Choices (Kings of Sin MC #3)

1. Sinner

SINNER

Four years ago…

LIAM “CUTTER” ELLIS

Black blankets the sky. The air trembles with the rumbling of our bike engines as we file into the compound, heading straight for the outhouse at the far end of the grounds.

Easing my bike up beside Callan’s, I kill the engine and dismount as Monster backs one of the club trucks up to the entrance door.

Jumping out, he pops the trunk, and a squeal whines from within.

Jack Bolden’s thin, crumpled body jolts to life, his hands spanning out in a defensive pose. “Please, I’m sorry. What did I do?”

“Get him inside,” Callan demands, smacking his fist against the roof of the truck. Monster and I drag the piece of shit out by his arms as he flails and begs.

“I’ll snap your twig of an arm off if you keep wiggling like a fucking worm,” Monster seethes, gripping him harder. A whimpering mewl passes the guy’s lips.

I hate the weak. The slimy, seedy bastards who like to inflict pain and suffering but can’t take it. The reaper always comes to collect on your sins, motherfucker . Today, we’re his soldiers.

Callan punches a code into the keylock, and the door releases with a click. A waft of damp, stale air trickles out from inside. This place hasn’t seen action in a while.

Jack begins to tremble as we drag him through the narrow passageway into an imposing concrete prison that’s broken many a brave man.

Jack isn’t brave. The little weasel already pissed his pants, and we haven’t done anything yet.

Shoving him inside the room, the overhead lights detect the motion and turn on automatically, bathing the area with a yellow tinge.

Jack hustles to put space between us, scurrying like a trapped rat seeking escape, his wide eyes taking in the imposing walls echoing of past horrors, leaving his face drained of color.

The room has a metal table, a single chair, a slightly sloped floor with a drain in the center, and shelves and cabinets against the far end house tools to aid in retrieving information from the flesh—there’s no mistaking what happens within these walls.

My brothers circle him like vultures as he cowers against the wall like a beaten dog. Fear is reasonable and wise. He should be scared.

“Please don’t hurt me.” Pussy.

Power crackles the air as my rage amplifies, tightening the muscles beneath my skin. I bet the girl he attacked wished for the same mercy. He showed her none. I take a step closer, looming over him with intense wrath. His withering gaze cracks, and a single tear cuts a path down his cheek.

“Please.”

There’s no forgiveness. Only retribution and pain.

“You know why we’re here?” Callan’s rough voice breaks through the tension as he motions for Monster to bring the interrogation chair over.

The little pervert’s feeble whimpering draws a growl from Callan. “Answer me.” He demands.

Shaking his head, Jack watches Monster drag the metal chair across the room, filling our ears with a jarring screech that scrapes against the headache building behind my eyes.

Placing the chair in the center of the room, right over the drain, Monster grins, the sinister curve of his lips menacing even to me.

I stalk our prey as he attempts to evade me, grip him by the neck in a bone-crushing hold, and throw him into the steel frame of the chair, making it almost topple over.

Dropping to my haunches, I strap the leather restraints around his ankles and wrists, pinning him in place, my headache intensifying with every click of the buckles.

I don’t like drawn-out torture. My blade is thirsty for the taste of blood: quick, painful when needed, satisfying.

There’s something serene about hearing the rattle of that last breath in a sudden kill.

Monster is the opposite, and it looks like we’re doing this his way.

Clenching Jack’s jaw in a powerful grip, Callan leans in close, fuming through gritted teeth. “You’re a rapist.”

The words bounce around the room, raising our hackles. We aren’t good men. We all have blood on our hands. But only sick fucking cowardly bastards rape.

“No. No, no, no,” Jack splutters, sweat breaking across his brow.

“A sick predator who took advantage of an innocent girl while she lay unconscious,” Callan adds, releasing him with a sneer.

A video started circulating of a college student reduced to nothing more than a limp body, appearing more dead than alive, in a motel room with this piece of shit forcing himself on her.

Turns out, she’s the niece of a friend of the club, Ray, who owns the bar claimed by the Kings.

The girl was nineteen and attempted to take her own life when the video was shared and uploaded across social media.

