Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
M y head jerks to the side with the force of the blow, the metallic tang flooding my mouth. Crimson drool covers the bib of my shirt. Slowly, I fix Grit with a defiant glare through the tangle of my hair.
“Fuck you,” I rasp, tongue probing my cut lip. “I’m not telling you shit.”
Grit leans in close. “Oh, you will, sweetheart. By the time I’m done, you’ll be begging to spill all of BTMC’s secrets.”
This room in the hangar is dim, lit only by a single bare bulb. Shadows lurk in corners, sinister and looming. The air reeks stale cigarettes.
My wrists chafe, skin rubbed raw and bleeding where they’re tied to the chair. I’ve been here for hours, or maybe days. Time blurs, meaningless in the face of the relentless onslaught.
Grit cracks his knuckles. “Let’s try again. The safe codes. The account numbers. I want it all.”
I clench my jaw, waiting. The next blow comes hard and fast, snapping my head back. Pain explodes behind my eyes, blinding. I taste blood trickling over my lips and down my chin.
“I can do this all night,” Grit says conversationally. He grabs a fistful of my hair, wrenching my head back. “But I don’t think you can. Everyone has a breaking point, Vina. Even Nyx’s tough little girl.”
How dare he speak my father’s name. I gather the blood in my mouth and spit, aiming for his face. It splatters across his cheek, vivid red against sallow skin.
Grit’s grip on my hair tightens. “You’ll pay for that, bitch.”
He backhands me, the heavy ring on his finger splitting my cheek. Black spots dance at the edge of my vision, but I cling to consciousness. Anger burns in my veins, the only thing keeping me going.
I think of the way Blaze looked at me in those final moments. The love, the regret. The apology. He died for me, and I’ll take a bullet myself before I let it be in vain. I’ll endure, and I’ll burn Grit and Elias’s twisted empire to the ground. For Blaze, my father, and BTMC.
Grit draws back his fist again, but a deafening crash reverberates through the hangar. The doors burst open, metal screeching. Light floods in, blinding after so long in the dimness, and I squint against it.
Silhouetted in the doorway, is a figure I never thought I’d see again.
Blaze.
He’s battered and bloody, shirt stained crimson, but he’s standing tall, eyes blazing. And behind him, a sea of leather and chrome. I recognize a blue patch—BTMC has come for their rogue VP, ready for war.
Grit’s face twists with rage. “What the fuck? You were dead!”
Blaze stalks forward, and shadows cling to him, wreathing him in an aura of danger and power. “Guess I’m harder to kill than you or my dad thought.”
BTMC members fan out behind him. Faces I know, men who watched me grow up, who swore loyalty to my father. They nod to me, grim determination in every line of their faces.
“For this or any club, Grit, Prez comes at a price,” Blaze grinds out. “You’ve gotta earn it. We do it old-school. Blades and fists. Mono a mono.”
No one moves, no one breathes. Grit’s eyes dart from Blaze to the assembled BTMC, calculating his odds.
He laughs. “You’re insane, kid, if you think you can beat me. You can’t even stand.”
Blaze reaches behind himself and draws a wicked-looking blade from his waistband. It gleams in the stark light, razor-sharp and hungry for blood.
“Afraid?” Blaze taunts, a feral smile playing on his lips.
Something dark and ugly flashes in Grit’s eyes, but it’s not a match for Blaze’s fury. Grit has been backed into a corner, pride and power on the line in front of the men he seeks to command. He reaches for his own knife.
Grit lunges forward, knife slashing through the air. Blaze ducks then drives his fist into Grit’s stomach, doubling him over. Grit grunts as he headbutts Blaze, sending him staggering back.
They circle each other, feral and blood hungry. The BTMC members form a ring around them, a wall of leather. Their faces are hard, eyes glinting.
Grit feints left, slashes right. Blaze parries, steel clashing against steel. Sparks fly, illuminating the savage snarl twisting Grit’s face. He presses forward, raining down a flurry of blows. Blaze meets him strike for strike, muscles screaming with the effort.
Grit’s blade scores a line across Blaze’s ribs, parting leather and flesh.
And I gasp. My pain, I can handle, but not Blaze’s.
Hot blood runs down Blaze’s side, soaking into his waistband, but he barely reacts. His focus is honed, narrowed to this moment, to the pounding of hearts and rasps of breath.
My breath, though, is trapped in my chest.
Blaze lunges, slamming his elbow into Grit’s nose with a wicked crunch. Blood gushes, a viscous red. Grit staggers, but Blaze presses his advantage, hammering his fist into Grit’s jaw.
Grit bares his teeth in a sanguine grin. “That all you got?”
Blaze kicks out, booted foot connecting with Grit’s knee. A crack splits the air, and Grit howls, his leg crumpling. As he hits the ground, his knife skitters away.
Blaze is on him, forearm across the VP’s throat. He leans in close. “It’s over. Your power grab, your schemes. All of it. BTMC will never be yours.”
Grit thrashes, spitting and snarling. “Fuck you! I’ll kill you, bastard! And that bitch!”
The scene plays out at my feet, and I see the moment Blaze snaps.
Rage explodes behind his eyes, white-hot. He slams Grit’s head against the floor, once, twice. Bone cracks against concrete, and Grit goes limp, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Blaze,” I call out. My voice falters, so I try again, “Blaze.”
Finally, he focuses on me, blood splatter across his face.
“It’s over,” I say.
Blaze’s shoulders sag, and I glance up at Striker, the BTMC enforcer. He gets the silent message and cuts me loose.
I fall into Blaze’s lap, forcing his eyes to mine. “Look at me.”
His eyes dart around sightlessly, lost.
“Blaze.” I plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth. And another. “Blaze, see me.”
The knife in his hand clatters to the floor just before he wraps me in his thick, strong arms.
After a long embrace, he pulls back to search my face. Without hesitation, in front of everyone, his mouth covers mine in another punishing, owning kiss.
Cheers start softly, but grow. In seconds, the men are all standing around us hollering until we part, smiling at each other.
Striker extends a hand to Blaze and one to me. Pulling us up, he eyes up the son of CCMC and announces, “Seems you’ve just earned Prez around here, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Well…” Blaze stares at me. “There’s not anything left for me at Crown City. Is there something here?”
“Damn straight.” I leap into his arms, throw my arms around his neck, kissing him mine.