Chapter 8 Asher
ASHER
God, I fucking hate club meeting days. Everyone is off their rocker, the entire garage is filled with this feral energy that makes my skin crawl. The shouting, the laughter that’s too loud, fists pounding tables in drunken rhythm—like a pack of wolves gnawing on the same bone.
The garage reeks of smoke, beer, and too-sweet barbecue, the kind that coats the back of your throat and makes you want to spit.
Fluorescents buzz above, casting a sickly yellow over folding tables stacked with ribs, half-empty beer cans, and bodies pressed too close.
Everyone’s loud, drunk, and circling each other like feral dogs.
I lean back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to tune it out, but my eyes keep dragging back to the center of it all.
Landon Heart—smug bastard, soaking up the attention like he’s some long-lost king returning to his court.
He left. Walked out after his sister died, like he thought he could run from the blood in his veins, from the consequences of choosing himself over us.
Despite all of his conveying, rebellious behavior he’s an idiot, thinking he could outrun the poison that is fucking Raiders.
Live a Raider, die a Raider.
At least that’s why his so-called partner in crime, Conner, never patched into the Raiders.
He made damn sure we all knew how dangerous he was, then doubled down by becoming a cop—like wearing a badge gave him the added perk of never having to hide the bodies.
Marcus spent the last two years trying to rein them both in, breaking his own mind on how easily they slipped through his grasp. And in the end, all it took was a girl.
The girl they circle like starving dogs, both too obsessed to realize what they’ve walked into. One stupid, reckless girl to unravel men who thought themselves untouchable. Pathetic.
My jaw tightens until I hear the crack of my own teeth grinding.
The smell of grease and barbecue, the cloying beer breath, the sound of some asshole howling with laughter—it all presses against me, suffocating, and I want to leave, but that would make me a bad vice president.
It would show weakness, and that is not me.
Xavier is the face, the command; I am the calm, the order—the stone.
I am the quiet before Isaiah’s storm. Everyone leans on me to be immovable, and so that is what I become: hard, unreadable, unable to show what I want.
Even if I was capable of something, anything more, no one would care.
“Two years ago,” Talia hums, slipping in beside me again, leaning close so no one else can hear as her eyes stay firmly on Landon, “that was you.”
The words slice deeper than I want them to. I feel the memory hit—the way I used to stand in the middle of the chaos, burning hot with the same reckless arrogance, like the whole damn world bent around me.
I scowl down at her, because she’s not wrong, and I hate her for it. “Three months ago that was you.”
“No,” she scrunches her button nose, her black hair adorned with new blue highlights that I definitely did not approve of. “Remember I was Marcus’s favorite.”
She shakes her hands, mimicking a firework when she says favorite, and the sight makes me want to bare my teeth.
Marcus had been circling her birthday like it was a finish line, as if turning eighteen magically made her grown enough to stomach his old, rotting ass.
It’d almost be different if she actually wanted him—if there was even the illusion of something real between them.
And as her older brother, would I ever approve?
Not a fucking chance. Marcus was a tyrant. But if she was happy, maybe I could’ve—
No. Who the hell am I kidding? I can’t even pretend. Marcus deserved the shallow grave he got, and my only regret is that I wasn’t the one to put him in it.
The sharp, unhinged howl that rips from Isaiah’s throat, followed by the brutal stomp of his boots against the metal council table, crashes through the room and drowns out every other sound.
Silence falls heavy, all eyes snapping to him.
He scans the faces around him with a manic gleam, a wolfish smile tugging at his mouth as he calls out to the gathered crowd.
“Ladies. Gentlemen. Fuckers of the night—tell me, are you ready for the night of your lives?” His voice rides the edge of laughter, predatory and unholy. He swivels toward Landon, lips curling into a purr that’s more snarl than charm. “Or maybe…the last night of your life?”
Landon doesn’t flinch. He just flips him off with casual disdain, earning a ripple of jeers from the Raiders. Isaiah eats it up, turning back to his audience, soaking in the chest-beating rhythm as they pound fists and feed the madness like animals in a cage rattling their bars.
But the chaos doesn’t hold me—not when Valentina slips in behind Xavier, her scowl like a blade cutting through the room.
She’s a storm contained in flesh, her wavy blonde hair swinging just above the curve of her ass, her body swallowed by Isaiah’s oversized grey sweats.
