Chapter 12
My name has always been plural.
Legion.
For we are many.
My mother named me after demons cast into swine. After spirits that spoke as one voice. Tonight, the many have spoken for me. A democracy of demons choosing mercy when they could have chosen exile.
The brand on my chest pulses with my heartbeat. Still infected. Still raw. Blood brotherhood isn't supposed to be clean.
The hall's quiet follows me like a ghost as I exit, lighting up a smoke. I pause, inhale, blow it out.
Forty-seven patched brothers.
Thirty-nine said yes.
Eight said no.
The numbers in my head feel like bullets left in a magazine after a firefight. Each one measured. Each one a threat or a promise.
Diesel walks beside me, quiet, like me. That's why I like him. That's why he's my number one, no matter what.
I'm a thinker and he's a thinker too.
Problem is… there's a thing called over-thinking. And that's what I'm doing now.
Eight.
Eight.
Eight men said no.
I push open the door to the bar and the light hits me like judgment. Not the burning kind. The kind that shows you exactly what you are, scars and all.
Do the objections of eight men really matter when thirty-nine agreed?
Yes. Yes, they do.
Savannah will stay. She will be protected, even by those eight.
But there's always a cost. Always a debt.
I've never owned anything worth having that didn't eventually get taken away.
Not this time.
When I walk into the bar, everything stops. Not because of me—I'm just a vessel now, a conduit for what comes next.
She stands in the center of the room, transformed.
Savannah. But not Savannah. Not the Ashby princess I've known since she was twelve. Not the Instagram queen with the practiced smile. Something else entirely.
The denim jacket hangs off her shoulders, a single patch above her heart with the Badlands logo. Her feet, bare last night while she stood trembling, now anchored in biker boots. Her hair's pulled back, messy but deliberate.
The Sharpie marks on her chest peek out where the t-shirt cuts low. PROPERTY OF DEMON.
My claim in black ink.
God I love her. She's worth everything to me. And even though I couldn't say it last night or it would've turned out different this morning, if she left, I would've left with her.
I would’ve taken my chances.
Maybe they really would kill me. It’s happened before.
I haven’t seen it, obviously. It took me thirteen fucking years to earn my patch for reasons I won’t get in to.
And that means I never really belonged. There were always secrets between me and my Badlands brothers.
Prospects get left out of business like that.
But I would’ve risked it. I would’ve hoped that I had the respect from enough of them that I’d be the one to walk away clean.
I love these men like brothers. Brick, maybe even like a father.
But there will never be another Savannah Ashby in my life.
Mine.
Today, though—I don't have to think about that.
Only eight, I remind myself.
Only eight.
Savannah is neither Ashby nor outsider now. She's something undefined. Something dangerous, for sure.
My eyes trace the edges of her silhouette, seeing in her the same war that's etched across my skin—the angel and the demon locked in eternal combat.
"You good?" I ask, walking towards her with my hand out, ready to touch what's mine.
She nods once. Doesn't smile.
Smiles are for cameras and liars.
I feel the brand on my chest throb in time with my pulse. The angel's sword piercing the demon's heart—the war I carry everywhere.
The ink that tells my story so I don't have to speak it.
And then, the mood changes. A celebration swells around us like high tide. Music is softer now. Not the rage of last night’s claim.
The welcoming of a new woman is a softer affair.
I lead her to the center of the room. Savannah and I start pressed together, her hip against mine, my hand on the small of her back. We dance. We linger together. A team. We keep hold of each other as the hours pass.
But as the day deepens, as the evening draws near, we drift.
Not apart—just finding our orbits.
I lean against the wall, nursing a beer I've barely touched. My ribs throb with each breath, but pain's just background noise now. Always has been.
Savannah moves through the crowd like she was born to it.
My brothers part for her, some with respect, some with hunger they know better than to act on.
Her golden hair catches the dim light, a halo against the smoke and darkness.
Strange how something so bright can belong in a place built from shadows.
I don't need to guard her every step anymore. She's claimed now. Protected. But my eyes follow her anyway, tracking her path through the bodies and bottles. It's instinct, like my fingers finding the outline of angels on my skin during those sleepless nights in The Pit.
"Your girl's a natural," Diesel says, appearing beside me. "Didn't expect that."
