Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
Slayer
Sleep eludes me. Every time I drift off, the darkness is filled with the sight of Jersey, her eyes locked on mine as she takes me into her mouth.
The memory is a relentless, physical pull that leaves me tangled in the sheets of my bed, my skin buzzing with a heat that no amount of cold water can kill.
In the heavy silence of the room, the only sound is the frantic thrum of my own pulse, a rhythm that mirrors the way she moved—deliberate, tentative, and so damn breathtaking that it makes my lungs ache.
I can still feel the silk of her hair brushing my thighs and the soft, hitching gasps that punctuated every inch of her progress.
It wasn’t just the physical release I was dreaming about, though that was enough to shatter my composure, it was the trust she placed in me, a man whose hands are stained with the very violence she’s spent her life hiding from.
The sharp contrast of her innocence against the gritty reality of my world creates a constant, gnawing friction in my gut.
I’ve known plenty of women, but none who look at me with that intoxicating mixture of vulnerability and dawning fire.
She possesses a quiet, resilient beauty I know I don’t deserve—a woman who was once scared of her own shadow but finally found the strength to stand on her own two feet.
Staring at the ceiling, I find myself tracing the flickering shadows as the sun begins to rise, mapping out a future where Jersey isn’t just a guest but a permanent fixture in my life.
Every dreamed touch and every whispered “Slayer” feels like a brand seared onto my soul.
It’s a reminder that I’m no longer just fighting for the patch, I’m fighting for the woman who makes every turbulent thing in my life feel like home.
If that means I spend my nights haunted by the heat of her memory and the ache of what could be, then I’ll consider it the best damn penance I’ve ever had to pay.
Heavy thoughts weigh on my mind as I finally disentangle myself from the twisted bedding, the cooling sweat on my skin a reminder of the restless hours.
Today is the day I have to face my brothers.
I’ve faced down rival gangs and stared into the barrel of a gun without blinking, but the prospect of facing my brothers today isn’t something I’m looking forward to.
I know exactly what’s coming. The brothers will be waiting, their faces masks of stone as they uphold the laws I helped forge.
There’s no easy way out of a club sanction, especially not for the VP.
If I want them to respect me, I have to be the one to bleed for it when I break our orders.
My ribs already ache in anticipation of the impact, a residual pain that follows every move I make.
“Shit,” I mutter as I finally stand and make my way toward the ensuite, my feet heavy on the floorboards. I start the shower and step inside, not waiting for the water to warm, needing the sudden, sharp reality of the cold to snap me out of my own head.
The icy spray hits me like a physical shock, knocking the lingering remnants of sleep and those heated dreams of Jersey from my mind.
I lean my forehead against the cool, damp tile, letting the water sluice over my shoulders as I try to find my center amidst the internal wreckage of my own making.
I have to be the wall today. I have to take every hit and stay standing, proving to every brother on the compound that while I might have faltered when it came to Boston, my loyalty to the Kings remains absolute.
Once I walk out of my bedroom and head for the arena, there’s no room for hesitation—only the reality of the atonement I owe.
I move with a grim, practiced purpose, snagging my heavy boots and sliding into my cut.
I know that once I step into that ring and face the firing squad of my brothers, I’ll have to strip it off.
We don’t allow our leather to be damaged or disrespected in any way, it’s our most sacred article of clothing, the visual representation of our brotherhood and the weight of the life we carry.
To have it stained with blood would be a disgrace I’m not willing to have blemish it, even if that blood is my own.
Stepping out of the clubhouse, I take one last deep, steadying breath of the quiet morning air, inhaling and enjoying the silence while it lasts.
I’m fully aware that when I return to my room I’ll likely be bedridden for days, if not weeks, nursing the physical cost of my choice.
But as I look toward Jersey’s trailer, I know I’d pay this price ten times over to ensure Boston and Carolina stay exactly where they are—safe, sheltered, and far from the stark reality of the outside world.
The arena is thick with a heavy, expectant energy as I walk in.
Indiana steps up to me, his hands reaching out to take my cut.
His face is a blank mask, the iron-clad discipline of a Sergeant at Arms firmly in place.
But as his fingers brush the leather, his gaze flickers, and the first kink in his armor is exposed as he asks me, “You ready for this, brother?”
I meet his eyes, seeing the regret he’s trying to bury.
He was one of the votes that put me here, and I don’t hold that against him seeing as I was the first one who voted.
He’s holding the line, just like I taught him to.
Every man at that table had a duty to uphold, and Indiana is no exception.
The laws of the Kings aren’t suggestions, they're the only thing keeping us from total annihilation. “As ready as I’m gonna be,” I grunt, the words sounding like I have shards of glass in my throat.
The ring is waiting, a circle of brothers who will soon become my judge and executioner, and the debt I owe is about to be collected in full.
Indiana grips my cut tightly in his hands, his knuckles white against the dark leather.
He knows as well as I do that once I step into that circle, the title of Vice President doesn’t mean a damn thing.
I’m just a man who broke the bonds of brotherhood, and the brotherhood demands a blood sacrifice to balance the scales.
“Stay strong, VP,” he suggests, his voice dropping to a low rumble only I can hear.
