the chains, their torso jutting off the wall in a desperate attempt.
But nothing responds. Their legs unmoving. Useless.
“Oh,” I hum, stepping closer to Scar again. “It’s kicking in, huh?”
I pull the knife from my boot.
Slowly—deliberately—I drag the blade across his thigh.
Skin splits.
Blood beads.
Scar’s leg doesn’t even twitch.
His breath hitches. A broken, choking sound escapes him.
“See?” I murmur, almost impressed. “Nothing.”
Hellfire starts shaking his head, frantic now. Words tumble out, incoherent.
“It’s temporary,” I reassure, voice soft. “Not permanent. I promise.”
Before relief can barely flicker across their faces, two gunshots crack through the basement.
I don’t even turn. Or even move.
But they do.
Their gazes drop, eyes widening. Horrified, raw screams filling the basement.
They’re going paler by the second, staring at cocks. Or more specifically, where their cocks used to be.
Music to my fucking ears.
I exhale slowly. “You always see this shit online, y’know,” I say casually, lowering myself properly to the ground beside Scar.
Healer mirrors me next to Hellfire. “How people like you deserve to have their cocks chopped off,” I continue, voice almost conversational—like we’re discussing the weather instead of their fate.
Their screams are weaker now. Ragged.
I ignore them.
With my knife, I hook into the torn fabric of Scar’s jeans and rip it open the rest of the way, exposing blood, grime, and slack muscle beneath.
“Honestly, brother,” Healer adds dryly, not even glancing up from Hellfire, “no one wanted a look at their nasty dicks anyway. Bullet was the right call. Efficient, really.”
“Right?” I grin, flashing him a look. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
We chuckle like this is normal. Like we’re sitting at a fucking picnic instead of sitting in filth and blood.
Only instead of jam or butter, we’re carving through skin.
My blade drags through Scar’s thigh. Skin parts easily under the pressure, a clean line opening up as dark blood wells and spills. I watch it for a second—almost admiring the precision.
No twitch. No recoil. The paralytic was a brilliant idea.
I’m even starting to tune out the frantic, choking sobs tearing out of Scar.
He can’t feel a goddamn thing. And I’m deliriously excited to see when the anesthesia fades… slowly.
“Beautiful,” I murmur under my breath, examining my handiwork once I’m done with the thigh.
“You wanna try this?” Healer asks, holding out his scalpel—already slick with blood.
“Fuck yeah,” I laugh, taking it from him.
The weight is lighter. The angling precise.
I test it with a shallow drag across Scar’s knee—that’s always tricky.
Then I watch the blade glide across the wrinkling skin, like it was made for this. “Oh, that’s smooth, brother,” I hum.
Across from me, Healer switches to a fresh one without missing a beat, turning his attention back to Hellfire, who’s gone from defiant silence to broken, wet heaving that barely resembles anything.
They’re not the sounds that I’ve ever heard from a human. And isn’t that incredibly accurate?
Time blurs.
Minutes stretch into something thicker, heavier. The air reeks of blood and rot and fear so dense it feels like it’s coating the back of my throat.
At some point, Ryder yawns.
I glance over, brows lifting. “Oh? We boring you?”