I nod, watching Savannah laugh at something Chains says. "She's adaptable."
"Eight votes against," Diesel mutters. "That's eight brothers waitin' for you to slip."
In prison, I read the Bible cover to cover three times.
Not from faith—from boredom and the need for stories bigger than concrete walls.
Mark 5:9 gave me my name, but it's what came after that haunts me now.
The demons begged not to be sent away. They pleaded to remain among the living, among the familiar.
I understand their fear now. The terror of exile from what you love.
The Ashbys won't let this stand. I know that. They don't surrender daughters to men like me.
Across the room, Savannah catches my eye. Holds it. Something passes between us—not a smile, something deeper. A recognition. A choice being made again, in real time.
I wonder if Savannah and I are writing the same tale now—outcasts by choice, marked by what we've chosen to love despite the cost.
I stand in the corner watching my brothers celebrate what they don't understand. They think this is about pussy or power—something simple. Something they can name. But what's between Savannah and me isn't just blood, or bone, or breath.
It's older than that. Deeper.
The beer bottle sweats against my palm, cold glass against hot skin. I take small sips, letting the bitter taste linger like the memories of The Pit.
It's just solitary.
But it's so much more than solitary.
The Pit is a darkness, an emptiness, a sense of being hallowed out.
But I never did mind that feeling.
I like the darkness.
We are Legion. We are many.
"So…." Ledger appears at my elbow.
"So," I offer back.
"It wasn't personal."
I look Ledger in the eyes. Shrug a shoulder. "I know that. You don't have to explain."
"I only voted no because… well." He blows out a breath. "It just doesn't add up, Legion. It doesn't. And it never will. I hope I'm wrong, I really do. But I don't think I am. So I voted no."
I take another pull from my bottle. "I understand."
He claps me on the back. "She's real pretty though. Not gonna hear me complain about having to see her face for the rest of my days." Then he walks off before I can respond.
I've spent most of my life being the demon they named me. The monster under Drybone's collective bed. But monsters serve a purpose too. They keep the real predators at bay.
My eyes drift across the room, pulled by the high whine of a tattoo machine. The sound cuts through the music and laughter like a blade through skin.
Savannah sits in Chains' chair, wrist held in his hand. Her face is calm, almost serene, as the needle pierces her skin again and again. I walk over, wondering what the hell is going on.
But I'm truly, truly speechless when I look down and see what she's getting.
PROPERTY OF DEMON is spelled out letter by letter in stark black, just above the raw circle of newly-scabbed skin from the restraints that held her prisoner just 24 hours ago.
Demon.
I'd rather wish it said Legion, but I guess they are one and the same.
Chains finishes with a flourish, wiping excess ink from Savannah's wrist.
Pride fills my chest, a heat that burns hotter than the infected brand beneath my shirt. This claiming goes both ways now.
My mark on her, her choice made permanent.
"There," Chains says, applying ointment and clear wrap. "Keep it covered for two hours, then wash with unscented soap."
The tattoo sits on her inner wrist where her pulse beats strongest. Where life flows. Where veins run closest to the surface.
I think of the massive piece sprawlin’ across my back—the war between realms, the fallen angels hunting demons, the judgment and fire. The final panel on my lower back shows an angel with burned wings standing before a sealed gateway. Behind him, smoke rises. Ahead, emptiness.
My body tells a story of violence and vengeance, of holy war and fallen grace.
And now Savannah carries a chapter of that same story on her skin. Not as victim. Not as trophy. But as willing participant in our shared mythology.
The music changes, somethin’ low and heavy with bass that vibrates through the floorboards. Savannah looks up at me, eyes clear despite the whiskey and whatever drugs still linger in her system. "Dance with me," she says.
I take her hand, careful of the fresh ink, and lead her to the small space where couples sway in the half-dark. I pull her against me, one hand on the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair.
Our bodies move together like we've practiced this a thousand times. Maybe we have, in dreams or past lives or the spaces between heartbeats.
We wrap this party up the same way we started it.
There’s something holy in symmetry like that.
My ribs protest with each breath. My face throbs where Cash's fists connected. But these pains feel almost holy now—stigmata earned in service of something greater than myself.
