Chapter 4
Hayden
“Burn-Usher”
I’ve been out of lockup for six months.
Six fucking months of freedom and somehow prison still follows me everywhere like a ghost latched onto my back.
The funny part? I still don’t fully know how I got out.
One day, I’m rotting inside Whitestone, fighting for survival every second of every day.
The next, guards are dragging me into an office, uncuffing me, sliding paperwork across a metal table, and telling me I’m being released under “special circumstances.” The warden is clearly in someone’s pocket, but it’s not Judge Fitzgerald's.
I still call bullshit. Nothing comes free in my world. Especially freedom. People don’t just walk out of prison after being sentenced to life. Not unless someone powerful opens the cage. And powerful people always come to collect what they’re owed.
Inside, I learned real quick there are only two choices.
Become prey… or become something worse.
I chose worse.
I made allies.
Dangerous ones.
Men who smiled while carving people apart.
Men with tattoos crawling up their throats and bodies buried beneath their names.
Men who taught me how to survive prison politics without ending up dead in a shower.
But allies come with prices attached. Favors. Debts. Blood.
Tonight was one of those debts.
Which is why I threw the race against Reid ‘Spade’ Rodriguez. The son of ‘El Hefe.’ Cartel assholes.
I lean back against my Ducati outside the warehouse while cigarette smoke curls into the cold night air around me. The races are dying down now. Engines cooling. Crowds thinning, and drunks stumbling around counting cash.
But my focus never leaves her.
Ophelia Fitzgerald. My Firefly.
Three years.
Three goddamn years and somehow she’s even more beautiful than I remembered.
Seeing her tonight nearly knocked the breath out of me.
The long blonde hair spilling out beneath her helmet.
The way her thick thighs hugged that Triumph like she belonged on it.
The confidence in the curve of her body while she rode beside me.
Christ.
Prison made me forget what softness looked like.
But Ophelia… she was never soft in a weak way. She’s all dangerous temptation wrapped in sunkissed skin and ocean eyes. Thick in every place a man could lose his fucking mind over.
I reach down and discreetly adjust my hardening cock. Jesus. I used to love burying my face in her neck just to breathe her in.
Coconut and sea salt.
Like summer—freedom.
Like everything good I was never meant to keep.
And now?
Now I want to ruin her for forgetting me.
Because she did forget me.
I know she did.
I watched her tonight. The way she glanced at me over and over while we lined up. She felt me staring. I know she did. But she never recognized me beneath the helmet. Never realized the boy she once loved and discarded had crawled out of hell and parked right beside her.
That realization burns hotter than prison rage.
I’ve seen it on the inside too many times, especially with my cellmate, Jagger Holmes.
They moved him right before I left because he needed more confinement to help him rehabilitate.
I also saw it with Finn O’Patrick. That man is as lethal as it comes.
The brother of Flynn O’Patrick the head of the Irish Army.
He taught me a lot on the inside. He honestly was the only one I could trust in there, and that’s why I’m doing him this favor.
I grip the cigarette tighter between my fingers. She looked good with that crowd though… too good.
Stone, Asher, Spade, and Bianca… Justin’s twin sister.
It took everything in me not to approach her tonight. I’m just not ready for everyone to know I’m back.
But it seems the little honor-roll princess is running with a crew. Thank god it’s this one and not something worse.
Which means my little Firefly has secrets now.
That almost makes me smile.
But the strangest part of tonight wasn’t Ophelia. It was Jade fucking Rivers riding on the back of Spade’s bike.
That caught me off guard.
The Rivers family doesn’t associate with the cartel or many outsiders unless there’s money, violence, or power involved. Usually all three. Yet there Jade sat behind him like she belonged there. Arms around his waist.
Comfortable. Familiar. Interesting.
Very fucking interesting.
Because as far as I know, the Rodriguez cartel and the Devils Incarnate don’t exactly braid each other's hair and sing campfire songs.
So why the hell is the cartel’s enforcer tangled up with biker royalty? I guess that's a question for later.
Right now, I’ve got bigger things to focus on. Like the little note currently sitting on Ophelia’s bed.
