Chapter Twenty-Four
Firestride
It had been three motherfucking days since the bitch left me gasping for air like a whimpering pussy on the fucking floor, with my dick clutched in my hands. Sitting in church, I adjusted my seat and then growled when I heard Wanderer chuckle. “Something wrong, brother?”
“Fuck off,” I sneered.
“Bitch has got a killer knee.” Cobalt, the club’s treasurer, smirked. “That’s for damn sure.”
“Fucking felt it and I was across the room,” the club’s attorney, Heretic, commiserated.
“We fucking done talking about Firestride’s dick?” Morpheus groaned as he glared, pointing his finger at me. “You got what you fucking deserved. I fucking told you this would happen.”
Vortex, the club’s secretary and resident kiss-ass, nodded. “Yep. Sure did, Prez.”
“We’re done talking about my fucking dick; we’re done talking about the bitch that kicked my balls up into my throat. And we’re done talking about her, period,” I growled, my words ripped from my throat with equal parts anger and irritation.
Church, usually a symbol of brotherhood, felt like a cage, the hushed reverence a mockery of the war raging within me.
Every word spoken about Kyllian, every smirk, every knowing glance, was a fresh wound, reopening the raw agony of our encounter.
I’d brought her here, to this life, this world of violence and consequence, and now, she was the one suffering.
The weight of Morpheus’ judgment settled on me, heavy and suffocating.
I knew he could see my pain, my regret, and he wielded it like a weapon, a reminder of my transgression.
The Brotherhood, bound by loyalty and a shared thirst for retribution, had no room for sentimentality.
Kyllian was a victim of that retribution, an unwilling participant in a world she had no hope of navigating, and I had gambled with her life and the club’s interests for a fleeting moment of something I couldn’t even define.
The thought of her, of the fear in her eyes, of the undeniable spark that still burned within her, was a constant ache, a dangerous distraction from the hardened reality of my existence.
I had promised myself I would make her understand the rules, the consequences, but she had shattered them, leaving me as broken as she was.
“Well, now that the bitch is gone, we can get back to business.”
“Shut the fuck up, Morpheus,” I snarled, my words a guttural rasp torn from my throat as I turned to glare at the motherfucker.
“She’s gone because of your order.” My voice, rough with a weariness that went bone deep, was a poor attempt to mask the churning vortex of guilt and regret that had consumed me for days.
They saw it, of course—the war raging inside me, the battle between the hardened Bastard they knew and the fragile man she was uncovering.
They saw it too—the crack in my armor, the weakness that Kyllian had exposed.
I could see the truth in their eyes, from Wanderer’s smirk, Cobalt’s commiseration, Vortex’s smug affirmation—they were a symphony of accusation, each one a testament to my transgression.
“No, she’s gone because you didn’t have the fucking balls to stand up for her,” Cerberus spoke when no one else did. “We may be the Brotherhood of Bastards, Firestride, but everyone in this club was given a choice to join, including you.”
“Bullshit!” I roared, slamming my hand down on the table. “Morpheus ordered me to do it!”
“No, I ordered you to bring her downstairs. I said to make sure she understood the consequences of her entanglement. What transpired downstairs was all on you. I just followed your lead,” he clearly stated, leaning forward in his chair.
“You wanted to prove to yourself that you could control her, and you failed. I told you to be careful, that your kitten had claws, and if you weren’t careful, she would scratch you.
” He smiled, leaning back once more, and then added, “And, brother, did she ever.”
Inferno added, “He’s right, Firestride. We all warned you to tread carefully, but you insisted you could handle her. You can’t tame a wildcat, brother, and live to tell the tale.”
My jaw clenched, their words a bitter accusation echoing in the charged silence.
He was right. Morpheus had given the order to bring her downstairs, to initiate the lesson, but the escalation, the brutal culmination of that lesson, had been all me.
I’d wanted to prove my control, to break her will, and instead, I’d shattered something within myself.
The smug smiles of my brothers, the knowing looks that passed between them, were a constant reminder of my failure.
I had introduced a vulnerability into the Brotherhood, a weakness that had been ruthlessly exploited, and now, Kyllian was gone, a casualty of my own flawed judgment.
The weight of it was a physical ache, a constant throb that overshadowed the lingering pain in my groin.
