Chapter Seventeen
August
That same night...
The rough-hewn wood of the St. Andrew’s cross dug into my shoulders, a familiar ache now. Blood, thick and dark, matted my already tangled hair, blurring my vision. George Stone’s sneering face swam into focus on me; the glint of his ring, a crude skull, catching the flickering candlelight.
I wasn’t sure how much more I could take, but I knew what they intended to do.
They were waiting for me the moment I left the hospital.
My supposed brothers. Men who swore to have my back, no matter what, now looked on as if I were some stranger, some villain, some piece of shit they’d never met.
To make matters worse, my best friend, the one I thought I could always count on, stood unmoving against the back wall, silent for the first time in his life.
“Hit him again, Truth,” George rasped, the words a guttural command that scraped against my raw nerves. Impact slammed into me, a brutal percussion that resonated in my bones, the metallic tang of blood already blooming on my lip.
Truth.
The name itself was a poisoned dart, a whisper of the chilling efficiency that clung to the Soulless Sinner enforcer like a shroud.
He’d been a legend in the club long before I’d even glimpsed its shadowed heart, a veteran whose methods were as brutal as they were effective.
His eyes, the color of black obsidian, held a terrifying emptiness, reflecting not a soul, but a cold, calculating intellect.
The air thrummed with the low growl of his approaching boots, each step a measured beat of impending agony.
He wasn’t just extracting confessions; he was carving them from flesh and bone, a meticulous sculptor of pain, and the sickening sweetness of fear coated my tongue.
He was a masterpiece of depravity, and I was his latest canvas.
The blow sent me reeling, as my head snapped back against the wood with a crack that echoed through my skull.
Truth’s handiwork, no doubt—an artist’s touch that left its mark.
My body, once a folio of memories, was now a map of pain, each strike a new territory of agony.
I could feel the heat of Truth’s breath on my face, his eyes boring into me, as he searched for any sign of weakness.
George, ever the eager spectator, leaned in, his voice a hiss of anticipation.
“Again,” he urged, his command spurring Truth on like a hound.
Another blow, another flash of light behind my eyes.
I tasted copper, my own blood, as my lip split further.
I welcomed the pain, letting it fuel my defiance.
They wanted a reaction, a plea for mercy, but I would give them nothing.
My silence was my shield, my only defense against their onslaught.
Truth’s vacant eyes narrowed, his expressionless mask slipping for a moment as he registered my resistance.
His boots scraped against the floor as he adjusted his stance, preparing for another strike.
I braced myself, knowing that my endurance would be tested further. The cross, usually a symbol of suffering and penance, now represented my defiance. I will not break , I vowed, even as the prospect of more pain loomed.
“Where is the godless bitch, August?” George Stone’s voice was a low growl, laced with the chilling patience of a predator. “Tell us, and this shit ends.”
My breath hitched, a ragged rasp in my throat. I spat blood; the taste was metallic and bitter. “I... I don’t know.”
My lie tasted like victory because I did know. Diana was hidden, safe, but revealing who had her would condemn her and kill Shame. The club’s reach was long, their ruthlessness legendary.
Montana stood in the shadows, his usual cocky swagger replaced by a stark stillness. His eyes, usually alight with mischief, were dark pools reflecting the flickering candlelight. He didn’t intervene, didn’t even flinch at the sickening thud of Truth’s boot against my ribs.
My best friend.
My betrayer.
“You think we’re fools, boy?” snarled another voice, a gruff bellowed from one of the other club brothers as a blow landed on my head, a dizzying crack, the last of my resolve threatening to crumble under the unending pressure.
“Don’t play games,” Stone said, his voice colder than the dungeon air. He pulled out a long, thin knife, the blade gleaming ominously. He dragged it across my cheek, leaving a burning trail that echoed the burning shame and betrayal in my heart. My blood ran warm, a bitter stream down my neck.
Still, Montana didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Was this his punishment? He couldn’t be involved. Or did he simply not care?
“Montana,” I croaked, the sound barely audible. “Help me.”
He didn’t even glance my way as George Stone laughed.
“You think my boy will help a traitor? He does what he’s told.
