Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
DELILAH’S PO
W hen I woke up, the house was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that seeped into your bones and refused to let go. For a fleeting moment, I forgot where I was and everything that had happened. The grief, the tension, the weight of the funeral—they were shadows lingering just outside my consciousness.
But reality came crashing back the moment I opened my eyes.
The bedroom hadn’t changed since I was a teenager. The same faded wallpaper, the same creaky bed frame, and the same window that overlooked the backyard. Even the faint scent of my father’s cigars seemed to linger, woven into the very fabric of the house.
This house wasn’t mine. It was still my father’s—our father’s, I supposed, though Axel had hardly set foot in it since taking over the Vipers. It felt wrong to call it mine like the place itself would reject the claim.
The funeral was over, but its shadow hung heavy in the air. The night had been a blur of tense stares, whispered conversations, and the oppressive weight of grief pressing down on me like a lead blanket.
I hadn’t expected to sleep, but exhaustion had won out in the end. Even so, it hadn’t been restful. My dreams had been filled with flashes of the night before: the mournful crowd at the funeral, the crackling tension among the Vipers, and Ryder Kane’s cold, calculating gaze as he spoke his veiled threats. His voice still echoed in my mind, sharp and deliberate, leaving an unease that no amount of daylight could erase.
Now, as I sat up and stretched, the sunlight streaming through the window did little to warm the chill that had settled deep in my bones. The house felt different—emptier somehow. My father’s absence was a gaping hole, the kind that couldn’t be filled no matter how many people surrounded me.
* * *
I worked, the silence pressed in around me, broken only by the clink of bottles and the rustle of trash bags. The monotony of it was almost meditative, allowing my mind to wander despite my best efforts to keep it grounded.
I thought about my father. About the larger-than-life presence, he’d been. Javier Cruz hadn’t just been a man—he’d been a force of nature. The kind of person who filled every room he entered and left a mark on everyone he encountered.
And now he was gone.
My hands stilled as I caught sight of a photo tucked behind the clutter on the mantel. I set down the trash bag and picked it up, brushing off the dust.
It was an old picture, the edges worn and yellowed with age. My father stood in the center, his arm slung around a much younger Axel, their grins wide and carefree. I was there too, a little girl with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile, clutching a stuffed bear like it was the most important thing in the world.
A lump rose in my throat as I stared at it. That version of my father felt like a stranger now. The man in the photo wasn’t the same man who’d loomed over me in the clubhouse, barking orders and delivering ultimatums.
He’d been different once. We all had.
I set the photo back on the mantel and wiped at my eyes, angry at the tears threatening to fall.
The house was too quiet. It amplified every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the trash bag, every unspoken thought that pressed against the edges of my mind.
I thought about leaving. About packing a bag and disappearing again.
But where would I go?
The Vipers were my family, whether I wanted them to be or not. And as much as I wanted to hate Axel for the way he’d handled things, for the coldness in his voice and the tension he seemed to radiate, I couldn’t just abandon him. Not now. Not after everything.
Then I heard it.
It started as a low rumble, distant and almost imperceptible. I froze, the rag slipping from my hands as I turned toward the window.
The sound grew louder, closer until it was unmistakable: motorcycles.
My stomach twisted as I moved to the window, peeking through the curtains.
They weren’t Vipers.
A line of bikes rolled up the driveway, their riders dressed in leather cuts adorned with the grinning skull framed by crimson flames.
Crimson Reapers.
“What the hell,” I muttered, my heart pounding.
I backed away from the window, my mind racing. The Reapers had made their message clear last night—stay out of their way. What could they possibly want now?
The roar of the engines cut off as the bikes came to a stop, and the silence that followed was deafening.
Then came the knock.
It was sharp, loud, and insistent, echoing through the house like a gunshot.
I froze; my breath caught in my throat.
Another knock, harder this time, followed by a voice that sent a chill down my spine.
“Open up, Cruz. We know you’re in there.”
I stepped toward the door, my legs shaky and unsteady. My hand hovered over the lock for a moment, every nerve in my body screaming at me not to do this.
But I didn’t have a choice.
With trembling fingers, I turned the lock and cracked the door open just enough to see who was on the other side.
The man standing there was massive, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His scarred face was hard, his jaw set like stone, and his cold eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. Behind him, two more Reapers stood with their arms crossed, their faces unreadable but no less menacing.