They hang loose on her hips, knotted shirt tugged tight and tucked into her bra strap, leaving a strip of skin bare and vulnerable in the fluorescent light.
Her socks, once white, are already smudged by the oil-stained garage floor.
Xavier halts mid-stride, then turns with an authority that pulls the whole room taut.
He points toward me. Valentina’s eyes flicker in my direction, sharp as glass.
I ignore her stare, locking instead with Xavier.
A nod passes between. A silent agreement to not let her run off, because after she sees what we do to Landon and his girl, she’ll take off like a bat out of hell.
She scans the room, wary of the leers and hungry stares from the men circling her, eyes darting from face to face as if she can track every threat at once.
But she doesn’t realize the truth—none of them matter.
I am the one she should fear. I am the danger she should never look away from, the shadow she should be hiding from, the presence her instincts should be screaming about.
Because when I step into a room, the balance shifts.
Xavier might posture, Isaiah might howl, but neither of them are me. I am the apex predator.
She halts directly in front of me, chin tipped up, those narrowed emerald eyes flashing like cut glass under the flickering garage lights.
“Asher,” she bites out, my name turned into a weapon on her tongue.
“Toy.” My grin spreads slow and sharp, teeth bared in a way that feels more wolf than man, as if I’m already testing the softness of her throat.
Valentina sneers, her small frame taut with fury, every deliberate step forward meant to project menace. At five foot two she looks more like a cornered chihuahua nipping at wolves than a real threat, but she carries herself as if fire alone could make her untouchable. “Where do you get off?”
I tilt my head, mock concern dripping from my tone.
“I’m sorry, do you not like your name?” One step forward erases the distance between us, heat colliding as I lean down, my mouth brushing close enough to ghost her ear.
My hands sink deeper into my jean pockets, forcing myself not to touch her.
“Would you prefer Angel? Vixen? Killer?”
She stiffens, shoulders going rigid, and that reaction is sweeter than any curse. My chuckle rumbles low. “Why would I call you anything but what you are to me?”
Her breath hitches before she hisses, “You know I could kill you.”
“I doubt it,” Talia interrupts with a sharp snort, voice carrying across the room.
I lean back, amusement curling my lips as I glance at my sister. “You haven’t seen her handiwork.”
“Ooo, you sound like fun.” Talia’s laughter slips like smoke as she steps in front of me, leaning with playful confidence. She extends her hand toward Valentina, grin wide. “I’m Talia. And don’t take the whole grumpy thing too seriously. Asher’s really…well, Asher’s a dick.”
“Thanks, sis.” I bump my shoulder into hers, snorting before my attention shifts.
Across the chaos, Isaiah crouches on the metal council table, feral grin carved into his face as he locks eyes with the trembling man in handcuffs before him.
The poor bastard’s shoulders quake, tears streaking down his cheeks—sacrifice waiting to be torn apart.
Isaiah’s crouched frame looks almost casual at first, but his grin cuts wicked under the harsh fluorescents. He drags his tongue over his teeth before speaking, his voice booming into the crowd like a sermon.
“You all know this sorry bastard.” He jerks his chin down at the man shackled in front of him—bald scalp glistening with sweat, wrists chafed raw against the cuffs. “One of our brothers.” The word drips with venom. “But tell me, what happens when a brother forgets the code?”
The crowd erupts, a frenzy of curses and pounding fists rattling the tables like war drums. Isaiah basks in the chaos, soaking it in with a feral gleam before lifting his hand. The room falls quiet, hungry.
“This one thought he could wear our colors, carry our mark, and cut side-deals with the Vipers.” His voice cuts sharp as steel.
“He gave away our warehouse locations—for pocket change.” The room shudders with outrage, the sound of betrayal heavy as smoke.
“You hear me? He put Raider steel in enemy hands. Sold out his own blood, like we don’t take care of our own. ”
“Do I not take care of you?” Xavier’s voice cuts across the din, deep and commanding. The crowd howls their agreement, the force of it echoing against the metal rafters. Because the Kings do take care of their own—or at the very least, Xavier does.
“Do I deserve your loyalty?” Xavier presses, gaze sweeping the room like a monarch surveying his kingdom. The audience roars yes, feverish and frenzied, each member brimming with the desire to rip the traitor apart themselves.