28. Blood in the Sand
TWENTY-EIGHT
BLOOD IN THE SAND
CRUSHER
The firepit burns hotter tonight, like the ground itself knows why we’re gathered here. Every brother circles the blaze with our cuts on, shoulders squared, but nobody speaks. No music. No booze. No laughter. Just the crack and spit of flames chewing through dry wood and heavy silence.
Niko’s cut lies folded on a cinderblock beside the fire. Rookie-stiff leather. Bright threads that haven’t even had time to fade.
For half a second, I remember the kid’s smile the day he got his bottom rocker. Wide, stupid, proud as hell. I bury it. That kid died the second he chose them over us.
Steel gives me a grim and steady look. This one’s mine to burn.
I step forward and hold the cut up so every man can see what happens when loyalty cracks.
“He rode under our colors,” I say, voice flat.
“And he forgot what that means. He put a target on the back of someone who never earned it.” I tilt my head toward Nevaeh, who’s standing just behind the circle, chin up, shoulders squared.
“So tonight we remember that colors earn blood, and betrayal burns.”
I drop the cut into the fire. Leather curls and blackens. The Saint’s emblem twists before it’s swallowed whole.
Twenty fists slam into twenty chests.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It shakes something loose in my ribs. Not forgiveness. Just finality.
Steel steps in beside me. “Word’s out,” he says quietly. “Duke and the Iron Cross won’t claim him. But they’re watching.”
“Let ’em.” My jaw clenches. “I’ve got something to deliver.”
We ride into Iron Cross territory with our colors flying and our engines screaming like wolves coming down the hill. I made Nevaeh stay back with Nova and Killian at the clubhouse. What we’re about to do, she doesn’t need to see. She’s seen and has been a part of too much already.
Rock and City flank me. No masks. No hesitation. A couple of Iron Cross hang-arounds stumble when they see us storm their block, like even their feet know they don’t belong on the same pavement.
I throttle down and roll right up to their clubhouse, stopping inches from the nearest warm body. Removing my helmet, I keep my eyes locked on my first victim. Voice calm as murder.
“Tell your leaders,” I say, barely above a growl, “if another one of you so much as looks in her direction again, I don’t take turf. I don’t take product. I take bones. Understand me?”
I remember Nevaeh’s hands shaking while being wrapped around the coffee cup. The raw fear in her eyes when she hit that asphalt from the back of the van. My blood spikes again. Let them see the restraint. That’s worse.
Later, I will get my revenge. Right now, I want them running scared.
The youngest one nods too fast, almost tripping over himself. The other just stares, swallowing hard like he can taste the truth of it.
Message delivered.
The ride back is slower. The wind is cooler now, but it doesn’t touch the burn under my skin. When the clubhouse finally rises out of the dark, hard and familiar, all I feel is the weight of what waits inside.
Nevaeh’s at the bar when I walk in. Still bruised. Still breathing. Still here.
The minute our eyes meet, something in her eases. The kind of easing that only happens when a person’s been holding themselves together by sheer will. And fuck if it doesn’t break me a little.
I cross the floor, ignoring the way conversations dip. She steps into me like she’s been waiting her whole life to do it. My hands slide to her hips.
“You good?” she asks softly.
“Not even close.” She blinks like she expected that. Like she already braced for me to shut down.
Instead…I reach into my pocket and pull out a tiny square of leather. Her breath catches.
“This patch,” I say, my voice low so only she can hear, “belongs to whoever stands when everybody else runs. Whoever bleeds for this club. For me.”
I unfold it in my palm. An Ol’ Lady patch, black and green, gleaming under the bar lights. “You earned it. If you want it…it’s yours.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Her fingers wrap tight around mine…and the patch.
“I want it,” she whispers. “Only if it’s yours.”
“It’s only ever been yours.”
The bar goes dead quiet the second I turn toward the room, the patch held up in one fist. “Circle up.”
Stools scrape. Boots shift. Every Saint forms a tight ring around us, shoulder to shoulder, eyes hard and proud. City hands me another cut, this one smaller and made just for Nevaeh. I help her put it on like it’s a crown she is worthy of wearing.
“Nevaeh Dawn Humphreys,” I say, loud and clear. “You stand here under full witness. You take this patch with open eyes, knowing who we are and what we bleed for. You accept the protection and the burden of this club…and wear my name like armor.”
Her voice doesn’t so much as tremble. “I do.”
I pin the patch over her heart. The roar that follows isn’t sound, it’s impact.
Fists slam against chests. Brothers nod. Some mutter her name like a vow. Rampage grins so wide it’s almost savage. Honor gives one rare, solemn bow of his head.
Rock leans toward us, clamping his big hand on my shoulder. “She’s earned it.”
She’s not the outsider anymore. She’s one of us.
I hook a hand around the back of her neck and pull her in, mouth hard against hers. She melts into me, fingers gripping the front of my cut like she knows what it means now, and isn’t going anywhere.
Out in the yard, the fire finally burns itself down to embers.
But in here?
In here, she’s not just safe. She’s mine, and God help any man who forgets that.