Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DELILAH
T he cemetery was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt unnatural. The wind whispered through the trees, tugging at the edges of my jacket as I stood before the headstone. It was simple, understated—a far cry from the larger-than-life man who now lay beneath it.
“Javier Cruz,” I muttered, my voice bitter as I read the name etched into the stone. “Beloved father, leader, protector.” The words felt like a cruel joke, a sanitized version of the truth. I could’ve written a dozen other titles for him, none of them quite so flattering.
I crouched down, the damp earth chilling my knees through my jeans, and traced the letters with my fingertips. The cold granite felt wrong, too lifeless for someone who had cast such a long shadow over everyone around him.
“You really screwed me over, you know that?” I said, my voice low, almost a whisper. My fingers curled into fists, the frustration bubbling to the surface faster than I could tamp it down. “I didn’t want to come back here. I didn’t want any of this.”
The wind picked up, the leaves rustling like they were mocking me. I pressed my hand against the stone, my chest tightening with every word that spilled out.
“You couldn’t just let me go, could you?” My voice cracked, the anger bleeding through. “You always had to be in control, pulling strings from the grave like it’s some kind of game. Axel, the Reapers, the Serpents—they’re all circling, and somehow, I’m stuck right in the middle of it. And it’s your fault.”
The tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I wouldn’t cry for him. Not now. Not after everything he’d put me through.
“You made this mess,” I said, standing up and brushing the dirt from my hands. “And now I’m the one cleaning it up. Like always.”
I took a step back, my boots crunching against the gravel path as I looked down at the grave. “You were never proud of me. Not once. No matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did. You were too focused on Axel, on the club, on everything else that wasn’t me. And now? Now I’m supposed to carry all of this?”
The weight of my words hung in the air, the cemetery swallowing them whole. For a moment, I let the silence sit between us as if he could hear me as if he could respond. But, of course, there was nothing. Just the cold wind and the faint rustle of leaves.
“I hate you for this,” I said finally, my voice softer but no less raw. “I hate that you made me come back, that you left me to deal with Axel and this mess. I hate that I can’t walk away, even when I want to.”
I turned to leave, my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets as I walked back toward my car. The gravel crunched beneath my feet, each step heavier than the last.
But as I reached the car and opened the door, I paused, glancing back at the grave.
The sound of engines in the distance pulled me from my thoughts. It was faint at first, but it grew louder and unmistakable. My heart sank as I turned toward the source.
Crimson Reapers.
The bikes rolled into the cemetery with deliberate, menacing precision, their rumbling engines breaking the stillness. Ryder was at the front, his dark eyes locked on me as he dismounted his bike. The others followed suit, their presence heavy and commanding, the air around them practically crackling with tension.
“What are you doing here, Wraith?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
Ryder didn’t answer immediately. He strode toward me, his boots crunching against the gravel, his expression unreadable but intense. When he reached me, he didn’t stop, his presence overwhelming as he invaded my space.
“You’re coming with me,” he said, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.
I bristled, taking a step back. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Ryder growled, his tone darkening. “Things are getting bad, Delilah. Thanks to your brother, this whole town’s about to blow, and you’re sitting here like nothing’s happening.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” I snapped, anger flaring. “I’m not your responsibility.”
Ryder’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “You’re wrong, kitten. You’re in this whether you like it or not. And if Axel thinks for a second he can use you as leverage, you’re going to need someone to keep you alive.”
I shook my head, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I don’t need your help, Ryder.”
“Like hell you don’t.” Ryder took another step forward, his hand gripping my arm—not harshly, but firmly enough to make his point. “You’re coming to the clubhouse, and that’s final. It’s not safe for you out here.”
I hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. As much as I hated to admit it, he was probably right. The tension between the Vipers, the Serpents, and the Reapers had been escalating, and Axel’s choices had only made things worse.
“Fine,” I said finally, pulling my arm free. “But don’t think for a second that I trust you.”
Ryder smirked, a dark and knowing expression that sent a shiver down my spine. “You don’t have to trust me, kitten. You just have to listen.”
The ride to the Crimson Reapers’ clubhouse was tense, the hum of their bikes filling the silence as we tore through the streets. When we pulled into the lot, the floodlights cast harsh shadows across the row of parked bikes, and the building loomed ahead like a fortress.
As soon as I stepped inside, the noise hit me—a mix of loud music, laughter, and the clinking of bottles. The room was packed, the air thick with cigarette smoke, leather, and tension. My eyes darted around, taking in the scene.
