Chapter 3
KATANA
The wind’s too loud to think, but not loud enough to drown out the past clawing up my spine every time I try to outrun it. The throttle screams beneath my palm, the engine vibrating through my thighs, the cold salt air cutting across my skin like a fucking razor and still the memory finds me.
I’m twenty-two again, a young veteran fresh out of the army, special ops burned into my bones. My muscles still remember every drill, every strike, every order barked through the radio. Hand-to-hand was my edge; fists and fury when guns weren’t an option. And I’m damn good at it.
Now I’m home, but the ground doesn’t feel steady. My skin’s still tan from the desert sun, my body mapped with scars from places no one even knows I’ve been. I move through streets that feel too quiet, too empty, like the world forgot what chaos looks like.
People don’t see the cracks. They don’t see the way I walk into rooms too fast, eyes sweeping for exits. They don’t see the nights I sleep with my fist wrapped around the knife under my pillow, or how I flinch at fireworks but never at punches.
Civilian life is the cage. And I can’t breathe in it.
So I find a concrete basement with blood caked in the cracks and a steel chain fence for a wall. The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and desperation. The roar of the crowd is louder than a war zone, but it drowns out my thoughts, and I welcome it.
There are no rules, no weight classes, no time limits. Just bodies thrown into the pit like meat for the dogs.
And I’m one of them. A broken soldier trading purpose for pain. I bounce on my toes, circling a woman twice my size, arms like tree trunks and a permanent snarl. The crowd chants for blood.
No gloves. No mouthguard. Just fists.
The first punch splits my lip. The second breaks my nose. By the third, I’m laughing, manic and wild, because it fucking hurts, and God, I need that pain. It means I’m not floating in the abyss anymore.
I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know if it’s morning or night.
Hell, I don’t even know my opponent's name. But I’ll always remember the sound my shoulder makes when it pops out of place.
I’ll remember the taste of copper filling my mouth, the way my vision tunnels until the world is just her fists and my failure.
She doesn’t stop, but neither do I. I swing until my knuckles split open against her face, until my arm goes numb and my body folds under its own weight.
The crowd becomes a blur of noise, boots stomping, voices howling for more.
I keep fighting long after sense leaves me, until everything fades to black and someone drags me out by the back of my shirt, barely moving, barely breathing.
Underground fights aren’t civilized, and they sure as hell aren’t legal.
We don’t get patched up or carried to safety.
We get tossed in the alley behind the ring.
That’s where I come to, coughing blood, my rib cracked, my soul screaming.
Rain hits my face, cold and filthy, washing away the blood but not the emptiness.
I lie there for a long time, staring up at the sky like it might give me a reason to get up again. It doesn’t. But I do. Because that’s what I was trained to do. Get up, fight, survive.
The world tilts. The roar of the crowd fades. All that’s left is the sound of my pulse and the burn in my lungs.
Then it’s gone.
The basement, the blood, the woman’s fists. It vanishes under the scream of my bike engine. The road stretches ahead, city lights blurring like tracer fire. I blink hard, dragging myself back into the now.
The throttle vibrates under my palm, the air cutting across my face.
My heart’s still hammering like I never left that pit.
I pull harder, chasing the wind, chasing distance, chasing silence.
The road blurs under my bike tires but that moment cuts sharp through my mind. I pull harder on the throttle.
The truth is, I didn’t climb out of that place because I wanted to be better. I climbed out because I saw a girl watching me from the side of the cage.
I saw myself in her. And I realized if I didn’t do something different, if I didn’t give her something else to strive for, she’d follow me right into the grave I was digging for myself.
That was the night I drew up the first plans for Steel Roses. In blood, in pain and something close to hope. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I wanted to make sure no one else had to bleed to feel. Joining the Royal Harlots gave me that.
The wind rips through me now like penance. And still, I can’t stop thinking about Amber. About how many girls are still out there looking for the same pain to feel alive cause pain is all they know. And how assholes like Dante Cross offer them that pain disguised as power for a wad of cash.
They don't know what I know. That it comes at a cost much steeper than bruises and broken bones. It costs pieces of your soul.
And I won’t let them pay what I paid. Not while I’m still breathing.
The wind cuts like glass through the open streets, my helmet amplifying every gust, every passing sound. I keep my eyes forward, scanning every shadow, every alley, anywhere Amber might go but I’ve ridden circles through this city and haven’t found her anywhere.