A slow grin spreads across my face imagining her finding it as panic floods her pretty blue eyes.
I’ve missed you, Firefly. Did you miss me?
Simple but enough to unravel her completely.
Did her father really think he could keep me away from her? That he could throw me in prison and erase me from existence?
Nah.
All he did was create a monster with too much time and too much hate festering inside him.
And now I’m back.
The warehouse lights flicker overhead as I crush the cigarette beneath my boot then swing onto my bike.
Time to collect on another favor.
The ride across Brimstone to Whitestone is fast and loud.
The lights blur around me while my thoughts spiral darker with every mile.
By the time I pull up outside the Devils Incarnate clubhouse, my mood has blackened completely.
The building sits like a fortress behind a chainlink fence with guards at every corner. Loud music vibrates through the parking lot so loudly you can feel it in your chest.
One of the prospects notices me and slides open the gate, letting me in. I roll through and park in front of the entrance. I kill the engine and remove my helmet slowly.
Instantly, eyes track toward me as club girls, I think they call them Croweaters, smoke near the front doors. A few other prospects and men patched in size me up like they’re deciding whether I’m worth burying.
“You lost, pretty boy?” one prospect asks, stepping forward.
“Tell Ryker and Ryder that Ghost is here.” I smirk, and the guy stiffens slightly at the name before disappearing inside.
Less than a minute later, the clubhouse doors swing open and Ryker Rivers steps out.
Big. Tattooed. Mean as fuck looking.
Devil Incarnates VP with his twin brother, Ryder, following behind him carrying the exact same ice-cold expression that makes people nervous.
Twins. The only difference between them, besides rank, is that Ryder wears glasses. Otherwise, they are nothing but violence wrapped in leather cuts.
Ryker lights a joint before speaking.”You’re late.”
“I had business,” I say, and Ryder’s eyes narrow.
“The Fitzgerald girl?”
How the fuck does he know about her? Interesting.
“You know her?” I ask, and the twins exchange a look, but neither answers directly. Typical.
“Come inside. We need to talk ‘Dungeon business,’” Ryker states, jerking his head towards the doors.
The Dungeon.
A place where rich men bet on broken bones while fighters damn near kill each other for cash and reputation. Daggerspoint’s underground fight club.
Owned by the Cyprus brothers. One of the five founding families.
The only good ones of them all ,otherwise they are all corrupt.
Hence the bullshit Judge Fitzgerald was able to pull. He’s one of those founding family members.
I follow them inside while music and chaos swallows me whole. Woman dancing on tables. Men screaming over poker games. Smoke thick enough to choke on.
Home sweet fucking home.
Ryker leads me towards the back, down the hallway past the bedrooms and into the back office.
They offered me a room here when I got out, even if I’ve been in and out of here with my mom since I was a kid.
This place is just loud, and yes, while I love the chaos…
s ometimes I need quiet, been locked in a cage for far too long.
“You’re fighting Saturday night,” Ryder says casually, and I chuckle.
“You do know I’m the one who schedules the fights, not partakes in them,” I say, and Ryker grins darkly.
“Well, how badly do you want information on the Rodriguez cartel?” he asks.
There it is. Always a price.
“Alright, I’m in,” I say. The words leave my mouth easily because fighting has never scared me. Not after Whitestone. After prison, fists almost feel honest.
Ryker studies me from across the office while smoke curls from the joint hanging from his fingers. Ryder leans against the wall beside the door, arms crossed over his chest, watching me carefully.
Nobody in this room relaxes. Men like us are wired for survival.
“You sure about that?” Ryder asks. “You know how the Dungeon is, Ghost. You walk into that cage, people are expecting blood.”
I lean back in the chair and smile. “Good thing I’m not afraid to bleed,” I state, and Ryker grins.
“Prison really fucked you up, huh?” he asks, and I laugh once. Low and humorless.
“You should see the other guys,” I say, and silence settles for a second before I say what’s been itching beneath my skin since the race. “I saw Jade tonight.”
And that gets both of their attention immediately. Ryker’s expression hardens slightly while Ryder straightens from the wall. “With Spade Rodriguez,” I continue. “Didn’t know Devils Incarnate and the cartel were suddenly playing nice.”
