Chapter 27
Swag
My knuckles are split, blood mixing with gunpowder and sweat, but I don’t feel it.
I can’t feel anything but rage.
The SUVs are gone, the underpass quiet except for the ringing in my ears and the low growl of Harley engines idling behind me. I keep my gun drawn anyway, scanning the shadows, muscles strung so tight it hurts to breathe.
Talon lowers his rifle, stepping into my peripheral. “They were trying to grab her.”
I know. I fucking know.
“Langston wants leverage,” he adds, like I didn’t just watch six men try to drag Jo-Leigh off the goddamn pavement.
My jaw clenches hard enough I hear it crack. “Over my dead body.”
He watches me for a beat, silent, sharp, calculating. “That’s exactly what he’s counting on, Prez.”
I turn on him fast, close enough that he has to tilt his chin up to meet my eyes.
“You think I give a fuck what Langston’s counting on? He sent his men after my wife.” My voice comes out low, harsh, dangerous. “So now, I’m gonna send him a message back.”
Talon doesn’t flinch, but his gaze cuts past me, landing on Jo-Leigh where she’s crouched behind my bike, her hands trembling around the seat, her chest heaving like she’s trying to breathe through a nightmare.
And just like that, the sharp edge of my rage twists inward.
Because this is on me. I put her in this.
And now Ricky Langston thinks he can use her just to pull me apart.
Not fucking happening.
I cross the space in three strides, crouching in front of her. Her eyes are wide, wild, glassy with shock, but she’s holding it together. My girl’s tougher than she knows, but I can feel the tremor running through her when I rest my hand against her cheek.
“You okay, little bee?” My voice is low, rough, a rasp pulled from somewhere deep.
She nods once, quick, but her throat works like she’s swallowing glass. “Swag they wanted me.”
“Yeah,” I admit quietly, my jaw tightening. “They did.”
Her lower lip trembles but all she does is nod, as if accepting her fate. I push up to my feet and turn back toward Pretty Boy, who’s watching us, silent but bristling with the same tension I feel crawling under my skin.
“We’re pulling back to the clubhouse,” I bark, voice carrying hard. “Double perimeter, inside and out. Nobody gets close without my say-so.”
He gives a curt nod but doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave.
“Say it,” I snap, stepping toward him.
Pretty Boy’s gaze cuts into mine, steady, unflinching. “You’re reckless right now. That stunt back there?” He jerks his chin toward the SUV tracks burned into the asphalt. “You were two seconds away from walking into their trap.”
“And if I had to bleed out right here to keep her breathing, I’d do it.”
“Prez—”
“You think I’m gonna let Ricky Langston take what’s mine?” My voice breaks sharp, vicious, raw. “Not Jo-Leigh. Not ever.”
Silence hangs between us for a beat, heavy enough to choke on. Then Pretty Boy exhales slow, nodding once.
“Then we move fast,” he says, his tone shifting to something clipped, strategic. “Because if today was a warning, tomorrow won’t be. Langston’s not just testing you anymore. He’s starting the war.”
I already know. I’ve felt it coming for weeks, creeping closer with every play he’s made in the shadows.
But now it’s here and it’s loud, bloody, and unavoidable.
I glance back at Jo-Leigh, watching her climb shakily onto the Harley, the wind catching her hair, her fingers clinging to the edge of the seat like it’s the only solid thing she’s got left.
I make myself a promise right then, sharp as steel, solid as bone. Ricky Langston wants a war? He just got one. And I’m gonna burn the whole goddamn city down before I let him lay a hand on her.
By the time we roar into the lot, my hands are shaking from the adrenaline I haven’t burned off yet.
The engines die one by one, leaving behind a heavy, tense silence broken only by the tick of cooling metal and the faint echo of traffic on the highway.
The guys scatter, checking weapons, refueling, posting at the perimeter without me having to bark the order.
Talon’s already coordinating the back line, his rifle slung over his shoulder, jaw tight like he’s holding back words I’m not ready to hear.
I don’t wait.
I grab Jo-Leigh’s hand and pull her off the Harley, ignoring the questioning looks from the rest of the club. She stumbles once but keeps up, silent, her eyes wide and haunted in a way that guts me.
The second the door slams shut behind us, my control’s gone.
I rip off my cut and throw it onto the chair without looking, boots heavy against the floor as I stalk toward her.
Every muscle’s drawn tight, my blood still pounding like I’m still riding at full throttle.
She doesn’t back away, but her chest rises sharp, ragged like she knows what’s coming.