The moment Ryder walked in with me at his side, the atmosphere shifted. Heads turned, whispers spreading like wildfire. The club girls, cast me venomous looks, their eyes narrowing with barely concealed jealousy. Half-naked club girls drifted through the room, their barely-there outfits clinging to their curves like second skins. Tiny skirts, plunging necklines, and high heels clicked against the floor as they swayed past. They moved with calculated ease, their gazes sharp and predatory as they scanned the crowd.
But it wasn’t the men they were looking at. Not tonight.
It was me.
One brunette in a barely-there halter top froze mid-step, her glossy lips parting as her eyes flicked to Ryder’s hand on my back. Another girl with wild blonde curls and a glittering crop top openly glared at me, crossing her arms as if she were daring me to step out of line.
The whispers started immediately, spreading like wildfire through the room. Words I couldn’t make out but could feel—sharp-edged and cutting. Every venomous glance, every hushed murmur, chipped away at my composure. I was an outsider here, and they wanted me to know it.
Ryder didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he didn’t care. His hand remained firmly on the small of my back, guiding me forward with the same steady, unyielding energy he always carried. His presence burned through the noise, a live wire in the chaos. The heat of his touch seeped through my jacket, grounding me even as my nerves tightened.
I swallowed hard, keeping my chin up and my steps steady, even as the tension pressed down on me like a physical weight. I could almost hear their unspoken thoughts: Who does she think she is? Why is he with her?
As we moved further into the room, the looks didn’t stop. If anything, they grew sharper, more pointed. I caught snippets of conversation—a low laugh here, a hissed comment there. My chest tightened, but I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
Still, a nagging thought clawed at the edges of my mind: how many of them thought they had a claim on him? Judging by the way they looked at me, too many.
I shifted uncomfortably under their piercing gazes, feeling like a lone deer surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves. The air in the dimly lit tavern seemed to thicken, heavy with unspoken accusations and territorial instincts. The women's eyes glimmered with a mix of curiosity and disdain, their painted lips curled into barely concealed sneers.
One of them, a statuesque blonde with eyes like shards of emerald, leaned forward, her low-cut dress revealing more than it concealed. She whispered something to her companion, a petite redhead whose freckles stood out against her pale skin. They both laughed, a tinkling sound that felt like icicles piercing my skin.
As if on cue, a striking brunette sauntered over, her hips swaying hypnotically with each step. Her dark hair cascaded down her back in luscious waves, and her deep brown eyes smoldered with an intensity that made my breath catch. She wore a form-fitting crimson dress that hugged every curve, the color a stark contrast to her olive skin.
The brunette's gaze locked onto me, her full lips curving into a predatory smile. She leaned against the bar, mere inches from where I stood, her perfume—a heady mix of jasmine and sandalwood—enveloping me. I could feel the heat radiating from her body, a stark reminder of how close she was.
"So," she purred, her voice low and sultry, "you're the one Wraith's been hiding away." Her eyes raked over me, assessing, calculating. I felt exposed under her piercing gaze, like a butterfly pinned to a board for examination. She circled me slowly, the click of her stilettos echoing in the cavernous room. Her fingers trailed along my shoulder as she moved, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.
"I'm Candace," she said, coming to stand before me once more. Her ruby-red lips curled into a predatory smile. "Wraith and I go way back. He's told me so little about you... but then again, he always did like to keep his little secrets."
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. "I... I'm not sure what you mean."
Candace's eyes flashed with cruel delight as she circled me like a shark. "Oh honey," she purred, her voice dripping with venom, "You really think you have a chance with Wraith? That's adorable."
She paused, raking her gaze over my figure again. "But let's be real you're not even close to his type. Just look at you." Candace gestured dismissively. "You're not nearly skilled enough to please a man like him. Wraith needs a real woman who knows what she's doing."
I clenched my hands at my sides. But Candace wasn't done twisting the knife.
"You want to know a secret?" She leaned in close, her breath hot on my ear. "I sucked Wraith’s
soul out through his cock last night in this very room." She pulled back, her eyes glittering with malice as she pointed behind me. "Right over there next to that ratty old couch."
I turned, following her gesture. The couch in question sat in the open for everyone to see.
Candace's laughter low and menacing. Like she knew she had hit her target.
My stomach lurched as I stared at the worn leather couch, its faded surface suddenly taking on a sinister quality. I could almost see them there Wraith's powerful form sprawled out, head thrown back in ecstasy as Candace knelt before him, her crimson lips wrapped around him. The image burned itself into my mind, taunting me.
