Chapter 11
NITRO
{One month ago}
My stomach grumbled. I should have eaten breakfast.
Also, should have put on a coat. It was fucking chilly out. I hated January.
The blade caught sunlight as it spun through the air, momentarily weightless before gravity pulled it back toward my waiting hand. I dared it to show me its lethal side. Dared it to embed its tip into my rough, calloused palm.
My fingers closed around the worn, leather handle—a perfect catch, again.
Flip, spin, catch. I'd been at it for nearly an hour, standing in the compound's back lot where the late morning sun beat relentlessly down on the concrete, but failed to heat the day. I’d never understand how the desert could get so cold in the fucking ‘winter’.
I wanted 107 degrees in July. I wanted to feel warmth invading my bones until my skeleton got hot enough to cook the surrounding flesh.
I shivered but ignored the discomfort. My focus remained entirely on the knife, willing it to miss just once, to slice into my flesh and give me what I really needed.
Confirmation I was still alive. Confirmation that the numbness snaking through my veins wasn’t all I had left.
The fucked-up part was that I should be glad the knife was staying true today. A couple months ago, I’d had a lapse. I’d gone nearly a month without being able to throw. Now, I was better than ever… so why did that seem to mean jack shit to me?
With a quick snap of my wrist, I flipped the knife higher than ever, adding a second rotation.
The weapon’s recently sharpened edge glinted, momentarily blinding me as it caught bright rays at just the right angle.
Still, my fucking hand somehow expertly snagged the handle.
Muscle memory. Too much practice. Too much control. I couldn’t hurt myself even if I tried.
I felt so damn restless. Which, yeah, contradicted the pervading numbness.
But it also made perfect sense—the world I existed in right now had gone stale.
I felt nothing for the routine of it all: the repetitive shows with the repetitive stunts and the repetitive fans with their repetitive shouts.
How many ways could I throw a knife? How many ways could it embed itself into a target or a piece of fucking fruit perched on some idiot’s fucking head?
There had to be more. I missed the days of constant broken bones and stunts gone wrong.
We took every chance we could back then, trying to make a name for ourselves.
The government had sanctioned us repeatedly.
They’d fine us, then cite all the bullshit protection laws and how Alphas needed to preserve themselves for the good of society.
We were supposed to be strong leaders, heading the pack.
Top of the social hierarchy. We were meant to find mates and have a litter of pups.
We weren’t supposed to choose mayhem, madness, and physical maiming.
Flip.
Spin.
Catch.
Over and over again.
A familiar voice grunted and cursed somewhere in the distance.
Disappointed it hadn’t offered me proof of life; I caught the knife one last time and began walking toward whichever pack brother was currently pissed off. They were somewhere over near the detached triple garage.
Absentmindedly, I rotated the knife in both hands. Handle in my left. Blade tip delicately worked between two fingers. I let the razor edge bite into my skin purposefully. My body hummed as the first trickle of blood dampened my skin, spreading down to pull between fingers and skim around knuckles.
“I must still be breathing,” I muttered under my breath. “Can’t bleed if you’re not breathing.”
Was that how it worked?
Did every inhale and exhale tell my heart that it too should pump blood through my veins? No, that was the fucking brain’s job. The brain, with all its mangled, mushy grey matter, told my organs to cooperate.
I thought back to the last time I felt not just alive, but powerful.
Standing on my bike’s tank, arms spread wide, careening towards a target. Pulling the knives one by one from their belt holsters and expertly launching them. Bullseye.
That damn stunt got banned after an amateur died. That asshole ruined it for real riders.
Seat standing felt like flying.
Parking my bike felt like dying.
Standing up after a brutal crash was a level of exhilaration nothing else could rival.
Adrenaline was my bread and butter. I remembered the first time I understood this about myself—a stupid preteen with a dumpster find skateboard. Owning a motorcycle was an unattainable dream back then.
At the rundown skatepark near the Alpha orphanage, I’d seen someone attempt a 900.
They’d busted their neck. I knew I could do it though.
And I almost did. I finished the second rotation, but I hadn’t gotten enough air.
I slammed into the top edge of the halfpipe at a bad angle.
That brutal wipeout left me with three broken fingers, road rash down half my body, and a concussion that made the world tilt for days.
But in those first moments after impact, as pain exploded through my system, everything had been crystal clear.
The world had never looked so sharp, so vivid, so present.
I'd been fully in my body, fully alive. I’d just met the guys around that time.
While I was laid up, they stayed by my side every moment possible.
Maybe that’s why the memory of that massive wipeout stayed so vivid over the years. It solidified our pack. My broken bones somehow healed something busted in all of us.
Since then, I'd chased that clarity in increasingly risky ways. The DemonX stunts helped—the danger, the adrenaline, the constant risk of serious injury. But lately, even that hadn't been enough. The performances felt rehearsed, predictable. Safe, in their own fucked-up way.
“Goddamn piece of shit. Where the fuck is the motherfucking leak?” Angry grunting interrupted my memories. I blinked, the garage coming into focus. The nearest canopy door was tilted up, and the lights were on inside. The whirr of a small space heater carried out into the chilled air.
“Just fucking cooperate!” The voice growled again.
