Chapter 10 Xavier
XAVIER
“Who is she?” Johnson growls, the veins in his thick neck bulging as his tattooed scalp gleams under the overhead light.
I lean back on the leather couch, stretching like I’ve got all the time in the world.
My hand digs into the front pocket of my jeans, fingers brushing the familiar crinkle of plastic before I pull out a small baggie of weed.
I dangle it between two fingers, eyes flicking up to his with lazy defiance.
“Who’s she?” I echo, my tone flat, mocking.
On orders from me, she can’t leave his room, and as much as I want to move her to my room, since she’ll be my first lady in a couple of days, but my room is far from the main part of the house, and sound proof.
If she screamed no one would hear her, and I can’t let that happen. If something happened to her the punishment would be so fucking brutal for the person, I’d lose all the support of the club, and that can’t happen either.
Johnson, the loudmouthed bastard, all bulk and bad ink—his whole skull covered in snarling beasts and flames like he thinks tattoos make him bulletproof.
He was Marcus’s best friend, his shadow, his second in command.
And now he thinks that buys him a free pass with me.
He thought he’d keep his VP patch like it was etched in stone.
Like I’d ever keep Marcus’s regime alive.
Like I’d ever trust that snake.
Yeah, he walked away from the Vipers five years ago, patched over clean. But I don’t buy it. Never did. There’s something about him that makes my skin itch, something coiled just under the surface, waiting to strike. I’ve been around long enough to know better than to leave a snake in the pit.
His jaw grinds as he steps forward, fists flexing at his sides, his beady eyes narrowing on Valentina. “Don’t play games with me,” he spits. “Who the fuck is she? Huh? We just let fucking randoms join now? No scouting. No talking to the council? She just gets jumped in?”
I flick the baggie between my fingers, leaning back deeper into the couch, letting a smirk tug at my lips. “Funny. I didn’t realize you were still running the club, Johnson. Did my brother come back from the dead, or something?”
Johnson’s face darkens, rage flaring across his tattooed skull as his massive frame bristles. “That’s bullshit,” he growls. “She doesn’t get a free pass. Nobody does. If she wants that patch, she goes through the process—same as the rest of us.”
He jabs a finger toward the door, eyes gleaming with venom. “Nobody just walks in and gets handed a seat. You get vetted. Tested. Blood, sweat, and bone. Weeks of errands, months of proving loyalty, taking orders, getting your ass beat in the ring until you earn that cut.”
I don’t look at him right away. Instead, I grind the weed slow, deliberate, the sharp scent filling the room. Paper spread on the table, I line it neat, fingers steady as his voice rattles the air between us.
He sneers. “That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.”
I tuck the paper tight, roll it smooth, lick the edge, seal it clean. Only then do I lift my eyes to him—calm, cold, a smile ghosting my mouth like the edge of a blade.
“That’s the thing, Johnson,” I murmur, sparking the lighter, the flame flickering between us.
“She’s not a prospect. She’s not being patched over.
” I inhale deep, the smoke curling out slow as I pin him with my gaze.
“Valentina’s my first woman. That makes her off-limits. No process. No council. No vote.”
I lean back on the couch, smoke coiling around my words. “So it doesn’t matter how it’s always been. What matters is how it is now. And now? She’s mine.”
“What happened to Cassandra?” Johnson snarls, spit catching on his lip. “What happened to picking someone already in the club?”
I take a sharp pull, the smoke searing down my lungs, heat blooming in my chest. When I exhale, the haze curls lazy between us, framing my smile in something mean. “I’m not picking your sloppy seconds as my first lady,” I say flatly. “So she can kill me in my sleep and stage a fucking coup.”
Johnson’s nostrils flare, his massive hands curling into fists at his sides. “Cassandra’s loyal.”
“She’s loyal to you,” I snap back, voice slicing through the smoke. “Not me. And I’m not about to chain myself to a viper that hisses every time I turn my back.”
I set the blunt between my lips, lean forward on my knees, and let my stare cut into him. “Valentina is mine. That’s the end of it. You don’t like it?” I drag in another lungful of smoke, slow, deliberate. “There’s the door. See how far you make it before there’s a bullet in your skull.”
The silence between us crackles, heavier than the smoke. He doesn’t move, just seethes, eyes bloodshot with rage.
“The council won’t stand for this, Xavier,” Johnson says, his voice eerily calm, like a man testing the edge of a blade.
I smirk around the blunt, the ember flaring bright as I drag in deep. Smoke spills from my lips when I answer. “Last I checked, the council is me, Ash, Zay, Jackie, you, and Taylor.” I lean forward, lower my voice to a whisper that cuts sharper than a shout. “Looks like you’re outnumbered.”
Johnson’s jaw flexes, his bulk leaning in closer, close enough that I can smell the sour tang of whiskey on his breath. His beady eyes burn into mine, unblinking. “You know, the problem with you is how cocky you are.” His lips peel back in a humorless grin. “Presidents have died for less.”
The words hang heavy in the room, but I don’t flinch. I tap ash into the tray, calm, collected, letting silence stretch until it’s unbearable. Then I rise from the couch in one fluid motion, stepping into his space until my chest brushes his. He’s taller, wider—but I carry the weight.
I take another pull, exhale the smoke into his face, watch his eyes flicker.
My voice drops low, almost a growl. “Then let me make something clear. If I die, it won’t be from some backstabbing relic with too many tattoos on his head.
It’ll be in a blaze big enough to take every motherfucker who dared to doubt me with it. ”
I jam the blunt into the tray, sparks scattering, and press my palm to his chest, shoving him back a step. “So go ahead, Johnson. Try me. But remember this—cocky presidents get buried. And so do the snakes who think they can replace them.”