Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Zach
I discharge the doctor with a look that leaves no room for argument. No one is keeping Xavier from me tonight. Not after what happened. The rage inside me is a living thing, pulsing beneath my skin, demanding release. But I keep it contained, focused on getting Xavier home and safe first.
“Zach, honey,” Xavier’s mother says, her voice trembling as she approaches the bed. “Do you need anything? Should we come stay with you?”
“We’ve got it covered, Mrs. Blane,” I answer, softening my tone for her sake. She’s been good to me, accepting her son’s choice without judgment. “The club will have guards on the house twenty-four seven until this is handled.”
Xavier’s sister squeezes his hand, her eyes reflecting the same fierce protectiveness I feel. “Call us if you need anything, X. I mean it.”
An hour later, I’m tucking Xavier into our bed, arranging pillows to elevate his head slightly. The bandages make him look smaller somehow, vulnerable in a way that twists something painful in my chest.
“I’m okay,” he tells me, reading my expression. “Really, Zach.”
I don’t answer, just press a gentle kiss to his forehead before settling in the chair beside the bed. His medication kicks in soon after, pulling him into sleep while I sit vigil, my mind cataloging every detail of what I know so far.
The security cameras caught glimpses of four men, faces partially obscured but not enough to identify them.
Grey’s already running the footage through facial recognition software the club “borrowed” from a friendly contact in law enforcement.
The brick they threw had a message taped to it: Devil Souls fags not welcome here.
Not random. Targeted.
My phone buzzes at two a.m.
Grey’s text is simple. We got them. High school connection.
Something cold settles in my gut. I know immediately what this means, it’s the same assholes who tormented Xavier in high school, who made him hate himself for years. The same ones who beat him for being gay. They’ve resurfaced now that word has spread about the clinic, about us.
I’m out of the chair before I finish reading the text, moving silently so I don’t wake Xavier. His breathing remains steady, face peaceful in sleep despite the bandages. I brush my lips against his forehead again before slipping out of the room.
In the hallway, I make three calls in quick succession. My father. Grey. Demon. Each conversation is brief, my instructions clear. Twenty minutes later, we’re assembled in the driveway with my father’s truck idling behind mine, and Grey and Demon on their bikes.
“They at Miller’s place?” I ask Grey as he dismounts.
He nods, eyes cold in the moonlight. “All four of them. Celebrating their handiwork with beer and blow. Security system’s basic. I’ve got the override codes.”
“Good.” I check my gun, the familiar weight comforting in my palm. “No cuts, no colors. This isn’t club business.”
“The hell it isn’t,” my father growls, his massive frame emerging from the shadows. “They attacked family.”
“I don’t want this traced back to the Devil Souls,” I explain, holstering my weapon. “This is personal.”
My mother steps forward, her face a mask of controlled fury. She’s dressed all in black, hair pulled back tight. “I’m coming too.”
“Shay—” my father begins.
“Don’t,” she cuts him off with a look that would make a lesser man flinch. “That boy is like a son to me. Nobody hurts my family.”
I nod once, recognizing the futility of arguing with her when she’s like this. Besides, my mother can be more terrifying than my father when properly motivated. “Let’s go.”
The drive to Miller’s place takes twelve minutes.
A small, run-down house on the edge of town where Justin Miller still lives with his alcoholic father.
The same Justin Miller who held Xavier down while others beat him bloody all those years ago.
The same one who’s apparently decided to continue his reign of terror into adulthood.
We park a block away, approaching on foot through the neighboring yards. Demon disables the security system with a few taps of his phone, and then we’re at the back door, listening to the sounds of drunken laughter inside.
“Remember,” I say quietly, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. “I want them alive. They need to understand exactly what they’ve done.”
Then I kick in the door with enough force to splinter the frame, the sound of breaking wood momentarily silencing the laughter inside. Four men freeze in various positions around the living room, bottles halfway to lips, lines of cocaine laid out on the coffee table, a game paused on the TV.
I recognize Justin Miller immediately. Older, fatter, but with the same cruel eyes I remember from high school. He’s on his feet first, shock quickly replaced by defiance.
“What the fuck—” he starts, reaching for something under the couch cushion.
