Chapter Four Rook
FLASHBACK:
Behind St. Jude’s Church. Berlin, NH.
She’s not supposed to be out here. Calla Blake. Preacher’s daughter. Too damn young and too damn perfect to be hiding behind the church like she’s looking to get corrupted.
But here she is—sunlight catching the copper in her hair, white dress brushing against her knees, a wild look in her eyes. And here I am, leaning against the wall like I’m not two seconds from burning in hell for even looking at her.
“You gonna keep staring, little flower?” I ask, pretending like I’m cool. Like my heart isn’t trying to punch through my ribs.
She doesn’t flinch. Just tilts that stubborn little chin up at me. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
That mouth. Sharp as sin. Sweet as sugar. I’ve wanted to kiss her since I was fifteen and she patched me up right outside this very same church.
She takes a step closer, trying to sound brave. “Maybe I was just making sure you weren’t stealing from the collection plate.”
I laugh. She’s quick like that, always has been. “If I was gonna steal something, it wouldn’t be spare change.”
I watch her pulse flutter at her neck. She’s nervous. She should be. But she’s not backing away. I step forward. Close enough to smell her—sun-warmed skin and summer berries. She’s everything soft in a world that’s always been hard.
“You gonna let me kiss you?” I ask, because I have to. Because if I don’t, I’ll never forgive myself.
Her voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t know.”
But she does. I see it in the way she looks at me, like I’m both the danger and the sanctuary.
“Say no,” I murmur. “Say no and I’ll walk away.”
She doesn’t. She nods. So I kiss her. And fuck, it’s not gentle.
It’s not careful. It’s too much and not enough, and the second our lips meet, I know I’m done for.
She tastes like bubblegum and sin. Like prayers I’ve never said and the kind of grace I’ll never earn.
I don’t touch her. My hands stay clenched in my pockets. If I touch her, I won’t stop.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers just to keep breathing. “Fucking hell, Calla,” I mutter. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
And I mean it. God help me—I mean every goddamn word.
PRESENT DAY—Berlin, NH. Nightfall.
I need to get her out of my fucking head.
Five goddamn years and the drop of her name, I’m back there like no time passed. Lips pressed to hers behind the church. Heart pounding like a goddamn sinner’s drumbeat.
Grimm’s voice cuts through the haze. “Need you to take care of something.”
Good. I need something to bleed.
I turn to him. “What’s the job?”
“Guy down in Gorham’s been making noise again. Selling knockoff pills with our brand on ‘em. Cheap shit that’s getting kids sick.”
My jaw flexes. “You want me to talk to him?”
Grimm shakes his head. “Nah. Talkin’s over. He got warned once. I want him reminded. Loud. Public enough to send a message, quiet enough it don’t bring heat.”
A slow burn crawls through my bloodstream. “You want broken bones or hospital stay?”
Grimm meets my eyes. “Your call, brother. Just make sure he can’t walk straight for a while.”
I nod once. No hesitation. “Where?”
He hands me a burner. “Address’s loaded. No club colors. Just handle it.”
I tuck the phone into my cut and crack my knuckles. Rage blooms behind my ribs, eager for somewhere to go.
Grimm eyes me from across the garage, arms crossed, jaw tight. “What’s goin’ on with you?”
“Nothing.” I yank my gloves tighter, slide the burner into the inside pocket of my kutte. My boots echo against the concrete as I head toward my bike.
He steps into my path. “If that is Calla, you can’t go chasing her like a fuckin’crazy person.”
“It’s not. So don’t worry about it.” My voice cuts sharp, final.
We lock eyes, silence stretching tight between us.
Grimm doesn’t flinch, but he backs off. “Fine. Just don’t bleed on anything important.”
I swing my leg over the seat, start the engine, and let it growl beneath me like it’s just as restless as I am.
My blood is lava, pressure building with nowhere to go.
The job’s simple. Smash and scare. No colors, no names, just a message from the Bastards.
But I hope they fight back. God, I hope they’re stupid enough to fight back.
I need to feel something crack that isn’t inside me.
I take the back roads out of Berlin, no headlights, just the moon, the engine, and the hum of my own bad decisions guiding me. The old trailer sits dead on the edge of a logging road, the kind of place people only go if they’re lookin’ for trouble or tryin’ to bury it.
I park behind a stack of rusted shipping containers, slide the burner from my pocket and check the mag. Loaded. Safety off. This ain’t supposed to be loud. Just a message. Property damage. Spook the guy, remind him who owns this side of the county line.