“Morning, sweetheart,” the man at the door drawled, leaning casually against the frame. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“What do you want?” I snapped, trying to sound braver than I felt.
The man’s smirk widened. “Wraith wants a word.”
“Well, he can schedule an appointment,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to hide the way my hands were shaking.
The Reaper let out a low chuckle, stepping closer so that the door pressed against my shoulder. “Not how this works, sweetheart.”
Before I could react, his hand shot out, shoving the door open and forcing me to stumble back.
The other two followed him inside, their heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor as they swept their gazes over the room like they were assessing a battlefield.
“What do you want?” I demanded again, my voice sharper now.
The man who’d spoken first ignored the question, taking a slow, deliberate look around the room. His smirk didn’t falter as his eyes landed on the half-filled trash bag by the couch. “Cleaning up, huh? Thought the Vipers would’ve done that for you.”
I clenched my fists, biting back the angry retort that burned on the tip of my tongue.
He turned back to me, his expression darkening. “Here’s the deal, Cruz. You’re coming with us. Now.”
My chest tightened, a mix of fear and fury churning in my gut. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound firm.
The man stepped closer, his towering frame making me feel impossibly small. “That’s cute,” he said, his smirk turning into something more sinister. “But this isn’t a request.”
One of the others grabbed my arm, his grip like iron. I twisted, trying to pull away, but it was no use.
“You can come easy, or you can come hard,” the first man said, his tone almost bored. “Your choice.”
I glared at him, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Go to hell.”
He chuckled, low and cold. “Sweetheart, we’re already there.”
The roar of the engine beneath me rattled through my body, the vibrations a harsh reminder of how little control I had over the situation. The Reaper’s grip on my arm was ironclad, his gloved hand anchoring me to the back of the bike as if he expected me to try something stupid.
Not that I hadn’t considered it.
Torch. That was the name sewn into the patch on the back of his leather cut, just below the ominous grinning skull that marked him as one of Ryder Kane’s men. He was younger than the others, his buzzed hair barely long enough to catch the wind, but his build was solid, his frame brimming with an arrogance that only came with blind loyalty.
His hand tightened on my wrist every time I shifted like he was daring me to try something.
“Relax,” he barked over the roar of the wind, his tone sharp and impatient. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I glared at the back of his head, biting back a retort. What was the point? He wasn’t wrong. There was no getting out of this, no escaping the cage of bikes that surrounded me on all sides.
The wind whipped against my face, cold and unforgiving, carrying the metallic scent of rain that threatened to fall at any moment. My hair lashed against my cheeks, the stinging bite a small but relentless reminder of how far from safety I was.
My stomach twisted with every mile that passed, the distance from my father’s house stretching out like a yawning chasm. I gritted my teeth, the anger simmering just beneath the surface warring with the gnawing fear that, this time, I might be in over my head.
The Reapers didn’t say a word as they rode, their bikes forming a tight, impenetrable formation around me. It was a deliberate move, a show of force meant to remind me how little power I had in this situation. They were the hunters, and I was the prey they’d already caught.
Torch’s bike jerked slightly as we hit a rough patch of road, the sudden movement jolting me forward. I clenched my hands tighter against his sides, hating the vulnerability of being forced to cling to the very person dragging me into hell.
“Keep your grip,” he called over his shoulder, his tone almost mocking. “Wouldn’t want you falling off.”
“I’d rather take my chances,” I shot back, my voice muffled by the wind.
He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “You’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that. But spirit won’t save you when we get there.”
I didn’t respond. What was there to say? Every mile brought us closer to the Crimson Reapers’ clubhouse, and the knot in my stomach tightened with each passing second.
I tried to focus on the road, on the blur of trees and asphalt, anything to keep my mind from spiraling. But Ryder Kane’s name loomed in my thoughts, sharp and deliberate, like the man himself.
I hated that name.
Hated how it lingered, how it made my chest tighten with a mix of fury and unease. Ryder Kane. The Vice President of the Crimson Reapers. A man whose voice could make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with nothing more than a single, calculated word.
The first drops of rain hit my skin like tiny needles, cold and unrelenting. The metallic scent in the air grew stronger, mixing with the gasoline and leather that clung to the Reapers like a second skin.
Torch didn’t slow, and neither did the rest of them. The line of bikes pressed on, the rumble of their engines cutting through the sound of the rain like a growl of defiance.
