Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The text hits my phone like a gunshot and I know it’s her. That’s all it says. No sass. No emoji. Just those four words.
I’m on my feet before I even finish reading.
“Grimm. Stitch. Shard.” My voice is gravel, sharp. “Move your asses.”
Chairs scrape, boots thud, and cards scatter across the table. None of them question. They don’t need to.
We’re already out the door, cuts snapping in the night air. My Harley snarls to life, and the prospects follow suit, engines growling in unison. We tear through Ravell like wolves, headlights slicing black.
Storm’s text burns in my brain. Someone broke into her apartment. And her call earlier—that fake casual tone, the weird pause—it clicks now. She was buying time. Keeping whoever’s in there from getting closer to her.
My blood pounds so hard I can taste metal.
We hit a red light and I don’t even blink. I blast straight through, horns blaring, tires spitting sparks. A sedan swerves, driver leaning on his horn, screaming something I don’t hear. Doesn’t matter.
The others keep up, shadows in my mirrors. Prospects don’t ask, don’t slow, just follow like good soldiers. Shard’s bike growls at my flank.
We skid into her block. I cut the engine, boots hitting pavement hard enough to crack it.
“Stay out here,” I bark. “Anyone moves for that door, put ’em down.”
Grimm nods tight. Stitch’s jaw works. Shard just grins, cracking his knuckles like he’s hoping someone will try.
Her apartment door isn’t even locked. My jaw grinds.
I close it behind me and the silence hums thick.
A few steps, and I see the soft light coming from the bedroom.
“I’m home,” I call, my voice cracking through the stillness like a whip while moving toward the bedroom.
She’s on the bed. Robe loose, hair damp, vibrator still clutched in one shaking hand.
Her face is pale but her eyes snap to mine the second I enter.
Relief floods her expression so fast it nearly knocks me on my ass.
The robe slips down, teasing bare skin, and the sight slams into my chest hard enough to hurt.
My cock aches just looking at her, but anger burns hotter.
I crawl onto the bed, bracing a hand beside her head, close enough to feel her shaky breath. My mouth skims her ear. “Where?”
She swallows. “Closet.”
My fury sharpens.
I get off the bed, my cut creaking at my shoulders as I pull my gun from the holster. The weight of it steadies me, focuses me.
I point at the closet. My voice is steel. “Come out. Now.”
Silence. Then … movement. The door creaks.
The fucker steps out. White shirt, face I remember from the bar. He’s smirking, like he thinks this is a game.
That smirk dies fast when he sees the gun.
I move before he can breathe, smashing my fist into his jaw. His head whips sideways, blood spraying from his lip and splattering across the hardwood. He stumbles, chokes on a cry, and I hit him again. His nose bursts red, spraying down his shirt.
“Stop. Please—” He whimpers.
I grab his collar and haul him upright, shoving him into the chair by her dresser so hard it rattles. He’s clutching at his face, crying already.
“You’ll beg me for a doctor before I’m done,” I growl.
I look at Storm. She’s trembling, robe slipped wider now, skin flushed in the lamplight. Beautiful. Mine. And seeing her like that—exposed and vulnerable—makes me want to kill him twice.
“Storm. Rope. Belt. Scarf. I don’t give a fuck, bring me something to tie this rat.”
She scrambles, finds a silk scarf, hands trembling but steady enough to press it into my palm. I wrap his wrists, knotting hard enough to cut circulation. He spits blood, but I don’t care.
“I need a doctor.”
“Watch,” I snarl. “This is what you wanted, ain’t it?”
And then I cross to her, fist in her hair, mouth on hers before she can breathe. She moans into me, clinging like she’s drowning, and it flips a switch in my chest.
“Well, well. Naughty little brat.” I sit on the bed and pull Storm onto my lap, forcing her thighs wide.
My palm cups her pussy through the robe and she jerks, moaning before she can stop herself.
“You were playing with yourself while he was in here?” I whisper in her ear, loud enough for the fucker to hear. “Dirty, dirty girl.”
“Rook—” She whimpers.
Her pussy’s wet, dripping for me, and it makes me insane.
I slide two fingers inside her and curl them, making her arch and gasp.
Her moans fill the room, high and needy, and the stalker’s greedy eyes are fixed on her.
I edge her, stroking until she’s shaking, then pulling away just before she breaks.
Again and again, until she’s crying, hips grinding down on my cock. Fuck, I need more.
“Please, Rook—”
I make her get up just enough to free myself, and without waiting sink into her from below. She screams, clenching around me like her body was made for mine.
“See that?” I growl, eyes locked on the stalker as I slam into her, bouncing her on my cock until she’s crying with pleasure. “See how good she is at milking me?”
The bastard’s panting, straining against his bonds, a tent in his jeans.
I fuck her harder, bruising, claiming. Storm’s nails rake my forearms, her head thrown back as I pound up into her, relentless.
I hold her down, grinding deep, eyes locked on hers. “You’re mine, Storm. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she sobs, hips rising to meet mine. “I’m fucking yours.”
The sound she makes when I finally let her come tears through the room, wild and broken. She clamps around me, soaking my cock, shaking apart.
I don’t stop. I push harder, deeper, breeding her like an animal, until I’m roaring into her, spilling seed deep.
When I pull out, it runs down her lips, glistening under the lamplight. “That’s what you wanted to see?”
He nods frantically, whimpering. His lap is wet. The fucker came in his pants.
“Pathetic.” I laugh.
Storm squirms in my lap when I bite her shoulder, hard enough to mark. She shudders, half from pain, half from the way it makes her wetter still. I pat her thigh. “Get dressed.”
