Chapter 19 Katana
KATANA
The Harlots snap into motion because that’s what we do when the floor drops out. We work fast and silent. No ceremony, no hesitation. We’re not fools, we don’t leave bodies with our names stamped on their foreheads.
Silk and Scarlet Rose strip the room for prints, every practiced motion a bandage over a wound that won’t stop bleeding. The cages rattle when they brush past, like ghosts are still pacing inside them.
Riot’s body is rolled in an old tarp slumped behind a bank of cages, the fabric stiff with rot. Orchid and Rogue take her shoulders, Inferna and Hydra lift her legs. Together, they haul her out back behind the kennel.
Quinn steps out last. Calm, which is always worse.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away as Orchid and Rogue drag the bundle toward the far edge of the yard where the dogs were buried before the fights got shut down.
We grab the rusted shovels left behind, the handles cracked and rough with splinters.
The ground is soft from last night’s rain, mud sucking at our boots as if it wants us too.
Dirt spatters my jeans, clings to the cuts on my knuckles.
When we heave her in, the sound is final.
I keep my eyes off the patches of skin and hair where the tarp doesn’t quite meet.
If I look too long, I’ll start thinking about every time we laughed, every time she dragged me out of a fight I shouldn’t have started.
I’ll start thinking about how the world tilted off its axis and can never tilt back.
I’ll start to wonder if some part of her was worth saving.
That kind of thinking will split me open, so I bury it with her.
Her cut goes last. For a second, just a breath, Quinn looks down at the leather like she’s remembering every mile we rode with that patch on Riot’s back. Then the softness leaves her face, and only the President remains.
Quinn flicks her lighter and holds the flame until the leather catches. It burns slowly at first, reluctant, then flares greedy and deep orange. She tosses it into the grave as it burns. Flames claw skyward.
“She was ours once,” Quinn says, voice low and stone-hard. “But she died the moment she betrayed us.”
The smell of burning hide turns the air acrid, stinging the back of my throat. The brand on the back warps, curls, and then is nothing.
When the flames gutter low, we start shoveling dirt in.
The sound is heavy and wet. Clumps of mud hit the tarp with dull thuds until the fire snuffs out under it.
My arms burn, every motion pulling at my ribs, but I don’t stop.
None of us do. Scarlet Rose works beside me in silence, her jaw set hard.
Rogue spits once into the pit before covering the last corner.
We pack the earth down with the heels of our boots until it’s flat, only the churned mud betraying what lies beneath. No marker. No stone. Just another secret swallowed by the soil.
Quinn doesn’t say a word when we’re done. She turns for her bike, and we follow.
I swing a leg over my bike, breath hissing when my side protests, and lock my jaw until the spike of pain dulls.
Devyn hovers for a second, her hands shake when she reaches for the helmet, but she slides it on and climbs up behind me.
Engines roll to life in a rising snarl. The lot shudders under us.
LC pulls ahead, flanking Quinn. Orchid and Rogue bring up the sides.
The rest fall into formation around us, headlights flare into a living wall that cuts through the dark.
We ride back to the clubhouse slow, not because we fear cops but because Devyn rides pillion with me. Her arms band my waist, her breath catching in hiccups that kill me by inches.
The night slaps damp and briny against my face. My ribs ache with every vibration, but the pain is background now. Riot’s face, Devyn’s terror, that’s what sticks. That’s what rides with me.
The city doesn’t bother to look up as we growl through. It collects its sins and stacks them like chips. Tonight, we just cashed one in.
Devyn tightens her grip around me when we take the last turn.
“Almost there,” I tell her, my voice barely louder than the engine. “You’re okay.”
“Thanks to you,” she whispers into my back.
I don’t answer that. Because tonight, it took all of us.
By the time the clubhouse looms ahead, the rumble of pipes has settled into my bones like a second heartbeat.
We slow as one, formation breaking only when we clear the gate.
Engines die out in a staggered hush until only the tick of cooling metal and the rasp of our own breathing remains.