I shivered, not from the cold but from the weight of the unknown.
What did Ryder want? What could I possibly have that would warrant dragging me out of my father’s house and hauling me to their turf like some kind of trophy?
Torch must have sensed my tension because he turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the edge of his smirk.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice carrying over the wind. “Ryder’s not the type to waste time. He’ll get what he needs, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you.”
I wanted to scream, to hit something, but the sound of the bikes drowned out every thought, every feeling. All I could do was hold on, the vibrations of the engine thrumming through my body as the clubhouse loomed closer.
The first thing I saw as we pulled into the lot was the line of bikes gleaming under the harsh glow of floodlights. They were parked in neat rows, each one a testament to the Reapers’ pride and unity.
The clubhouse itself was a looming structure, its weathered facade giving nothing away. It was a fortress, the kind of place that didn’t try to hide what it was.
Torch’s bike came to a sudden stop, and I barely had time to steady myself before he was dismounting, his grip still firm on my arm.
“Let’s go,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I stumbled as he hauled me forward, the gravel crunching under my boots. The other Reapers dismounted behind us, their heavy footsteps a reminder of just how outnumbered I was.
The faint hum of voices carried from inside the clubhouse, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of glass. It was a stark contrast to the tension coursing through my veins, the noise a cruel reminder of how normal this was for them.
Torch led me up the steps, shoving the door open with a casual swing of his arm. The air inside hit me like a wall—thick with the scent of smoke, motor oil, and something else I couldn’t quite place.
The noise quieted as we entered, and the conversations tapered off as the men inside turned to look. Their gazes were sharp and assessing, and I felt the weight of every one of them as they sized me up.
This was the belly of the beast.
And Ryder Kane was waiting.
On the mismatched couches and chairs scattered along the edges of the room, other club girls draped themselves over Reapers like living ornaments. Their clothing—or lack thereof—left little to the imagination. One girl perched on a biker's lap, her stilettos dangling precariously as she whispered something into his ear. Another lounged on a threadbare armchair; her legs sprawled wide as she traced lazy circles on a Reaper's chest.
My gaze was drawn to a group in the far corner. A petite blonde was sandwiched between three burly bikers, her lithe body barely visible between their muscular forms. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy as one man pounded into her from behind while another thrust up into her from below. The third biker stood in front of her, his thick shaft sliding in and out of her mouth as she took him deep into her throat.
The blonde's breasts bounced with each brutal thrust, her skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. Her muffled moans of pleasure were drowned out by the grunts and groans of the men using her. Their tattooed hands roamed over her body possessively, squeezing and pinching as they drove into her relentlessly.
The biker fucking her mouth, tangled his fingers in her hair, forcing her to take him deeper. She gagged as he hit the back of her throat, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. The man behind her quickened his pace, his hips slapping against her ass with each powerful thrust.
Torch’s grip on my arm tightened as we moved deeper into the room, his broad frame blocking out everything else. My gaze darted to the side, catching a glimpse of the men gathered around the pool table, their laughter echoing in the bright, chaotic space. Beyond them, a woman perched on the edge of the bar leaned back, her scant clothing leaving little to the imagination as she threw her head back in a peel of laughter.
But before I could take in more, Torch gave me a sharp nudge.
“Eyes forward,” he barked, his tone as sharp as the shove that had me stumbling a step.
I shot him a glare, more out of reflex than bravery, and his smirk deepened, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Don’t get distracted, Cruz. You don’t belong here, and you don’t want to make it harder on yourself.”
I bit back a retort, the sting of his words sinking in deeper than I cared to admit. He wasn’t wrong—I didn’t belong here. Every second in this room felt like I was walking a tightrope, every gaze on me like a blade waiting to cut me down.
We reached the hallway, and I felt like I could finally breathe again, though the reprieve was short-lived. The low hum of the main room’s chaos faded as we moved further away, replaced by the hollow sound of our footsteps against the wooden floor.
Torch stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and knocked once, his knuckles rapping sharply against the wood.
“Wraith,” he called, his voice loud and clear. “Got a delivery for you.”
The sound of his voice made my stomach twist again. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself for whatever came next, but the knot of tension in my chest refused to loosen.
The door swung open, and Torch gave me one last shove, pushing me into the room without ceremony.
“Try to behave,” he muttered as he stepped back, leaving me to face Ryder Kane alone.