She ties her robe, shaky but glowing, eyes glassy from the orgasm.
Pulling up my jeans, I whistle.
The door bangs open and my brother comes in. They freeze, then smirk, seeing the stalker tied and wrecked.
“Good,” I adjust my cock still half-hard, fury not spent. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Because that was the last thing you’ll ever see.”
I smash my fist into his face one more time, blood spurting from his nose as he slumps sideways.
“No one looks at my woman.”
I point at him. “Take him to the pit. Make him beg for the grave.”
The bastard starts crying, shouting muffled protests through swollen lips. I don’t care. One more crack of my knuckles across his skull and he’s out cold.
My brothers haul him away, dead weight between them, his head lolling.
The apartment goes quiet again. Just me and Storm.
She stares, chest heaving, eyes wide. Fuck she’s even more gorgeous in her pinky pajama. “What are you going to do to him?” she whispers.
I step close, press my forehead to hers, my voice a growl. “No one fucks with a Saints’ woman.” I plant a kiss on her and leave even if it’s the hardest thing I’ve done.
The night air slaps hot against my skin as we drag the fucker down the back stairs. He’s half-conscious, head rolling. Grimm’s got him by one arm, Stitch by the other. Shard walks ahead, silent, the way he gets when he’s already decided what’s coming next.
I should be satisfied. Storm’s safe, tucked behind locked doors and my scent all over her. But my fists itch like I didn’t even start.
We haul the fucker down into the pit. Not just dirt and oil anymore; this place is our crematorium. What goes in here doesn’t come back out.
We dump him in the center. The bastard rolls, groaning, spit and blood stringing from his mouth. His eyes flicker open and he whimpers like a kicked dog.
He blinks, sees the ring of cuts around him, and pisses himself right there. The stink hits the air.
I laugh, low and cruel. “That’s it? You stalk my woman, sneak into her place, scare her half to death, and fold like a bitch the second your feet hit dirt?”
“Please— I didn’t— Julie led me on—”
My boot smashes his ribs before he can finish. He screams, rolling, clutching at his side.
“Don’t you fucking say her name,” I snarl, pacing like a caged wolf. “You don’t get to breathe it.”
Blood bubbles on his lip. He coughs, chokes. “I need a doctor—”
I crouch, grab his jaw, force his swollen eyes up to mine. “Here’s your doctor, fucker.” I slam my fist across his mouth. Teeth crack, spit flying.
Stitch flinches, but Grimm just crosses his arms, watching.
“Get it out of your system,” Shard says. Calm. Cold. “Better here than in front of North.”
I grin, feral. He’s right.
I hit him until my knuckles split, until his face is an unrecognizable pulp. Every blow is Storm’s scream, her shaking hands because she didn’t feel safe in her own goddamn skin.
The bastard begs. Cries for his mother. Promises he’ll leave town. Says he didn’t mean it.
“Didn’t mean it?” I roar, dragging him upright by his collar. His feet barely touch the dirt. “You sat in her closet while she stripped down, while she touched herself, while she was mine. You wanted to see her come? Congratulations—you did. And it’ll be the last thing you ever fucking see.”
I slam him back against the wall of the pit. He slides down, groaning.
Grimm shifts, uneasy. “Rook… Prez ain’t gonna like—”
“Prez ain’t here,” I snap. My chest heaves, my breath coming hot, sharp. “This is my storm. Mine.”
The fucker tries to crawl away, dragging himself through the dirt, leaving a smear of blood and piss.
I grab a broken two-by-four from the side of the pit. My knuckles are already split and raw, but I want more. I want him gone from the earth.
The board crashes into his back with a crack. He howls. Another swing, this time across his skull. He crumples, twitching.
“Beg louder,” I taunt, standing over him. “Beg like your fucking soul depends on it.”
“Please!” he gurgles, face caked in mud and red. “Please, I don’t—”
I lean down close, so close he can smell the sweat and blood on me. My voice is a growl in his ear. “You wanted to know what it’s like, being inside her shadow? Now you know. It ends in the dirt.”
I grab him by the hair, drag him toward the barrel stacked against the wall. Gasoline sloshes when I tip it, spilling a reek that eats the air. I douse him, clothes soaking, skin slick. He sputters, chokes on the fumes.
His eyes widen. “No. No, please. Not fire. Please—”
I grin down at him, feral. “You wanted a show. Here’s the finale.”
I flick my lighter. The flame jumps to life, tiny and hungry. I crouch close enough for him to see the fire reflected in my eyes.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” I ask, voice low. “A rat. And rats burn.”
I toss the lighter.
The whoosh is immediate; his body ignites, fire licking up like hell came to collect early. His scream rips the night apart, shrill, endless, until it chokes off into nothing but crackling flesh.
The stench is thick, oily, choking. I breathe it in anyway.
Silence falls when the fire settles to smoldering ash. The pit eats another sin.
I wipe blood from my face, stand tall. My chest heaves, my veins still burning.
“Holy fuck,” Stitch mutters.
Grimm turns and retches in the corner.
Shard steps forward, claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “It’s done.”
I nod once, jaw tight. My knuckles throb, my body wired. “No one hides in her shadows. No one.”
I look down at the pit, at the fire dying. My mark is on him. My justice. My storm’s fear turned into ash.
I know Prez will come for me about this. He’ll want answers, order, control. This wasn’t sanctioned.
But fuck it.
I’d do it again.
Because no one—no one—fucks with Storm and walks away breathing.