But if he steps wrong? I’m not gonna be the one to hold back.
I slip through the shadows, boots quiet now. Moonlight glints off the broken glass scattered in the old yard. I hear voices inside—two, maybe three. One’s laughing. One’s bragging. Something about moving weight through our territory without kicking up a dime to the Bastards.
Stupid fucks.
I move fast. Kick the door in. The laugh dies mid-syllable. “Who the—?”
I don’t let him finish. My fist meets his jaw with a crack that vibrates through my bones. The second one pulls a knife. I put a bullet in the wall next to his head before he can twitch.
“Try again,” I growl, voice low, deadly. “See what happens.”
He lunges anyway. Stupid. I slam his wrist against the edge of the counter, forcing the blade free with a grunt of pain from him.
He swings with the other hand. I duck low, grab him by the front of his shirt, and drive him backwards into the fridge hard enough the door pops open and a beer bottle crashes to the floor.
The first one’s back up. Staggering. Blood on his chin. Rage in his eyes. I let him come. He throws a punch. Wide. Sloppy. I step into it, grab his arm mid-swing, and drive my elbow down across his forearm with a snap that makes him scream. His knees buckle.
“Sit the fuck down,” I snarl, grabbing him by the back of the neck and slamming him onto the couch.
The second one grabs a lamp. Swings it. It explodes against my shoulder. Doesn’t stop me. I twist his arm, shove him face-first into the wall, and cuff him behind the back with a zip tie I pull from my vest pocket.
“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” I mutter, tightening it until he whimpers.
The place smells like sweat and cheap weed. I step back, chest rising, blood pumping steady now. This is the kind of violence I can control. This kind of violence? It’s clean.
I drag the first one out by his collar, boots scraping against the floor.
He spits blood onto the porch and tries to squirm.
I make him regret it with a kick to the ribs.
Something cracks. Good. The second one tries to run.
I grab a broken chair leg from the yard and take out his knee. He howls and drops like a sack of shit.
“You move again,” I say, standing over him, “I break the other one.”
He doesn’t test me. I haul both of them through the overgrown yard like trash bags.
Dump them at the base of the pine tree near the rusted-out grill and busted tire swing.
There’s an old clothesline hanging loose from a post. I rip it down, split it in half, and start tying wrists behind backs, rough and tight.
“Fuckin’ psycho,” one of them mutters.
I slam his head back against the tree. “What was that?”
“Nothin’—fuck—nothin’.”
When they’re tied to the trunk, backs bleeding from bark and rope, I step back, breathing hard, sweat running down my temple. They’re a mess. One’s nose is crooked now. The other’s shirt is soaked with blood and fear. I crouch low between them. Light a cigarette. Take a slow drag.
“You’re gonna stay here until someone comes lookin’. And when they do?” I tap the ash off the end. “You tell ’em who put you here. You tell ’em Rook came knockin’. And you tell ’em why.”
The one on the left trembles. “Why?”
I kick the first one in the ribs hard enough to hear something crack, then shove him up against the trunk of an old pine. His buddy tries to crawl away, but I grab his ankle and slam him down face-first into the dirt.
“You like making money off our rep?” I snarl, tying the rope around their chests. “You like slapping our name on your fuckin’ trash product like it’s a coupon code?”
They whimper, trying to speak through split lips and missing teeth. I don’t care. I double-knot the rope around their torsos, cinching it to the bark tight enough to grind skin. One of them cries.
“Here’s how this works,” I mutter, lighting another smoke. My knuckles are raw, boots dusted with blood. “You sit here. You think about what it means to fuck with the Bastards.”
I squat down in front of them. Blow smoke in their faces. “And when someone finds you? You tell them exactly why you’re like this.”
I jab my finger into his forehead. “You used our name.”
I jab the other. “You didn’t ask permission.”
Stand. Flick the cigarette to the ground. “Now you’re gonna bleed for it.”
I leave them tied and broken, weeping into the dirt, the tree trunk behind them stained with spit and blood.
The trailer groans as I step back inside, floorboards cracked, piss and rot in the air.
I light a match and toss it onto the thin trail of gas I poured earlier, right up to the busted couch and the pile of plastic baggies stamped with our logo.
The fire catches fast. Flames crawl up the curtains, licking the ceiling like a hungry dog.
By the time I step back out onto the porch, the whole place is hissing and snapping like it’s alive.
I don’t wait. Just turn and walk back down the gravel drive, smoke curling behind me, boots crunching in rhythm with the crackle of justice burning bright.