My gun is in my hand before he can finish the motion. “Touch that piece and I’ll put a bullet through your kneecap.”
He freezes, recognition dawning in his bloodshot eyes. “Slaughter? What the hell are you doing in my house?”
“You know exactly why I’m here.” I step farther into the room, aware of my father, Grey, and Demon spreading out behind me, blocking any escape routes. My mother remains by the door, her silent presence somehow more menacing than any of us.
One of the other men, Tim Buckley, another face from Xavier’s past, makes a sudden break for the front door. Demon catches him before he takes three steps, driving him face-first into the wall with enough force to leave a dent in the drywall.
“Nobody’s going anywhere,” Demon says pleasantly, twisting Buckley’s arm up behind his back until he whimpers.
“You attacked a clinic tonight,” I state, moving closer to Miller. “Threw a brick through a window. Hit a doctor in the head.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miller slurs, though the fear in his eyes tells a different story.
“Your mistake,” I continue as if he hadn’t spoken, “was targeting someone I love.”
I move so quickly he doesn’t have time to react. My fist connects with his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs in a satisfying whoosh. As he doubles over, I grab the back of his neck, forcing him to look at me.
“You remember Xavier Blane? The kid you tormented in high school? The one you beat for being gay?” I squeeze harder, feeling his pulse hammering beneath my fingers. “He’s mine now. And you just tried to kill him.”
Recognition and terror war in Miller’s eyes. “We weren’t trying to kill anyone,” he gasps. “Just scare him. Teach him a lesson about bringing your kind into our town.”
My kind. The words ignite something primal inside me, a rage so pure it almost blinds me. I slam his head against the wall, once, hard enough to daze him.
“Bag them,” I order, stepping back before I do something that will end this too quickly. “All of them.”
Grey and Demon move efficiently, pulling black hoods over each man’s head while my father zip-ties their hands. None resist, they’ve realized too late exactly how much trouble they’re in.
“Please,” one of them begs as Demon shoves him toward the door. “We were just drunk. Didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“Shut up,” my mother says, her voice colder than I’ve ever heard it. “Save your breath. You’ll need it for screaming later.”
We load them into the vehicles, two in my father’s truck and two in mine.
The drive to the clubhouse is silent except for the occasional whimper from our cargo.
I check my phone once, seeing a text from Tiana confirming that Xavier is still sleeping peacefully.
Good. He doesn’t need to know about this part.
The clubhouse is empty when we arrive, exactly as I requested. Grey had cleared everyone out, ensuring no witnesses to what comes next. We drag our prisoners inside, through the main room and down to the basement, a space few outside the inner circle have ever seen.
The concrete room is sparse but well-equipped for its purpose. Drains in the floor. Soundproofed walls. A selection of tools arranged neatly on a metal table. I position Miller in the center chair, the others lined up against the wall, still hooded but able to hear everything.
“Remove his hood,” I tell Grey, who complies immediately.
Miller blinks against the harsh light, his eyes darting around the room, widening as he takes in the tools on the table. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the basement’s chill.
“Do you know what happens to people who hurt what’s mine, Justin?” I ask conversationally, selecting a blade from the table. The light catches its edge as I turn it in my hand.
“Look, this is insane,” he babbles, straining against his restraints. “It was just a prank that got out of hand. We were drunk. We’ll pay for the window.”
His words make my vision go red around the edges.
I press the tip of the knife against his cheek, just enough to dimple the skin without breaking it.
“You don’t seem to understand your situation.
Let me clarify. You’re not leaving this room until I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson.
And that lesson is going to be painful.”
I nod to Demon, who removes the hoods from the other three men. They stare at Miller with mounting horror, beginning to understand what they’ve stumbled into.
“You’re going to tell me exactly what happened tonight,” I continue, dragging the knife’s tip lightly down to Miller’s throat. “Every detail. Every word. And if I think you’re lying, I start cutting.”
“We were at Murphy’s Bar,” Miller stammers, eyes fixed on the blade. “Talking about the new clinic. How it was just a front for Devil Souls business. How that faggot doctor was probably laundering money for you or something.”
My mother steps forward, her hand connecting with Miller’s face in a slap that echoes through the basement. “His name is Xavier,” she hisses. “Dr. Xavier Blane. And you will show him respect.”