She’s the same age as Callan’s little sister. Even looks a bit like her.

Anger simmers within me, disgust burning my skin. My palms become clammy, aching to clench my blade and cut into this motherfucker.

Jack shakes his head, vehement. “No, it wasn’t like that.” Denial spills from every pore. He’ll have to do a lot better than that if he wants us to believe him. You’re on fucking video, asshole .

“How was it then?” Monster intervenes, eyes blazing as he slips his Karambit blade from its sheath, twirling it skillfully around his finger.

“We…she…it was consensual.”

Callan’s fist rears back before swinging forward and clashing with the fucker’s jaw faster than anyone can blink. Spit tainted with blood flies from Jack’s lips, raining down on the concrete by my feet. “She’d have to have been awake for that to be true, you scumbag.”

“Who was filming?” Monster barks. When no reply comes, Monster’s menacing growl echoes through the air in a warning. The subtle gesture of his hand instructing us to step back gets obeyed without question. Callan is our VP and the authority in our ranks, but Monster is the executioner in this room.

We move back as Monster fills the space, grasping Jack’s hand and separating his fingers. Tense with panic, Jack tries desperately to free himself. “What are you doing?”

Instead of replying with words, Monster slices the skin between each finger using only the tip of his blade. One—two—three. Red liquid pours from each wound like mini waterfalls in slow motion. The action makes my balls draw up. “Please, I’m sorry. Please.”

Jack’s cries are immediately cut off by Monster’s cold command, “Get the pliers.”

“Wait,” Jack almost chokes on the word. “I’ll tell you.”

I stride over to the cabinet and collect the pliers from a hook inside the door.

“There was no one else. I filmed it myself by propping up my phone.” He wheezes, eyes alive with terror, pupils shot.

I hand Monster the tool, offering Jack a searing scowl. “The camera was jerking and the accomplice’s breathing can be heard, you moron,” I sneer. “Why are you protecting him?”

Taking one of Jack’s nails between the edges of the pliers, Monster yanks, tearing it out. “Name?” he demands, moving to the next without mercy. The howl of agony brings a callous, hard laugh from Monster. “You have nine more, then I’ll take the fingers.”

“He’s my friend.” Jack sniffles, a sob retching from him as another rip shakes his entire frame and the second nail gets placed in his lap like they’re trinkets to keep.

Tears and snot drip from his face. “Please.” He gargles on his own phlegm.

The pliers clank to the floor. “Let’s get him on the table and open up his chest cavity.”

My gaze slides to Callan’s. He raises a brow, his broad arms folded over his chest, feet braced apart, making no effort to move.

“No, no, his name is Steve—Steve Hudgens.” Sagging in the chair, sweat coating every inch of him, Jack repeats the name over and over. “It’s Steve. Steve filmed it.”

Monster retrieves Jack’s phone that we confiscated when we found him and brings up the contacts, holding it up to us on the name Hudgens .

“Send a text asking if he’s up for being the cameraman again. His reply will tell us if Jack is telling the truth,” Callan instructs.

“I am, I promise. Please, let me go. I need a hospital.”

“You need a priest.” Monster’s voice is a hollow whisper dripping with dark intent. Pacing the room, he types out a message before zeroing back in on Jack, who is struggling to stay conscious. Fucking pussy .

Without warning, Monster marches back up to him, the glint of his blade flashing in my eyeline.

“Don’t go to sleep, motherfucker.” In one swift motion, Monster pinches Jack’s eyelid between his thumb and forefinger, using the knife edge to slice straight through the thin piece of skin.

An unnatural screech splits the air. A river of blood fills Jack’s eyeball and spills over onto his cheek.

“Now, he doesn’t have a choice.” My chuckle is icy and mocking.

Fresh piss stains his pants and drips between his parted legs, puddling on the floor.

An alert pings from the phone tucked in Monster’s pocket. Yanking it free, he reads the message before tsking with disgust and tossing the phone toward Callan.

“That was quick.” Callan catches the device, blowing out a steady breath, and holds it up for me to read.

Hudgens: Maybe we take turns this time?