I met Morpheus’ gaze, my own burning with a mixture of defiance and a dawning understanding of the consequences. He had warned me, lectured me, and now he had the proof of my failure.
Ending the conversation, Inferno looked over at Nano and asked, “Tell me you found the motherfucker who killed Kaycee?”
The resident computer geek and tech guru groaned.
“No. I’m sorry, Inferno. The RCPD was hopeful the sick fuck left evidence at the new crime scene.
But like Kaycee, the fucker wore a condom and wore gloves.
All they know is that he’s using a Colt.
45 to kill his victims before he desecrates their bodies. ”
“Any connection between the two victims besides the sick fuck?” Scythe asked.
“It’s weak, but Kaycee and this Keely Johnson are both from Birmingham, Alabama.”
“That is weak, brother,” Wanderer stated.
“It’s all I’ve got until the fucker kills again.”
“In other news, shit is heating up in Nebraska. The Death Dogs have parked their mangy asses in the Silver Shadows’ backyard. Looks like war is on the horizon.”
Cerberus stiffened but said nothing. We all knew Cerberus’ son was a brother in the Silver Shadows. The big lug cared for the boy, even though he stayed away.
“And I’ve just learned that Reaper’s on the move again.”
Everyone groaned.
Cerberus chuckled. “What the hell is that little pissant up to now?”
Wanderer looked at Morpheus and cautiously said, “It seems that Massacre has gotten himself into a bit of a tricky situation in Diamond Creek.”
Morpheus roared, “That motherfucker owes me a life!”
We all knew that the only reason Massacre was still breathing was because he rescued Heretic’s daughter, Savoy Noel, who was held captive by Boris Petrovitch, the former head of the West Coast Bratva. The torture she suffered still raged deep within her today.
However, Massacre was another story. The fucker still owed the club. More importantly, he owed Morpheus a debt, and I knew the bastard wouldn’t stop until he extracted it painfully.
“You want Massacre, then reach out to Yuri Nikitin. Give him Massacre’s location,” I absently said. “Last I checked, he was hiding behind Skinner’s skirts.”
Morpheus grinned, then turned to Garotte. “Reach out to your brother. His debt is clear only if Nikitin takes the bait.”
Garotte nodded and left church.
“Playing with fire, Morpheus.” Cerberus shook his head, grinning.
Morpheus shrugged unrepentantly. “Don’t give a fuck. I’m gonna kill two birds with one stone. Either Yuri kills that fucking bastard, or he kills Yuri. Either way, I get to kill the survivor.”
“If it’s Yuri, I get to kill him,” Heretic said firmly, and Morpheus simply nodded.
Sitting at one of the tables, I nursed a bottle of whiskey as my brothers geared up for another night of sex, debauchery, and mayhem. It was nothing new.
The same thing, just a different day.
Rinse and repeat.
The club whores were making their rounds, as brothers chose which pussy would satisfy their need tonight, when Silkie walked over to me, licking her lips as if I were a banquet she was about to feast on.
Sliding up next to me, her hand slithered around my back, and she leaned down, whispering in my ear, “Wanna go fuck, Firestride?”
Ignoring her, I grabbed my bottle of whiskey and downed a large gulp, watching impassively as Morpheus took a seat at my table, Lollie already on her knees eager to please him.
“You should let Silkie fuck your brains out.”
Placing the bottle back on the table, I asked, “And why should I do that?”
“To get the bitch out of your system.”
“Cerberus already tried that once. It didn’t work,” I clipped as I looked about the room.
The idea of seeking solace in Silkie’s practiced embrace, in the hollow comfort of club whores, felt like a deeper betrayal than anything I’d already done.
It was a capitulation, a surrender to the very emptiness that Kyllian had somehow managed to fill.
Morpheus chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did little to soothe the turmoil within me.
“Cerberus tried to make you forget her, brother. He tried to drown her memory in whiskey and cheap thrills. But you’re not built for forgetting, are you?
You’re built for the fight, for the burn.
” He gestured to the bottle in my hand, then to the surrounding brothers, a sea of hardened faces lost in their own debauchery.
“They have pussy. They have booze. They have the Brotherhood. But you, Firestride, you have a golden pussy.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “Choose.”
“What fucking more do you want from me?!” I roared, my words ripped from my throat with a raw, primal fury. The whiskey burned a path down my throat, offering no solace, only a deeper plunge into the abyss. “I did choose! I chose my brothers; I chose the Brotherhood!”