“If anybody can pull this off with their head held high, it’s you.
” The flicker of regret in his eyes is almost harder to take than the physical punishment I am about to endure, a reminder that my choice to ride alone had strained the very foundation we all relied on.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I state, squaring my shoulders and trying to find a center that isn’t vibrating with adrenaline.
The brothers close in on me, forming a wall of denim and resolve that makes the vast arena feel like a coffin, a sense of claustrophobia encases me, making it hard to draw a breath.
I look at Icer, whose face is a mask of unyielding stone, and Nova, whose gaze holds a fractured sympathy, realizing that for this to work, they couldn’t be my friends for the next thirty minutes.
They have to be the enforcers of a code I have personally helped sharpen.
Riptide walks in front of me, his eyes level with mine, burning with a mix of leadership and localized fury.
The weight of his disappointment is a physical presence in the room, heavier than any blow I expect to take.
There’s no room for apologies anymore, the table has spoken, and the verdict has been written in the silence of the room.
“Today, you shed blood for the club, and once your price has been paid, we go back to business as usual.” He doesn’t blink, and neither do I.
The first hits are going to be the easiest to take, fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need to stand tall.
It’s the ones that come after, when the muscles are screaming and I’m already on my knees, that will prove whether or not I’m still fit to wear the patch.
As the president, Riptide will land the first blow.
It is his right and his burden to lead. When it comes, a brutal crack of bone against flesh, it rocks me back on my feet.
The world tilts, blurring into a haze of gray and red as I bend over and fight for my next breath.
The impact of Riptide’s fist has my brain rattling against my skull, and the metallic tang of blood begins to pool in the back of my throat.
The air feels ladened down, thick with the scent of angst and sweat, but I force my knees to lock, refusing to go down before the real work begins.
I can feel the eyes of every brother on the back of my neck, a silent pressure that is heavier than the blow itself.
When I finally manage to stand upright, I look him in his eyes, showing him the same steel that put me at this table, and nod my head.
“Next!” he screams, his voice a gnarly edge that cuts through the stagnant air of the arena as he steps back into the circle. The atmosphere shifts instantly, turning from expectant to lethal. Icer is next up and I groan internally, the sound lost in the frantic thrum of my own pulse.
This is gonna be brutal.
Out of all the brothers, Icer is the one who knows exactly how to dismantle a man, his strikes are as clinical as they are devastating.
He doesn’t look at me with a shred of anger or regret, he just stares with that cold, blue gaze.
My eyes focus on his meaty hand as it swings upward, cutting deep into my ribs and winding me once again.
I wheeze as I clutch my side, the pain radiating through my chest, and I give myself an agonizing second to compose myself before I drop my hand and brace for the next brother to take his place in front of me.
Nova steps up next, nodding his head at me in a silent acknowledgment before he swings with everything he has, the impact nearly levels me and has stars dancing across my vision.
I’m glad they’re sticking to my torso, keeping the marks hidden beneath the leather I’ll eventually put back on, though I’m sure it’ll be a map of black and blue by the time it’s all said and done.
The cycle continues without mercy. Indiana, Shade, Renegade—on and on it goes until every last brother has taken a swing at me.
In the end, I’m on my hands and knees, but I’m conscious so I count that as a win since it’s a hard feat.
The metallic taste of blood is sharp in my mouth, and my breath comes in ragged, shallow hitches that pull at my battered ribs.
I stare at the concrete, watching a few drops of my own sweat and blood hit the floor, marking the end of my repentance.
The silence that follows is a heavy weight that settles over the arena as the brothers wait to see if I’ll stand.
I force my shaking arms to lock, pushing myself up with a strength I didn't know I had left, because as long as I’m breathing, I’m still the Vice President of this club.
“Come on, man. Lean on me.” Indiana's voice has lost its edge. He steps in, hauling my arm over his massive shoulder. My knees buckle, but he catches my weight. The correction’s finished. The debt paid in blood. Now comes the slow, hellish climb back to being whole.
“Appreciate you, Indiana,” I mumble through a split lip, the words tasting of copper as I limp at his side. Each movement is a reminder of what I just faced, but the fire in my gut hasn't been extinguished.
The brothers part like the Red Sea, opening up to letting me pass. There are no more jeers or hard stares, instead, each one gives me a look of respect, nodding their heads in acknowledgment. As I pass them individually, they greet me with quiet, mumbled, “VP.”
Going up the stairs is the worst part in my walk of shame.
Each step up feels like a mountain, and the excruciating motion of lifting my legs has my internal organs screaming in protest. I grind my teeth and grit my jaw with each jar of my body, the pressure in my head building until it feels like my skull might crack.
“Fuck,” I growl as we finally hit the top of the landing.
“Just a few more feet,” Indiana promises, his grip on my waist tightening as I heavily lean on him, my weight dragging us both slightly to the side.
He doesn't complain, just keeps his boots moving, guiding me toward the sanctuary of my room where I can finally let the mask slip and face the wreckage of my own volitions.
The last thing I remember is being laid in my bed before the abyss of nothingness engulfs me, dragging me into a pit of darkness where I escape the pain, the betrayal of my own making, and the idiocy of my decisions.