Chapter 9 Isaiah
ISAIAH
The thing about acting like a traitor is that you have to let a piece of the rot sit inside you long enough for the worms to gather.
You have to smile when you want to spit, laugh when you want to break someone’s teeth, offer your throat like you’re begging for the bite.
It feels wrong in my mouth, tastes worse in my chest, but the only way to find the moles is to let them believe they found one in me.
So I lean against the railing outside the main room, posture loose, a beer dangling between my fingers like I’ve got nothing in my skull but carbonation.
Johnson stands beside me, his nose still pulsating a nice purple from the broken nose Valentina gave him like two weeks ago.
He’s always been a problem, but a quiet one.
A corner-whisperer. A man who only raises his voice when he wants it heard by the wrong person.
Perfect.
He takes a long drink from his bottle and gives me a look that says he’s gauging me, weighing me, seeing what he can cut away.
The party behind us is still loud, music pulsing through the walls, Valentina at the center of it like a bright flame people can’t decide whether to gather around or back away from.
I force a lazy smirk into place and shake my head. “I’m telling you,” I say, pitching my voice low enough for only Johnson to hear, “this whole situation is a fucking gold mine if you know how to use it.”
Johnson snorts, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “You mean her? The princess?” He says it like it’s a joke, but I don’t miss the sharpness tucked inside the syllables.
“Princess, queen, whatever she wants to call herself.” I shrug, pretending like I don’t want to punch him for the tone. “She doesn’t get it yet. She thinks wearing Xavier’s chain and sitting at his desk means something. But she listens. Too much. That’s her weakness.”
Johnson laughs, a low sound like gravel dragged across concrete. “And you think you’re the one she listens to most?”
“I know I am,” I lie smoothly, letting the arrogance coat my voice. “Asher scares her. Jackie annoys her. The council doesn’t trust her. She’s got no one to lean on but me.”
He gives me a sidelong look, a flicker of skepticism softened by the bait I’m dangling. “And you’re what? Going to guide her? Keep her from stepping on the wrong toes?”
“I’m going to step on them for her,” I say, lifting the bottle to my lips. “If she thinks I’m keeping her safe, she’ll let me steer. That’s all she’ll need to do. Sit and look pretty. Let the men handle the actual business.”
Johnson barks a laugh loud enough to draw attention from the doorway before lowering his voice again. “You’re saying she’s the perfect puppet?”
I shrug again, letting a grin curl at the corner of my mouth.
“You said it. Not me. But yeah. She’s predictable.
Desperate. Easy to maneuver once you know how.
And with Xavier out…” I let my voice drop into something darker, something conspiratorial.
“Someone has to step up. Someone the club actually respects.”
Johnson studies me for a long moment, his beer halfway to his lips, eyes narrowing.
I hold his gaze, keep my expression open, confident, unbothered.
He’s deciding whether I’m the right kind of bastard for him to approach.
Whether I’m hungry enough to be useful. Whether I’m already halfway to betrayal.
Good. Let him think all of that.
Finally, he leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine. “If a man wanted… more,” he says, his voice dipping into a hushed tone, “if he wanted the top spot—president, say—is that something Valentina would just give away?”
I laugh under my breath. “She’d walk into it blind if she thought it was ‘for the club.’ You paint it as stability, keeping the peace, honoring Xavier’s legacy, whatever. She’s easy to shape.”
He tilts his head. “And you’d be the right person to help her see that?”
“I’d be the only person,” I say without hesitation.
His smile is small, dangerous, amused. “Interesting.”
I can feel the hook sinking into him, the curiosity sharpening behind his eyes.
He likes the idea of me corrupted. He likes the idea of someone else taking the fall before him.
He likes the fantasy of switching allegiance to someone who might actually share the power with him instead of placing him on the kill list.
Good.
Let him bite.
In my head, the plan unfolds like a blueprint Xavier once sketched out for me on a napkin: keep your enemies close, your traitors closer, and your shadow indistinguishable from theirs.
The moles think they’re playing chess, but they’re still pawns.
All I have to do is convince them I’m a knight willing to turn sideways.
Under all of that strategy, though, another thought stays lodged in my ribs—sharp and wrong.
If Xavier were awake, he’d kill me for this.
If Xavier were awake, he’d see right through it.