“If she was someone to you, I’m sorry.” Jack desperately tries his last plea.

Callan’s firm gaze stills on me. “She could have easily been Kitty.”

Unsheathing my Raven blade strapped at my ankle—a gift from Callan when I got patched in—I let Jack take in the six-inch steel blade that’s about to be inside him.

It will never be Kitty. “Not while we’re breathing, brother.

” Lurching forward, I aim for Jacks lungs with two sharp stabs, the knife piercing through the fabric of Jack’s shirt and into him like butter, sinking deep.

His jaw drops, his pasty face frozen in horror.

Monster takes the Karambit blade and slashes across Jack’s wrists. The scarlet liquid leaks in a slow patter to the ground. “She was someone, and that’s all that fucking matters,” he jeers.

Coughing, Jack attempts to speak, but only ends up staining his lips with red, a gurgled groan rattling his chest.

He’ll bleed out while struggling for breath, slowly drowning and choking on his own blood as it fills his lungs. That will give Ray’s niece justice.

Callan smacks my arm to get my attention and gestures to the door. I look to Monster, who stands, glaring down at Jack. “I’m staying with him,” he states firmly.

Fair enough.

I follow Callan into the passageway as he rolls his head over his shoulders, adrenaline still potent in both our veins. “I’ll send Monster to deal with Steve later. First, I’m going to drive over to Ray’s and let him know it’s been dealt with.”

“You want company?”

“No. Go get a drink and check in on Kit. She’s a pain in my ass but that video rattled me.

You know how she gets when she parties. That could have been her.

I don’t like the thought of anyone touching her with consent.

” His teeth grind, and he looks back toward the door.

I know he wants to take a piece of Jack apart, but he doesn’t have to. The prick will die in agony.

“It wasn’t her,” I remind him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I know you were thinking that shit too. You’ve always been a big brother to her.” He’s practically vibrating.

“It wasn’t her.” I repeat, rubbing at the knot in my chest.

“I know.”

“Maybe you need to check on her yourself.” I raise a brow.

Tension begins to leak out of his shoulders as he walks toward the exit with me on his heel. “She’ll probably just tell me to fuck off and kick me in the balls.”

Sounds about right.

“She’s always preferred you assholes to me.” He slows his pace until I’m walking beside him. “Do you remember when she was sixteen and Sniper was a prospect? She got him to take her to watch some weird movie.” He frowns, shaking his head.

Laughter bubbles up my chest as I remember that very well. “When Pres quizzed him, he called it a date and nearly got his dick shot off,” I scoff. “Yeah, we all remember that warning.” I push out the exit and head toward our parked bikes.

“She wouldn’t speak to our old man for a week after that.” Humor lights his eyes.

“Turned out to be a good brother.” I chuckle. “Pres put the fear of God in him.”

“That’s the problem—he’s a brother.” Callan shakes his head. “It will be over my dead body that she shacks up with one of us bastards.”

Throwing his leg over his bike, he pulls on his helmet, and the bike bursts to life, rattling the air like thunder.

I slap his back and step away, watching until his rear light is nothing more than a dot in the dark, silent night.

Turning my attention to the soft bass and glow of lights coming from the clubhouse, the headache from before returns, pounding away at my skull.

“You’ve always been a big brother to her.”

Callan’s wrong. I’ve never seen her as a sister. She’s the fucking bane of my existence.

I hate her.

Leaving my bike, I jog over to one of the entrances, punch in the code, and slip inside.

I make my way through the familiar halls, passing the bar that beckons with the promise of sin and debauchery.

The hum of chatter and laughter over the crooning rock music brings a smile to my lips.

We may be bastards and not good enough for Kitty, but we’re a family, a brotherhood, and I don’t know where I’d be without them.

Heading straight for my room, I bypass Green getting his knob polished by a club slut and slip inside, clicking the lock into place.

I sense her in the room but still inhale sharply when I turn around and see her lying on my bed.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” She bites her lip, and all my willpower fucks off as every drop of blood races to my cock.

It’s a real fine line between love and hate.

“Hey, Kit,” I croak.

And the line is getting thinner.