Chapter 20 Sin
SIN
Word comes down fast and quiet, the way bad news always does when it’s meant to spread without panic.
JP doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The look on his face does the work. “Knox pulled a judge. Warrant’s in motion. Forty-five minutes, maybe less.”
Knox doesn’t move without posturing first. He doesn’t rush paperwork unless he’s already been paid or already been promised something better. A warrant issued before sunset means he’s either scared…or confident.
The clubhouse shifts immediately, like a body bracing before impact.
Men peel off in different directions, boots pounding, voices low and sharp.
We don’t keep anything here that’ll hang us outright, but timing’s a cruel bitch.
The new shipment rolled in late last night, still stacked and tagged, waiting on routes and riders.
Weapons don’t bother me. I know how to move them. Hide them. Make them disappear.
It’s people that complicate things.
We’ve done this before. Not often, but enough that everyone knows their lane.
Weapons first.
Anything that can’t be justified, logged, or explained disappears. Crates cracked open, contents split and redistributed. Serial-heavy pieces get stripped, boxed, walked out the back in pairs. No one runs. Running gets noticed.
Wren should be downstairs.
She should stay down there.
I don’t go check. That’s not my job. That’s how you start thinking about the wrong things.
Saint’s already issuing orders, calm as a man who knows exactly how much blood he’s willing to spill today. Judge is on the phone. Doc is clearing civilians from the bar with that soft voice that makes people listen before they realize they’re obeying.
Good.
I head out back to help clear inventory when I hear it: Wren’s name.
I catch it out of the corner of my eye: one of ours posted too far from where he’s useful, back turned, phone angled low like he thinks the dark hides him. Everyone else is loud with purpose—boots, crates, voices. He’s still.
Still is dangerous.
I don’t confront him yet. I circle, slow, like I’m just another body in motion. Rook murmurs into the phone, voice tight, urgent. I don’t catch all of it—just static and greed and the sound of a man selling something that isn’t his.
“Yeah, the princess? She’s here with Saint’s crew. Club’s got her hidden away like a fucking prize. You tell Knox he can stop sniffing around, I’ll feed him what he needs.”
My vision narrows.
I snap, closing the distance. My fist connects with Rook’s jaw hard enough to make teeth click. The phone skitters across the dirt. He goes down, scrambling, already begging.
I drag him by the collar, boots carving lines in the dirt as I haul him out front where everyone can see. Where there’s no hiding what happens next.
Men stop to gather. To watch.
Rook tries to crawl once I drop him. Gets two hands down before my boot comes down on his shoulder and folds him back into the dirt.
“Say it again.” My voice is steady. Too steady. “Say her name.”
He spits blood, grinning through it like he thinks this is still a negotiation.
“Princess,” he says. “Wren. Worth more than all of you—”
I kick him in the ribs hard enough to knock the air out of him. He folds, gasping, hands clawing at nothing. I let him breathe just long enough to understand that I’m allowing it.
“You don’t get to call her that.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “No one does.”
Rook laughs. Actually laughs. Blood in his mouth, confidence leaking out of him in pieces. “Relax, man. I was just talking. Knox wants her. Grant wants her. I’m just—”
I hit him again, harder.
He cries then. Ugly, panicked, the sound of a man realizing too late that he picked the wrong currency.
The words spill after that. Ugly ones. Names.
Promises. How much she’s worth. How easy it was going to be once the warrant landed.
Grant’s offer, Knox’s timeline, how he figured we’d trade her out once things got hot.
Trade her.
That’s when my control actually snaps.
Red. Everything goes red.
I don’t remember every hit. Just impressions—bone under knuckle, the way his body goes slack then jerks back when I won’t let him drop. My hands are shaking, but I don’t stop.
I don’t stop when someone tells me that’s enough.
I can’t. Stopping would mean thinking.
I only stop when there’s nothing left in him that looks like a man who can talk.
When I finally straighten, breath ragged, knuckles slick, the yard is silent. Because there’s nothing left to punish. Rook is crumpled at my feet, face ruined.
I don’t lean down to check for a pulse, but either way, he won’t be getting up soon.
My chest hurts. Like I’ve been hollowed out and packed with broken glass.
That’s when the world sharpens again.
And I see her.
Wren’s closer than she should be. Close enough that she saw more than I ever wanted her to. Close enough that there’s blood on the toes of her shoes.
Her eyes are wide—not shocked, not curious.
Afraid.
Of me.
Something in my chest caves in.
She’s seeing the real me. Not a protector. A monster. I back away from her like I’m the one burned, blood still dripping from my hand.
“Don’t,” I mutter, not sure if it’s a warning or a plea. “Don’t look at me like that. He said your name.”
“I know.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes shine like she’s holding something back by force. “I heard.”
That’s worse.
I take a step toward her without thinking. She flinches.
It’s small. Instinctive.
It guts me.
I close my eyes, rocking on my feet. It was too much to think she could handle me. That she could handle this life. If she was on the fence about staying before, I’ve sealed the deal. She’ll never want me now.
“Sin.” Her voice is small. Steady. Worse than screaming.
I open my eyes to hers searching for a version of me that’s no longer real.
“That wasn’t you.”
“You’re wrong. This is me.”
She shakes her head, reaching for me.
I jerk away like her touch would finish the damage I’ve already inflicted.
“Don’t.” My breath comes too quickly, rushes with too much unchecked emotion. I give her the only truth I know. “I’ll ruin you, too.”