If Xavier were awake, he’d break Johnson’s jaw for even breathing this close to treason.
But the king is sleeping. And someone has to keep the wolves from gnawing at the door.
Johnson takes another drink and nudges me with his elbow. “You know,” he says lightly, “you stepping up wouldn’t be the worst thing for the club. You’ve got charisma. The men like you. And if Valentina’s already hanging on your arm—”
“She’s not hanging on my arm,” I interrupt, though I have to force steadiness into the words.
Johnson gives me a slow, knowing grin. “Whatever you say.”
I’m about to respond—about to plant another seed, about to push him further down the path he’s already walking—when I hear her laugh.
It cuts across the room like a line drawn through smoke. Soft. Bright. Effortless.
Valentina.
She’s walking toward us, weaving through a cluster of men who instinctively move aside for her, like she’s heat and they’re smart enough not to burn.
Her outfit—the leather skirt, the slouched Raiders shirt, the boots—looks even more sinful under the warm lights of the hallway.
Her hair brushes her bare shoulder in a soft wave that makes my pulse trip.
She carries herself like she’s just discovered what she’s capable of and isn’t afraid to see who else realizes it.
When her eyes land on me, something in her expression shifts—teasing, charged, intimate in a way that makes my body tighten without permission.
She stops in front of us, her gaze flicking briefly toward Johnson before sliding back to me with a slow smile that goes straight to my spine.
“There you are,” she says, voice light, warm, threaded with flirtation she’s not even pretending to hide. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Johnson raises both eyebrows, poorly hiding his satisfaction. “Looks like the queen needs her favorite.”
Valentina ignores him completely. She steps closer to me—close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body through the leather and cotton—close enough that her perfume, soft and warm and edged with something sweeter, slides along my senses like smoke.
“You disappeared,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. “I thought I told you not to wander.”
I swallow. “You said that?”
She smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. “I’m saying it now.”
It’s reckless. It’s bold. It’s disrespectful to Xavier in a way I feel deep in my chest. I should step back. I should tone this down. I should think about the man lying in that hospital bed, breathing with borrowed machines, trusting me to protect the kingdom he bled for.
Instead, all I can think is how warm she is so close to me, how her lips curve when she says my name, how her eyes drop to my mouth like she’s remembering what it felt like to whisper against it.
Johnson chuckles beside me. “Damn, son. Looks like you’ve got her wrapped.”
Valentina’s gaze slides lazily toward him, and something sharp flashes behind her eyes. It’s not affection. It's an assessment. It’s power. It’s the exact look Xavier used to give men right before dismantling their confidence.
She steps even closer, her hand lifting toward the lapel of my leather jacket. Her fingers curl around it, tugging gently, pulling me toward her until our bodies almost touch.
“I need you,” she murmurs, loud enough for Johnson to hear, soft enough to sound like confession. “Come here.”
I’m about to ask what she’s playing at—what layer she’s peeling back—when she gives a sharp tug, turning and pulling me with her in one smooth movement.
“Excuse us,” she says sweetly over her shoulder.
Johnson’s laughter follows us down the hall, low and satisfied and wrong.
Valentina doesn’t stop. She marches us past the storeroom, past the emergency stairs, to a narrow hallway lit by a single flickering bulb. At the far end is an old storage closet—the door slightly cracked, shadows spilling out.
She pushes the door open with her shoulder and pulls me inside by the collar of my jacket. The smell of old wood, gasoline, and dust fills the cramped space as she kicks the door shut with her heel.
I barely have time to breathe before she shoves me back against the wall, her hands on my chest, her hips brushing mine. Her eyes flash, wild and bright in the low light.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper, breathless.
She presses closer, her lips hovering near mine. “What part?” she asks. “The flirtation? The disrespect? Or the fact that Johnson is now fully convinced you’re ready to betray your entire bloodline for me?”
Heat rips through my stomach.
“Valentina,” I breathe, hands finding her waist without thinking. “This is—”
“Necessary,” she finishes, leaning in until her breath mixes with mine. “And useful. He needed to see it. They all need to see it. You’re a threat. A wildcard. A possibility.”
Her fingers curl in my jacket, tugging me closer until our foreheads almost touch.
“And it helps that you look like you want to devour me every time I get near you.”
Her words hit like a punch, low and unsteadying.
“I do,” I admit before I can stop myself.