Morpheus shook his head and sighed as his hand went to the back of Lollie’s head, holding her down as she gagged on his cock. “You chose wrong, brother.”
Getting to my feet, a surge of something dark and hot—a furious rage I barely recognized—propelled me forward.
I grabbed Silkie’s hand, the desperation in her eyes a mirror to the turmoil raging within me.
I shoved her against the table, the wood groaning under the force, and snarled, the sound ripping from my throat, foreign and ugly. “Fuck you, Morpheus.”
My own beliefs, the ones I’d clung to like a life raft in a storm, felt distant, drowned out by the rising tide of anger and a desperate need to reclaim control.
It was wrong; I knew it was wrong—this violent surge, this disregard for her will.
But Morpheus’ mocking grin, his smug assurance of my helplessness, had ignited a fire I couldn’t extinguish.
I had to prove him wrong, even if it meant becoming something I despised.
Kicking her feet apart, the movement felt coarse, a violation even as it was happening.
I flipped up her short skirt, the fabric a flimsy barrier against the storm I was unleashing.
My belt unbuckled with a sharp snap, a sound that echoed the breaking of something inside me.
As I removed my dick, the act felt detached, like watching someone else’s struggle.
Stroking it a few times, a wave of nausea washed over me.
This wasn’t desire, not truly.
It was a twisted assertion, a desperate attempt to wield power when I felt utterly powerless.
I didn’t give her any warning; my decision was a split-second, terrible choice.
The plunge deep into her used cunt was a gut-wrenching act, a descent into something I knew I would regret.
Reaching for her neck, I pumped my cock deep, my fingers tightening, digging into her skin with a ferocity that shocked me.
My glare was fixed on Morpheus, who shook his head, his grin widening, a testament to my failure.
This wasn’t victory; it was a descent, a betrayal of myself, and the sickening realization of that truth bloomed in the wreckage of my resolve.
“Is this what you want?” I snarled, my voice raw and guttural, each word ripped from the depths of my tormented soul as I hammered my dick deeper into her used cunt.
My fingers tightened around her throat—a primal assertion of dominance, a desperate attempt to prove my loyalty, my adherence to the Brotherhood’s brutal creed.
Morpheus, his eyes fixed on mine, a grim satisfaction playing on his lips, merely shook his head. His silence was a judgment, a confirmation that no matter what I did, no matter how I twisted myself into knots to appease him, I had already chosen wrong.
The guttural roar that ripped from my chest was not a sound of pleasure, but of utter, soul-crushing defeat.
Silkie’s practiced movements, her simulated moans, did nothing to quell the tempest in my gut.
Each thrust of my cock into her willing, yet ultimately hollow embrace was a stab in my own back.
I was a Bastard, yes, but this... this was a betrayal of myself, a desecration of the very thing Kyllian had ignited within me.
Morpheus’ grin, a predatory slash across his face, was a witness to my damnation.
He’d wanted me to choose; said I’d chosen wrong—well, fuck him!
The Brotherhood demanded loyalty, and I had just publicly cemented mine to their twisted ideals, sacrificing the one thing that had made me feel. .. human.
My gaze swept over the faces of my brothers, their leers and knowing smiles a testament to my transgression.
They saw the power play, the assertion of dominance, but they didn’t see the battle raging within me.
They didn’t see the ache in my chest, the hollowness that swallowed any fleeting pleasure.
I was a Bastard to the core, a man carved from the harsh granite of this world, and Kyllian, my defiance, my hope, was a flaw in that foundation.
She was the golden pussy, the complication Morpheus had warned me about, the one that threatened to unhinge the carefully constructed world I inhabited.
And I had just proven him right.
When I finally pulled out, the act felt empty, the sticky residue on my skin a grim reminder of my capitulation as I shoved Silkie away from me.
Stuffing my dick back into my pants, I sat back down and grabbed my whiskey bottle; once a comforting presence, it now felt like a cruel joke, its amber liquid a mocking reflection of my own bitter regret.
Morpheus shook his head and stood, his flaccid dick slipping from Lollie’s mouth as he tucked himself back into his pants. Quietly pushing the chair back in, he looked once more at me and said, “You chose wrong again, brother.”