Candace's words echoed in my ears, each syllable a dagger to my heart. I felt foolish and naive. How could I have been so blind? Wraith had made such a show of claiming me, of marking me as his own. But it was all a lie, wasn't it? Just like my father another selfish MC member who cared for no one but himself.
The realization hit me like a freight train, crushing the last remnants of hope I'd foolishly clung to. I watched as Ryder sauntered across the room, his leather cut a reminder of who he is. The way he moved, all cocky swagger and predatory grace, used to make my heart race. Now it just made me sick.
“Back the fuck off, Candace,” Ryder grunts as he wraps his arm around my waist pulling me to him.
I step out of his grasp. “Fuck you, Ryder,” I hiss.
Ryder's eyes flash with anger, his jaw clenching as he stares at me. The dim bar lights cast shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the furrow between his brows. I can see the muscle in his neck twitching, a telltale sign of his rising temper.
"What did you just say to me?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
Before I can react, his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist in a vice-like grip. He yanks me towards him, our bodies colliding. The scent of his cologne, mixed with whiskey, invades my senses. His chest heaves against mine, our faces mere inches apart.
"What the fuck did you just say, Delilah?" Ryder demands, his hot breath fanning across my cheeks.
His dark eyes bore into mine, flashing with a dangerous intensity that makes my stomach flip.
This is Wraith, VP of the Crimson Reapers. And no one talks to him like I just did.
Before I can even think, he’s dragging me through the main room, and out a door to the back of the clubhouse.
The cool night air hits my face as we burst outside, a stark contrast to the stuffy, smoke-filled interior. My heart races, pounding in my ears as his grip on my wrist tightens. The rough brick of the building scrapes against my back as he shoves me up against the wall, his face inches from mine. His eyes blaze with anger, reflecting the dim glow of a nearby streetlight. The scent of whiskey on his breath mingles with the musty smell of leather from his jacket.
"What the fuck is your problem?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
I stare back at him, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. His eyes are dark with rage; and his jaw clenched tight. For a moment, I'm frozen, years of conditioning making me want to shrink back, to apologize, to do anything to defuse his anger. But something inside me snaps.
"You," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "You're my fucking problem, Ryder.”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and heavy. I can see the shock on his face, quickly replaced by a deeper fury. But I'm not done. The floodgates have opened, and years of pent-up resentment come pouring out.
"I'm done," I continue, my voice growing stronger with each word. "I'm done. I’m done with being your plaything. I’m with you. I’m done with Axel. I’m done being stuck inside an MC war I didn’t ask to be a part of. I’m done being embarrassed. You let that girl suck your dick last night and walked me in the doors tonight. You’re just like my father and every other MC member I know.”
Ryder's eyes widen, and his grip on my wrist tightens slightly. For a moment, he looks stunned, as if he can't believe what he's hearing. Then his face hardens, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," he snarls, his voice low and menacing.
But I'm beyond caring. The dam has broken, and years of pent-up rage and resentment come pouring out. "I know exactly what I'm talking about," I shoot back, my voice trembling with emotion. "I've lived with lies, secrets, and cheating my whole life. I won't live that way again. I was stupid; I know that. This fucked up thing between us it was stupid. I own that. But I'm done."
Ryder's grip on my wrist loosens slightly, but his body remains pressed against mine, pinning me to the rough brick wall. The alley around us is silent save for the distant rumble of motorcycles and the muffled bass from inside the clubhouse. A cool breeze rustles through, carrying with it the scent of exhaust and stale beer.
His eyes, usually so dark and unreadable, now burn with anger.
"You think you know everything, don't you?" he says, his voice low and gravelly. "You think you can just waltz in here and unravel everything I've worked so hard to build."
His words hang in the air between us, heavy with unspoken truths. The dim light of the abandoned warehouse casts long shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline and the furrow of his brow. Dust motes dance in the slivers of moonlight that slip through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, giving the scene an otherworldly quality.
Ryder starts to speak, but I cut him off. “It doesn’t fucking matter what you say, Wraith. I’m over it all.”
With those words out there, I turned and walked away. But instead of going through the clubhouse, I take the long way, around the outside of the clubhouse.
I swipe angrily at the tear rolling down my cheek. Why the fuck am I crying?
Ryder Kane isn’t worth my tears.
Once inside my car, I look at the Crimson Reapers’ clubhouse one more time before I pull out.
I know what I have to do.
Leave.
And never look back.