So, it had been Kane getting pissed earlier. There was no mistaking his voice, not at this distance. Didn’t sound like his mood had changed in the short time it took me to traverse the compound.
A deafening crash sounded from the innards of the garage. I took a step forward, then stopped when I heard proof Kane wasn’t dead.
Instead of getting closer, I retreated a few feet. Which was smart, since seconds later a socket wrench was hurled outside from the garage. After that, came an impact driver. Then a jack. A detached steering wheel.
My pack brother let out a guttural, animalistic sound, then an oil filter arced through the air and slammed into the metal fence separating our compound from the street beyond.
Moving to the side, out of the line of fire, I leaned up against one of our light posts. Several dotted the grounds, bright enough to turn a moonless midnight into midday if we wanted. They stood useless in daytime of course. Just hanging around, no purpose. Waste of fucking space like…
I stopped the thought before completion. Still, the final word—me—tried to shove its way out. I clamped my lips tight and told my brain to fuck right off.
Kane continued to curse, but he didn’t throw anything else.
Standing still again, I felt antsy. I started flipping the knife with wild abandon again.
The blade became a blur of movement, almost singing as it sliced the air.
Catch, flip, catch, flip. Every time the sharpness failed to find purchase in my body, frustration built.
The monotony was maddening. Each successful catch only made me more determined to feel the throbbing, distinct pain of a knife wound.
"Come on," I muttered, hurling the knife, watching it rotate endlessly. Still, my fingers found the handle.
My legs were beginning to freeze, the black jeans little protection.
I stomped my feet several times, trying to warm them up.
I kept tossing the knife upward, watching numbly as it tumbled end over end.
Kane’s continued cursing and muttering quieted.
The compound around me faded—the half-pipe ramps, the practice equipment, the project cars, the stunt props.
Everything reduced to this: metal, motion, the anticipation of pain.
Except the pain never came.
I shook my head and my gaze drifted to the line of motorcycles parked near the fence. Our casual rides, not meant for performances. Kane's classic restored vintage Triumph. Asher's sleek black Ducati. Fallon's custom Indian, all chrome and leather. My own modified Pierce.
And Xander's prized Harley-Davidson. His first bike, rebuilt from the ground up. It had been a goddamn rust bucket when he’d brought it home.
It was his baby; the one he disappeared on when the noise in his head got too loud.
Midnight blue paint flecked with silver.
Chrome polished to a mirror shine. Custom leather seat that he treated with some special oil every damn Sunday like it was a religious ritual.
I caught the knife one last time, holding it still as my focus shifted entirely to Xander's bike. My blood hummed with sudden purpose. I pushed his buttons every chance I got lately.
Xander, who could read each of us like open books. Xander, who carried the weight of DemonX on his shoulders and never complained. Xander, who knew exactly how to bring me back when I spiraled too far into my own head.
Xander, who would absolutely lose his shit if someone damaged his precious Harley.
The decision crystallized in an instant. I measured the distance, calculated the throw, factored in the wind and the weight of the knife. Twenty feet. Easy shot.
I pulled my arm back, took a breath, and let the blade fly.
It spun through the air with deadly precision, a flash of silver against the dark rubber of the rear tire. The knife sank into the thick tread with a satisfying thunk and buried to the hilt.
For a moment, I just stared. Part of me couldn’t believe I’d actually fucking done it.
Then a slow grin spread across my face as I imagined Xander's reaction. The cold fury in his eyes. The tight set of his jaw. The absolute certainty that he would make me pay.
That was what I needed. Not the dull pain of a knife slip or the fleeting rush of a dangerous stunt.
I needed Xander at his most elemental—Alpha anger focused entirely on me.
The kind of confrontation that would force me fully into my body, into the moment.
There was nothing like a good brawl with one of my brothers.
Xander would make me bleed.
He’d give me pain.
Enough so that he’d walk away thinking I’d learned my lesson.
Though he’d be wrong.
I walked closer to the bike, admiring my handiwork. Air was slowly hissing from the tire wound. Everyone knew this was my knife. It was evidence impossible to deny or explain away. No plausible deniability. No easy forgiveness.
Perfect.
Some distant part of me recognized the fucked-up nature of what I was doing—deliberately sabotaging something important to someone I respected, someone I would die for without hesitation. But that rational voice was drowned out by the desperate need to know I was still a living, breathing creature.
A fucked-up creature.
But not a dead one.
I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling wrong inside. Each of us withdrawing in our own ways, seeking relief that we couldn't find. Something was shifting in our carefully balanced unit. No, it fucking had shifted. And maybe we could never restore what we used to be.
I bent down and ran my fingers over the knife handle. How long would I have to wait before Xander saw the damage? The anticipation alone was enough to quiet the chaos in my head, at least temporarily.
“It’s your fault,” I whispered to the knife. “You wouldn’t make me bleed.”
“You’re a goddamn mad man,” Kane’s voice floated to me. I stood up, turning to face my pack brother.
“Says the guy hurling power tools,” I quipped.
“He’s going to kill you,” Kane responded simply.
“I’m betting on that,” I said under my breath, feeling like I’d just crashed down to Earth after another failed 900.
I no longer felt cold.
The shivering had stopped.
The promise of Xander’s revenge made me feel nice and toasty.