Chapter 33 Xander, Asher, Nitro, Fallon, & Kane
XANDER, ASHER, NITRO, FALLON, in a few days, she’d be gone.
We’d still be under contract, and the fucking Institute would have to live up to their damn guarantee.
I refocused on the task at hand. Gone were the stock images of vintage bikes and muscle cars, replaced with photographs we kept in our memorabilia room.
This was our legacy: Asher' s face split open like raw meat, eyes wild with victory as the ref counted down a knockout; Kane splayed out on a track after a brutal crash, his body as mangled as the bike’s metal frame; Fallon with his arms around two Beta woman who’d been absolutely feral for him after a SkidMarkzzz show; me after my first hundred yard stunt jump over a line of semi-trucks. I’d landed it by the skin of my teeth.
My gaze fell on the most recent memory I’d hung. It made me smile every time I saw it.
Nitro' s shoulder with my knife buried to the hilt, his deranged grin daring me to twist the blade. We’d drank our body weights in vodka that night.
Buzzed beyond belief, I’d told Nitro his knife throwing was bullshit, anyone could do it.
He’d dared me to prove it. I'd missed the fucking wall by a mile that night. His scream when I yanked the blade free still echoed in my head. He’d screamed almost as loud recently, when I’d started blunting the edges of his blades one by one against the slate porch steps. He should have punctured my bike tire.
But humor faded quickly.
She’d be here soon. She’d walk through the door and face our reality. There was no way someone delicate could survive us. A weak Omega thrust into the maelstrom of DemonX, where blood, sweat, and a general disregard for life were the very essence of our lives? It was a disaster waiting to happen.
“What the fuck are they thinking?” I growled lowly, looking down at my boots and scuffing them against the hardwood floors.
One of my pack brothers tossed an arm over my shoulders. I lifted my head, glancing to my right, and finding Asher. He waggled his eyebrows.
“Smells like team spirit in here, don’t it?” His gaze moved to the photographs.
“Smells like gas,” I said bluntly.
ASHER.
“About that,” I gave a casual shrug. “I’ve got a surefire plan to stop this bullshit before it even starts. Bitch won’t even make it through the front door.”
“Oh?” Xander lifted one eyebrow, probably knowing exactly what I was about to suggest. “Pray tell.”
"Okay, hear me out,” I paused dramatically, giving his shoulder a squeeze and then taking away my arm so I could move to face him, back up against the wall of photos. “How about we just set the whole place on fire?"
I grinned, a devilish spark warming my chest as the suggestion rolled off my tongue.
I’d been holding it back for a while. Damn, it would be so easy.
I already had a few filled-to-the-top gas cans squirreled away in the house.
Xander gave me a look that read ‘exasperated schoolteacher’.
But it was a different one of my brothers who actually responded.
I hadn’t even heard him approach; my mind had been too overwhelmed envisioning our house being consumed by flames.
Hot reddish orange licking up walls, heating glass, melting shingles. It would be a glorious sight.
“Jesus, you’re such a damn pyro,” Kane grumbled, leaning in the doorway between foyer and living area, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a deep frown, but his dark eyes held thinly veiled laughter.
“You love it.” I countered, leaving Xander and approaching Kane. “I keep you warm.”
“You will not set fire to our home, Asher. At least, not until we have time to empty it,” Fallon chimed in from near the coffee table.
He held the recycling bin, taking empty liquor bottles and spreading them around the room.
Thanks to Xander’s prolific drinking lately, the Omega was going to think we were raging alcoholics. Hell, we were sometimes.
I waggled my eyebrows. “But the house burns better if it’s full of shit. Flammable carpet, combustible cleaning supplies, wood furniture.”
“Drop it, Asher. Go burn something other than the house,” this from Xander, who’d gone back to replacing wall decor—this time working on the opposite foyer wall, taking down the shadow boxes with our original DemonX team jackets.
“You guys are no fun,” I sighed dramatically, pushing past Kane into the living room and heading towards the fireplace. Deep down, I knew I wouldn’t really burn down our pack home. Well, I probably wouldn’t.
Though it wasn’t satisfying, I built a raging fire, which seemed fucking useless in the security of the hearth.
Or maybe it wouldn’t be. Maybe I could show the Omega how beautiful flames are as they kiss flesh. Would she balk at the smell of charred skin? If I let myself burn, would she let me burn her too?
I stood up, eyes locked on the crackling, blackening wood.
NITRO.
I heard the others, but I didn’t take part in the banter.
Moving to the doorway between foyer and living room, I placed the female-shaped target down, wicked thoughts making my body tingle.
I hadn’t had the chance to use this one in a long time.
I liked how closely the cut-out silhouette bordered a real woman when she stood against the black shape, like a second shadow behind her.
When I threw blades, I had to be precise.
A fraction one way or the other and I’d either miss the target or hit the woman.
I’d grazed my assistant during one show, which is why it had been shoved in my closet all this time.
But the Omega was my perfect prey. I didn’t know what she looked like, but I imagined a small, sickly figure.
I mapped her curves. I saw how tall she stood.
I saw my blades outlining her. Maybe I’d be less than perfect, maybe my aim wouldn’t be true.
Maybe I’d graze her skin here and there, little slice by little slice, making her beautifully bleed.
My hands vibrated, desire thinly contained, as I pulled a paint pen from my pocket.
With each scarlet stroke, a delightful promise unfolded.
“10 points” tattooed the forehead.
“20 points” pierced the heart.
“15 points” slashed the neck.
“25 points” severed the wrists.
Lastly, “50 points” deliberately penned over that oh-so delicate place.
I added a twisted smile for good measure.
Lowering the marker to my side, gripping it loosely in my fist, I wondered if I should ink other areas.
“Sick,” Fallon’s tone wasn’t disgusted; it was appreciative. “It’s too bad she’ll see this without knowing how accurate your blades fly, brother.”
“Oh, I’ll give her a taste,” I said, voice pitched low with heady promise. A taste of sharp edges. A taste of blood. A taste of what it means to be worthless and discarded.
An unwanted memory seeped in from that shadowy place in my mind, the one I willfully ignored.
It housed every bit of my life before I met my pack.
Then, my existence came down to the very thing I planned to inflict on this Omega.
Sharpness. Bleeding. Trash only kept around because of money.
For me, it was the check the different foster parents got for mistreating me.
For the Omega, it was the money we didn’t want to forfeit by flat-out rejecting her.
The image of my younger self struck with brutal clarity.
Years after I got taken from my mom, who was always too deep in a bottle to care for me.
Was I six in this memory? Huddled in the back of a dark closet, staying the fuck away from the Alpha fostering me.
I was pretty sure my right arm was broken.
I was positive the cut on my eyebrow would need stitches.
I remember that wound. It had been the one that made me want to grab a kitchen knife and return the favor.
“Nitro,” Fallon’s voice pushed in, “You broke the marker.”
I glanced down, registering the dampness. The crimson ink slicked the fist that had crushed its vessel. Suddenly, I wondered if hurting this Omega was the answer.
FALLON.
I put a hand on Nitro’s shoulder. “It’s the markers fault.”
“Obviously,” Nitro bit out, stomping away towards the kitchen.
Turning away from the target, I surveyed the monstrous transformation of our sanctuary. The chaos felt pointless, an absurd performance which fell flat. I tried to imagine everything through strange eyes. What would she see?
The fiery crashes.
The brutal fights.
The moments death almost won.