I ease the kickstand down, Devyn sliding off behind me. Nobody speaks. Nobody needs to.
I guide Devyn through the door, her steps unsteady against mine. Mama Ru is waiting. She doesn’t waste a second, she takes Devyn from me, steering her toward the kitchen with a hand firm on her back. “I’ve got the girl. You handle your business.”
Mama Ru doesn’t let anyone else hover. This part belongs to her, and we all know better than to get in the way.
The rest of us file into Church, the room feeling smaller than it ever has.
Quinn sits at the head of the table, her cut squared on her shoulders, both hands braced against the scarred wood.
One by one, we drop into our seats. No one touches the empty chair where Riot used to sit.
The ache in my ribs settles into a steady, familiar throb, pulsing with the silence that hangs heavy around us.
Quinn doesn’t bang a gavel on the table tonight. She just stands, and the room goes still in that way it only does when she’s about to set us straight.
“Tonight, we put down one of our own,” she says with no apology. “Not because we wanted to. Because she left us no choice.”
Quinn’s gaze cuts across each of us in turn.
“Riot forgot who we are,” Quinn continues. “She forgot what this patch means. She let fear make her small. She let it make her dangerous.”
We take her words in.
“What we did tonight will stay with us,” she says, and something tight in my chest loosens because she doesn’t soften it.
“It should. Let it be a scar. Let it be a reminder that there’s no secret worth more than your sisters.
No fear worth more than your family. Let it remind you to reach for each other before you reach for the worst parts of yourself.
There is no threat bigger than ourselves when we don’t lean on our sisters.
We’re only strong when we stand together. We lean on each other, or we break.”
A heavy silence follows, binding us.
Quinn finally exhales, softer, “It’s two in the damn morning. Get some sleep if you can. Have a drink if you need to. You’ve got twenty-eight hours to pull it together any way you need to. I want everyone back here by six a.m. sharp. Then we move on.”
Chairs scrape back in unison, the sound harsh in the silence Quinn leaves behind.
No one lingers. No one dares. Scarlet Rose heads straight for the bar, her hand already reaching for a bottle.
Silk and Rogue peel off toward the doors, the click of a lighter following them outside.
Meadow and Vex drift toward the hall, their voices low.
One by one, the rest scatter, each carrying the weight in their own way.
I push back slower, the throb in my ribs sharpening as I rise.
My body wants whiskey, wants a smoke, wants anything but silence, but I don’t follow the others.
My feet carry me down the hall instead, toward my room.
My boots drag against the floor, each step weighted with a day that should never have existed.
I push into my room, shut the door, and lean back against it, letting the quiet press in, while my mind screams.
The cut comes off first. My fingers fumble with the leather, and it slips from my shoulders heavier than it should, hitting the chair with a soft thud.
Jeans follow, boots kicked free, shirt peeled away until I’m down to nothing but bruises and stitches.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, the outline of the bruises rising mottled purple-black along my ribs and jaw.
The stitches are still closed. My side aches mean, but it’s not the knife-edge from days ago. Just sore.
The shower hisses when I twist the knob. Steam fills the space quickly, clinging to the mirror, to my skin, until I step under and let it scald me clean. The heat sears my bruises, burns my skin, but I take it. I want it. Pain is the only thing that tells me I’m still here.
My palms flatten against the tile. My head bows forward. Water drums down, steady and merciless, but it doesn’t wash away the images burned into me. Even behind my closed eyes I see Riot’s face under my fists, Devyn bound and terrified, the way Quinn’s hand didn’t shake when she pulled the trigger.
Grief cuts jagged. Riot was my sister once. My friend. And we put her in the ground. Anger roils up quick, snapping at the edges of grief like fire catching dry wood. She made me her enemy. She made me carry this weight.
But under all of it, a different ache claws at me.
Dante. The ghost of his hands on my hips, his mouth against mine, the taste of heat that lingers no matter how I try to spit it out.
The way he touched me like I wasn’t fractured.
