Chapter 6 #2
"To make a place where love can truly grow," Savannah continues, her voice steady. "To Hell with those above and those below."
I turn back slowly. Stare up at her sitting on that horse like some kind of vision in white. The moonlight catches her hair, turning it silver-gold.
"How—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat. Try again. "How do you remember that?"
She doesn't smile. Just looks down at me with those eyes that've been haunting me since I was fourteen years old.
Something twists in my chest. Something that feels like the brand—wrong, infected, eating me from the inside out.
She shifts on Cassia's back. Gathers the reins in one hand while the other rests against her thigh, fingers spread over the pale fabric.
"You wrote me a promise," she says. "Now I'll write you one."
I wait. Don't move. Don't breathe.
Savannah lifts her chin. Her voice comes clear and strong:
"Through fire and blood we walk the path alone,
Two souls condemned who carved this world from stone.
Let them come with judgment, sword, and chain—
We'll build our kingdom from the ash and pain."
Somethin’ inside me cracks. Nah, it rips me the fuck open. Raw and bleeding. And she's not even done yet. She keeps going…
"No grace above will break what hell has made,
No fear below will stop this vow we've laid.
When all is lost and even angels fall—
You'll still be mine. I'll still be yours. Through all."
I stand there like a statue while her words echo.
Through fire and blood we walk the path alone...
Can't move. Can't speak. Can't do anything but watch her sit on that horse like some kind of warrior queen who just declared war on heaven and hell both.
My throat's closin’ up. Eyes burning. Chest so tight, I might crack a rib just breathing.
Two souls condemned who carved this world from stone...
She wrote me a fucking poem.
Memorized mine. Gave me hers. Like we're trading vows in some cathedral made of blood and barbed wire.
I want to say somethin’. Anything. Want to tell her—
But the words won't come.
They never do when it matters.
Savannah doesn't wait for them anyway. She turns Cassia with a gentle press of her knee, the mare wheeling smooth as silk, and they disappear into the dark. No goodbye. No looking back over her shoulder.
Just gone.
Like she makes decisions and lives with them. No second-guessing. No begging me to chase her or promise her things I can't deliver. She said her piece. Laid down her vow. And now she's riding home because that's what you do—you make your choice, then you fucking stand on it.
I could learn something from that. From the resilience of Savannah Ashby. The girl who got drugged and tied to a bed, then came back swingin’.
Who got her videos leaked to the internet, then showed up at my side anyway.
Who watches me leave over and over, but never stops opening the door when I come back.
She's stronger than anyone gives her credit for. Stronger than me, maybe.
I light a cigarette with shaking hands. Take a drag, inhaling my own regrets. My bike's waiting where I left it. Matte black that sucks up the moonlight instead of reflecting it. I swing my leg over. Fire it up. Let the rumble vibrate through my bones like a second heartbeat.
Then I ride.
Back toward the compound. Back toward Brick and his Feds and the twenty-five grand I don't have. Back toward the hell I built with my own two hands.
The road unspools beneath me. Empty. Dark. Just me and the wind and the ghosts I carry.
I try to remember her poem. All of it. The way she did with mine. Let them come with judgment, sword, and chain—
But the words are already slipping. Fragmenting. I catch pieces but lose the whole.
We'll build our kingdom from the ash and pain. That part I remember. Because it sounds like something I'd say if I knew how to make words beautiful instead of blunt.
When all is lost and even angels fall—
The highway blurs. I blink hard. Blame the wind.
You'll still be mine. I'll still be yours. Through all.
Through all.
She means it too. I can tell. Savannah Ashby doesn't make idle promises or perform love for the cameras anymore. She burned that version of herself when she got my name tattooed on her wrist.
She's mine. I'm hers. Through whatever comes.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it just makes everything worse. Because in twenty-four hours, I might be dead. Or disappeared. Or broken in ways that don't heal.
And she'll still be there. Still waiting. Still believing in the poem she wrote like it's scripture.
The rage hits me in the middle of the midnight nowhere. Slammin' into my chest like a fist.
Three years.
I did three fuckin’ years for Brick Ransom.
The memory rises sharp and bitter. Vehicle registered in my name. Product found during a traffic stop I wasn't even part of. Burner phone in the glove box with my fingerprints because Brick asked me to grab it that morning.
Feds offered deals. Tried to flip me six different ways.
I said nothing.
Signed the plea agreement. Took the conviction. Went to Whitefall and kept my mouth shut for thirty-six months while the brothers on the outside got to ride free.
Because that's what you do. You take the fall. You protect the club. You come home with your patch and your head high because loyalty means something.
Except, it doesn't.
Not anymore.
Brick sold out anyway.
Let the Feds infiltrate. Let them wear our colors, and sit at our table, and vote on our business like they're real brothers instead of fucking rats with badges.
And now he wants me to roll over too?
The speedometer climbs. Eighty. Ninety. The bike screams beneath me.
I see it all now. The whole ugly shape of it.
Brick didn't just betray the club. He betrayed me specifically.
Made me the sacrificial lamb. Sent me to prison to buy himself time. Then sold out to the Feds the moment I was locked up and couldn't question it.
And when I came home… he gave me my patch. Branded me. Made it permanent.
Not as a reward.
As a leash.
So when the time came—when he needed another scapegoat, another fall guy, another Kane to throw on the pyre—I'd already be tied down. Already branded. Already fuckin’ owned.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Might as well be a million. Might as well be a bullet in the skull.
It's the same message either way: Submit or die.
The engine roars. Wind tears at my cut.
I think about Savannah. About her poem. Her certainty.
We'll build our kingdom from the ash and pain.
She's not backing down. Not letting the world dictate who she loves or where she belongs. She chose me. Keeps choosin’ me.
Every time I give her an out, she doubles down instead.
Got my name inked on her skin. Swallowed my cock in front of forty-seven men.
Let me fuck her rough, and leave marks, and call her mine while treating her like property.
And still she rides back to the silo. Still she writes me poems. Still she looks at me like I'm worth saving. If she's that sure—that committed—then what the fuck am I doing?
Running? Hiding? Waitin’ for Brick to decide my fate?
No.
Fuck that.
Fuck Brick. Fuck the Feds. Fuck the whole rotted-out corpse of what the Badlands used to be.
Savannah's right. We carved this world from stone. Fire and blood. Condemned souls who refuse to stay down.
Let them come with their judgment and chains.
I'll burn it all before I let them take what's mine.
I'm done running from the hell I created.
Time to walk straight into it and make them remember who I am.
My name is Legion.
And I'm not rollin’ over for anyone.