The twins exchange one of those silent conversations only brothers can have. Interesting.
So there is something there.
“She can handle herself,” Ryder says finally.
“That wasn't my question,” I say with a raised brow.
“Good thing we don’t owe you answers then.” Ryker smirks, putting out his joint.
Fair enough.
Still, something about seeing Jade on the back of Spade’s bike bothers me.
Not because I care who she rides with, but because connections like that usually mean power shifts.
Alliances. Wars brewing beneath the surface.
And if I’m getting dragged into cartel business, I want to know where the landmines are buried.
“She looked real comfortable with him,” I say carefully. “Too comfortable.”
“You paying attention to Jade now?” Ryker asks with narrowed eyes.
“No,” I scoff. “I was paying attention to the fact that a Rodriguez had a Rivers on his bike,” I say as Ryder cracks open a beer, chugging it down.
“Maybe she wanted a ride,” he says, and I laugh.
“Bullshit.”
“There’s the prison paranoia.” Ryker chuckles.
“No,” I correct coldly. “That’s survival instinct,” I fire back, and the room quiets again.
They know I’m right.
People like Spade don’t do anything without purpose. Neither do the Rivers twins, and Jade is worse than both of her brothers. Just last week she blew a bitch’s head off for sleeping with her boyfriend… mid ride. She’s insane.
“Just worry about Saturday night,” Ryker states, taking me out of my thoughts, and I nod.
“Who am I fighting?” I ask, and another look passes between them, but this one feels different.
Ryder's mouth slowly curves into something almost entertaining.
They set this up. So this has to be good.
“Funny story actually,” he states, and I narrow my eyes.
“What?” I growl, and Ryker leans forward against the desk.
“Harley confirmed the lineup an hour ago.”
Harley Cyprus.
One of my only real boys since getting out. Loyal. Smart. Gave me a job to get me on my feet.
“Who?” I repeat slowly as a bad feeling crawls up my spine. “Am I fighting?”
“Brayden Augustine,” Ryker grins, and everything inside me goes still. Then violently comes alive. My pulse pounds so hard I can hear it.
Brayden. That smug, rich motherfucker. The one the judge handpicked for my Firefly. The one taking my place beside her. The one touching what belongs to me.
A slow smile stretches across my face before I can stop it.
Not a happy smile, but the kind that used to make guards nervous in Whitestone. “Well,” I murmur, staring down at my bruised knuckles, “would you look at that,” I say, flexing while thoughts of Ophelia consume me all over again.
Her laugh.
Her tears.
The way she used to look at me like I hung the damn moon.
The image shifts into her standing beside Brayden Augustine.
Smiling. Pretending. Living while I rotted.
Hatred coils through me instantly.
“Knew you’d enjoy that.” Ryder laughs.
Enjoy? No. This feels bigger than enjoyment.
This feels like fate finally throwing me something after years of choking on shit.
God. I can practically taste it already.
“Does he know who I am?” I ask, but Ryker shakes his head.
“Nah. Harley says Augustine thinks he’s fighting some underground hotshot named Ghost.”
Good. I want the surprise.
I want him looking into my eyes right before I break him.
I stand slowly from the chair, adrenaline burning hot beneath my skin now. “What time is it on Saturday?”
“Midnight,” they both say in unison.
Two days.
Two days until I get to put my hands on the boy warming my side of Ophelia’s bed.
“You good?” Ryder asks, and I laugh.
“No… I’m fucking fantastic.” I grin, and Ryker’s eyes light up knowing shit is about to get real.
“Don’t kill him in the cage. He is a member of the founding families,” he warns as I head towards the office door.
“What if I kill him outside the cage?” I ask.
The twins laugh this time. Genuine and dangerous.
“See? That’s exactly why we like you,” Ryker says, and I shake my head with a grin then walk back through the chaos of the club house.
But all I can think about is Ophelia, and Brayden touching her. The image burns through me so violently I almost lose control. Her father took everything from me.
My future.
My freedom.
My girl.
Now it’s my turn.
And this time… I’m not the same boy they buried three years ago.