The way his eyes cut past the patch and the armor, straight to the part of me I never show anyone, the mess of a woman underneath, and still wanted me.
I brace harder against the tile, my throat closing. I’ve felt more with him in the last few weeks than I have in years, and I shoved him away like it meant nothing. Like I didn’t need him. Like I wasn’t terrified that maybe I do.
Steam curls thick, mixing with the sting in my eyes until I can’t tell sweat from water, grief from longing. My chest heaves but it’s not the pain that wrecks me, it’s the memory of him whispering trust me and me not knowing how.
I shut the water off and stand there dripping in the quiet, my heart hammering, my skin flushed raw. I drag a towel over myself slowly, every bruise reminding me of what I’ve lost and what I still want.
When I’m dry, I drag on sweats and a clean hoodie instead of the jeans I first reach for.
The soft fabric tugs across sore ribs, the drawstring biting when I knot it tight, but comfort wins out over armor tonight.
My hair clings damp against my neck as I run the towel through it one last time, then toss it onto the chair in the corner.
The room feels too small, walls closing in, the weight of the night pressing from every angle. I shove my feet into worn sneakers and pull the hood up, as if it could hide the storm still rattling through me.
I step out into the hall, the floorboards creaking underfoot, and head toward the balcony doors.
The clubhouse is quieter now, laughter muted in the bar below, a murmur of voices fading down the hall.
When I push through the door, the air hits me sharp and cool, carrying smoke from someone’s cigarette downstairs and the salt tang drifting in from the coast.
The balcony rails are cool under my palms when I grip them, leaning forward just enough to stretch sore muscles. The second floor gives me a clean sweep of the lot, bikes lined up in rows, the night wrapping everything in hushed blue shadow. Out here, I can breathe again.
The door clicks behind me. Quinn steps out, a six-pack of Harlots Ale hooked in one hand. She cracks two, sets one on the rail in front of me, and leans her hip against the edge.
“Hell of a night,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but her eyes are softer than I’ve seen them in weeks.
I take the bottle, swallow deep. The beer’s bitter, but it cuts the taste of blood still stuck in my throat.
“Riot was family,” I rasp.
Quinn nods, steady. “That’s what makes it hurt more.”
We drink in silence for a moment, the city humming under us. Then she tilts her head. “You thinking about him?”
I stiffen. “Who?”
Her mouth curves the barest hint. “Don’t bullshit me, Kat. You know I’m talking about Dante.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m… torn.” I say, and even as I hear it I know it’s not the whole truth.
“No.” Quinn shakes her head. “You’re not torn. You’re afraid. And that’s fine. Fear reminds us we’re alive. It’s what we do with it that matters.”
The bottle is slick in my grip. My heart is louder than the street noise below.
“You’ve fought in cages, back alleys, and in uniform halfway across the world. You made fear work for you then, and you can make it work for you now. This is no different.”
I tip the bottle, watching the liquid catch the light. My mind runs the reel: Dante’s mouth at my throat, Dante’s voice saying Trust me, Maya, Dante walking out because I made it impossible for him to stay. The way he put his body between mine and death.
“I don’t know how to balance both,” I admit. “The club and him. What we did tonight and the way he made me feel like I could breathe for the first time in… I don’t even know.”
Quinn leans her hip against the rail and studies me. “You balance both by remembering who you are. You can love a man and love this patch. You don’t have to deny your heart to prove you’re loyal.”
She bumps my shoulder with hers, the gentlest nudge. “If you’ve got feelings for him, Kat, then go get him. Don’t waste time pretending you don’t. We don’t get forever. We get tonight and the next day and the one after that, if we’re lucky.”
Something breaks loose inside me. I nod once, sharp. “You’re right.”
I push off the rail and turn for the door, the decision already made.
I don’t wait for morning. I grab my helmet, head downstairs, and fire up my bike. The engine’s roar cuts the night open. The fear’s still there, rattling in my chest, but I gun the engine and ride toward the only thing that makes sense anymore.