I stop in front of her, so close the heat off my skin hits hers, so close she has to tilt her chin to meet my eyes. My hand snaps up, gripping her jaw hard, thumb digging beneath her chin until I’ve got her head tipped exactly where I want it.
Her breath shudders. Lips parting. Pupils blown wide.
I see it all—the anger, the fear, the need—and it matches the chaos tearing me apart inside.
I crush my mouth to hers. Hard. Brutal. My teeth catch her bottom lip, and when she gasps, I take advantage, tongue pushing deep until she’s making this soft sound in the back of her throat.
She shoves at my chest once, sharp, but I don’t move.
Then those same hands fist in my shirt, hauling me closer like she hates herself for needing me, and fuck if that doesn’t snap the last thread of restraint I’ve got left.
I haul her up, walking her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed, and when she falls onto the mattress, I’m right there over her, crowding her, caging her in with my body. My hand slides to her throat.
“You’re mine,” I grind out, my breath ragged. “Say it.”
Her lips tremble, a whisper against mine. “I’m yours.”
“Louder,” I demand, my thumb stroking slow over the delicate line of her throat, a filthy promise hidden in the touch.
Her voice breaks on the words, but she gives me what I want. “I’m yours, Swag.”
That sound undoes me.
I’m tearing at her dress, frantic and rough, until there’s nothing between us but skin and heat.
She arches into me, desperate, nails raking down my back hard enough to sting, and the groan that rips out of me is low and guttural, straight from somewhere I can’t control.
I hook my hand under her thigh, dragging her hips flush to mine, grinding down just to hear her gasp my name again.
“You feel this?” I mutter against her mouth, voice raw. “This is mine. Every inch of you—mine.”
Her legs lock tight around my waist, her head falling back as I thrust into her, deep, relentless, punishing.
I take her hard, but it’s not just about the heat.
It’s about erasing every doubt, every fear, every shadow of Ricky-fucking-Langston and anyone else who’s ever thought they could touch what’s mine.
She moans into my mouth, clutching at me like she’s drowning, and I eat the sound, devouring it, needing it.
Every move, every breath, every filthy word between us is fire and fury and want—the kind that burns down reason until there’s nothing left but instinct.
When she finally breaks apart beneath me, crying out my name, I’m right there with her, holding her so tight she couldn’t fall even if she wanted to.
My face is buried in her neck, teeth scraping, breath ragged against her skin. I’m feral in the need to keep her.
And even when we collapse together, slick and shaking, her heartbeat racing wild against mine I can’t let go.
Because no matter how deep I’m inside her, no matter how many times I make her say she’s mine…
I know Ricky Langston’s still out there.
And I’ll burn the fucking world down before I let him take her.
Exhaustion finally pulls me under. When I wake, the bed is empty, and I hear the shower turning off.
I roll out of bed, energy coursing through me.
I lean against the doorframe, jaw locked, my pulse pounding hard enough I can feel it in my teeth.
Through the steam, I see Jo-Leigh braced against the sink, head down, palms flat on the cold porcelain.
Her hair’s damp, little drops sliding down her bare shoulders, and she smells like soap.
Clean. Scrubbed. Like she’s trying to erase me.
My chest tightens.
No. Fucking. Way.
I shove the door the rest of the way open, and she startles, spinning around, wide-eyed. The towel wrapped tight around her curves slips a little when she turns, and my gaze drags down, slow, heavy, taking her in until her breath catches.
“Swag,” she whispers, like she wasn’t expecting me. Like she didn’t know better by now.
“You trying to wash me off you?” My voice is low, rough, half snarl and half plea. “After what we just did? After you screamed my name into my fucking skin?”
“I just needed—” She swallows, backing up a step until the edge of the counter digs into her hips. “I needed a minute.”
I stalk forward, crowding her against the sink, the steam sticking her damp hair to her neck. My hand comes up, sliding into the wet strands at the back of her head, gripping, tilting her face up until our mouths are inches apart.
“You don’t get a minute,” I rasp, breath hot against her lips. “Not from me.”
Her eyes go wide, cheeks flushed, and when she opens her mouth to argue, I don’t give her the chance.
I crash into her, kissing her hard, filthy, deep enough to taste the soap on her lips and the salt of her breath.
The towel slips completely, pooling at her feet, and fuck, the sight of her lights me up like gasoline under a match.
“You think you can wash me away?” I grind out, my hand sliding down to her throat. “I’ll put myself so deep in you, bee, you’ll breathe me for days.”