On my spine, a blindfolded angel holds a demon by the throat in eternal judgment. Barbed vines twist through the demon's ribs, pulled from the ground below. The angel has no weapon—only judgment.
Yet here, in this moment, there is no judgment—only acceptance as complete as the ink that covers me from neck to waist.
Savannah presses her forehead against my chest, right over the infected brand. "I love you," she whispers, so soft only I can hear.
"Mine," I say into her hair.
I hold her closer, our hips moving in slow circles as the bass thumps like a heartbeat around us. I wonder if this is what peace feels like—not the absence of war, but the absolute certainty of which side you're fighting for.
The alarm rips through the clubhouse like a knife, shrill and demandin’.
The transformation is instant—almost beautiful in its precision.
Music cuts off mid-beat.
Laughter dies in throats.
Weapons materialize from hidden holsters and beneath tables.
I watch my brothers shift from celebration to defense. The way they move reminds me of the war inked across my back—my personal apocalypse rendered in black and gray. The descent of armored angels, wings unfurled, weapons drawn. Divine wrath made flesh.
My body responds before my mind catches up, muscle memory taking over. The lover recedes, the fighter emerges. This change isn't new. It's as familiar as breathing, as inevitable as the flames that lick up my ribcage in layered grayscale, consuming everything soft.
"Three at the gate," Roach calls out, hunched over a security monitor. "Luxury ride. Ashby logo on the car."
Diesel appears at my side, shotgun in hand. "You expecting company?"
He knows I'm not. But something cold slides down my spine as I move toward the monitor. The camera feed shows a black Range Rover idling at our gate. Two figures visible through the windshield.
"Fuck me," I mutter, leaning closer. "It's Colt."
But it's not just Colt.
The passenger seat holds someone I haven't seen in three years.
“Destiny,” I say. “My sister.”
But there's somethin’—someone—small in her arms.
The baby.
"Open it," I say, straightening.
Roach looks to Brick, who gives a tight nod. "Let 'em through. But only to the lot."
I feel every eye in the room burning into my back as I walk toward the door. The weight of their doubt presses down on my shoulders like the crown of thorns worn by the lead angel in my tattoo—the one diving from heaven with a flaming spear.
I don't need to hear the whispers to know what they're thinking.
Eight men.
Eight nos.
Eight who think I've lost my edge, compromised the club, invited war to our doorstep.
And now, seeing Colt Ashby bringing my post-pregnant runaway sister back, those eight are probably eighteen.
Savannah moves to follow me, but I stop her with a look. "Stay inside."
"Legion—"
"Just... wait." My voice comes out harder than I meant it to.
Outside, the night air hits my face like a slap. The lot is bathed in harsh floodlights, turnin’ everything stark white or pitch black. No shadows, no gray areas. Just like the club sees the world.
The Range Rover rolls to a stop twenty feet away. The driver's door opens, and Colt steps out, hands visible. Smart move.
"Legion," he calls. "We need to talk."
I walk forward slowly, aware of at least five guns trained on Colt from various windows. My own piece sits heavy against my lower back, tucked into my jeans.
"About what?" I ask, stopping ten feet away.
"About her." Colt nods toward the passenger side.
The door opens, and Destiny slides out. She looks thinner than I remember, her face sharper. But her eyes are the same—our mother's eyes, defiant even when afraid. In her arms, wrapped in a pale-yellow blanket, is a tiny sleepin’ face.
My niece or nephew. Blood of my blood.
And there it is.
The truth.
The eight dissenters saw what I refused to see.
This was never just about Savannah and me.
This was about worlds colliding—Ashby wealth against Kane poverty, political power against outlaw justice, inheritance against survival.
"Legion," Destiny says, her voice smaller than I remember. "I'm sorry. It's just… I wanted you to see her and I couldn't wait no more."
She slides an eye over to Colt.
And suddenly it all makes sense.
Why he helped me.
So I would not kill him when this moment came.
I take another step forward, close enough now to see the dark circles under my sister's eyes, the way her hands tremble slightly as she holds her child.
Battle lines aren't drawn in sand. But in blood, and ink, and history.
My name echoes in my head—Legion, for we are many—and I understand now that the war tattooed across my body was never just decoration.
It was prophecy.
I pull my gun out of my pants and aim it at Colt Ashby's head.