” The fucker sneered as he leaned in close and whispered, “Just like that little slut you fucked. Remember her? The fucking underage bitch who spread her legs so easily for you. She did exactly what I told her to do. I own you, August. You either start talking or I will find those brats she gave birth to and kill them with my bare hands.”
My eyes snapped to his.
“What?” I hissed through the pain, and the fucker grinned.
“That’s right, you little fucking pissant. You got the bitch pregnant.”
Shaking my head, I refused to believe him.
He was lying.
He had to be.
“I can prove it too.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” he asked menacingly and then stepped back as Truth landed another blow; this time, a crushing impact to my stomach. Air whooshed from my lungs, leaving me gasping and lightheaded. The pain wasn’t just physical; it was a deep, gnawing wound of betrayal.
The room spun, and my vision blurred, but I couldn’t afford to pass out.
Not now. I forced my eyes to focus on Montana, searching for any hint of recognition, any spark of the friend I thought I knew.
But his face was a mask, devoid of emotion.
Was this truly the end of our brotherhood?
Had our bond been so easily broken? My heart, already heavy with pain, now bore the weight of his betrayal.
I thought of Meredith, the young girl I was only trying to protect, and the possibility of a child I may or may not have had a hand in creating.
That night was still a blur, but something in George’s eyes told me he was telling me the truth.
Could it be true? I barely remembered that night. Only that I woke up naked and Meredith was there.
“You think you can protect her, boy?” Stone’s voice cut through the haze of my thoughts. “You can’t even protect yourself.” His words were a knife twisting in my gut.
I wanted to deny it, to scream that he was wrong, but the truth of his words hit me harder than any blow.
I was failing. My body, once a source of strength, now felt weak and fragile under the relentless assault.
Truth’s blows rained down, each one a hammer strike that echoed through my being.
I could feel the heat of my blood, a stark contrast to the chill running through my veins.
Montana’s silence was worse than Truth’s blows, a slow, agonizing torture that carved its way into my soul.
“We have ways of making you talk, August,” Stone hissed, his breath hot on my face. The knife pressed closer to my eye. Fear, raw and visceral, coiled in my gut, cold and paralyzing.
My world tilted.
My thoughts flickered—images of Diana’s laugh, her kind eyes, the promise we’d made, the pact of loyalty that Montana had now shattered. Would she ever forgive me? Would I ever forgive myself? The questions swirled in my consciousness, a nauseating mix of pain and despair.
“It’s no use,” I whispered, my words final as I surrendered to the darkness. “I won’t tell you.”
Stone laughed, a harsh, cruel sound that echoed through the cold, damp chamber.
The torture continued. But even in the depths of my pain, I knew one thing with chilling certainty: the silence of my friend was a judgment more terrible than any beating.
It was a testament to the unforgiving reality that some betrayals were deeper, more agonizing, than any physical torment.
“What the hell is going on in here?” a deep timbered voice snarled as Malice strode into the room.
“Malice, my boy,” George greeted the quiet, subdued man who rarely talked to anyone. He looked at George Stone with such contentment, such vitriol, such malice, the president of the club actually stopped dead in his tracks.
Malice’s unexpected entrance brought a momentary halt to my torture, and I felt a surge of hope amidst the agony.
Malice, who patched in a year ago, was a force to be reckoned with, and his presence demanded attention.
His eyes, usually cold and unreadable, now blazed with an intense fury directed at George Stone and his enforcer, Truth.
The air crackled with tension as Malice’s gaze swept the room, taking in the scene of brutality.
“Get your fucking hands off him, Truth,” Malice ordered, his voice like a command from the grave.
Truth hesitated, his vacant eyes narrowing, but he stepped back, seemingly reluctant to challenge Malice directly.
I felt a moment’s relief as the relentless pressure of his boots abated, but the respite was short-lived.
George Stone, his face twisted with rage, stepped forward, the knife still in his hand.
“This doesn’t concern you, Malice,” he snarled, his eyes darting between us. “This is club business.”
Malice’s expression was unreadable, but his stance remained confrontational. “It concerns me when one of my brothers is being torn apart,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “And it especially concerns me when it’s done without a fucking vote.”
“I agree,” Payne, another club brother, said, stepping into the room along with Storm, who asked, “What the fuck is going on in here?”
“I’d like to know that myself,” Popeye asked, as he, Snoopy, and Happy walked in.