Something sharp tugs at my chest. My mind keeps drifting back to that night, back to Amber, back to Dante’s voice, his face, the way his words cut clean under my skin.
By the time I roll back into the Royal Harlots lot, my fingers ache from how tight I’ve been gripping the bars.
I strip off my helmet and hook it on the handlebars. My body’s still tense with the need to fight. My hands curl into fists just thinking about Dante’s voice, that slow, smug calm like he’s got the whole world figured out and I’m just late to the party.
I kill the engine and sit for a second, just breathing in the salty bite of the evening air. Trying not to let the burn turn into something worse. Something I can’t walk back.
I swing off the bike and give her a light tap, thankful for the power she gives me. It’s not always a replacement but it's damn close.
As I stalk toward the clubhouse, I catch a glimpse of the light above the gym door flickering weakly. Another thing on the list to fix. At least that's an easy one.
A low-burning fuse curls through my chest, heat building with nowhere to go. I move toward it. The motion sensor clicks on. Floodlights spill over the cracked pavement and old brick facade. The door into the gym is open.
That’s a problem. It’s after dark. Lights are off except for the red glow of the “CLOSED” sign in the window.
I step inside and sweep the floor with a glance. Habitual. Quiet. Tense.
Someone’s in the ring. Not fighting. Just sitting there, shoulders hunched, head hung, hands clenched tight on their knees, hoodie pulled over their head. Eyes rimmed with red look up meeting mine as I approach.
I pause mid-stride letting out a heavy breath when I realize it's Devyn.
“You shouldn’t be in here after close,” I say.
“Sorry.” is all she says. She sniffles, wiping her face on her sleeve. “Is Amber alright?”
“I hope so.” I crouch down beside the ring, resting my elbows on the apron. “I couldn’t find her but Dante said she won. This time.”
Devyn looks down at her hands. “I… I don’t think she went there on her own.”
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
Devyn bites her lip. “A few days ago, she told me she thought someone was watching her.”
That gets a reaction. My mouth tightens.
“I think they threatened her. Forced her into that fight.”
My jaw tightens.“Why would someone do that?”
She shrugs her shoulders, “I don’t know.”
I swear under my breath.
“And you’re just saying something now?” I ask, harsher than I mean too.
Devyn flinches. “She said it was nothing. She didn’t want to tell anyone.”
I meet her eyes. She stares for a second. Then her lip trembles again.
“I feel like I’m waiting for something bad to happen all the time.”
I nod slowly. “Because it already did. And now your body’s waiting for the next hit.”
She doesn’t say anything, but her hands start shaking, just a little.
I slip into the ring and sit next to her.
“You know what I do when it gets bad?” I ask. “When the past starts clawing at the inside of my skull and I can’t sleep?”
She shakes her head.
I hold up my hands. “I wrap up, I hit the bag, and I bleed the thoughts out before they bleed me.”
“I’ve been hitting the bag for hours. I’m exhausted.” Devyn leans into my side.
I’m not usually one for touching. There’s too much risk in letting someone close, too easy to lose control when you're vulnerable. But I don’t pull away. I lock it down, stay still, and let her have this. Because right now, we both need this more.
“Need a place to sleep tonight?” I ask Devyn, eventually breaking the silence.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’s stayed at the clubhouse. We keep safe rooms ready for women and kids running from bad situations, survivors we’ve pulled from something worse, even for my girls when they’ve got nowhere else to lay their heads.
She offers me a half shake of her head. “No. I’m good.”
I stand up as she does, watching her brush off her jeans like she’s wiping off more than just dust. Her eyes are clearer now, but that storm’s still behind them. It’s just tucked back where no one can reach it. I don’t push.
“Text me when you’re home,” I say.
She nods then heads for the door without another word.
The second she’s gone, the cold creeps back in. I lock the gym door, giving it a tug to check that it’s secure. Then roll my shoulders, and crack the tension out of my neck. The weight of what Devyn told me sits like lead in my gut.
Amber didn’t go to Dante on her own. Someone made her.
Quinn needs to hear this. Now.
I head toward the side door of the clubhouse. The smell of burning wood and beer fills the main room. The glow from the flames flickers along the patchwork wall of graffiti and photos. A shrine to what we’ve built, what we bled for.