Chapter 9 Kai
Kai
The door slams against the wall as I shoulder through it, the sound echoing through the empty halls. My chest is heaving, my blood boiling, and all I can hear is the echo of her voice, the spit hitting my skin, the look in her eyes when she dared me to break.
Fuck.
I said I wouldn’t touch her. I swore it.
Told myself I’d keep that line, that one thin scrap of control — and technically, I haven’t.
Not really. But I’ve broken every rule that mattered.
I broke them the second I pinned her against that wall, the second I leaned in close enough to taste her fear, to feel the shiver ripple through her body.
I broke it all.
‘Scarlett!’ I bark, the word ripping from my throat, reverberating up the staircase, down the hallway. I charge from room to room, flinging doors wide, each one slamming against the walls. Her bed is empty, sheets still tangled from this morning. Her closet half-open, her perfume lingering.
She’s not here.
‘Fuck!’ The roar tears out of me, shaking the walls. My fist slams into the doorframe, wood splintering, pain shooting through my knuckles — but not enough, never enough.
I stumble back to the kitchen, drag open the cabinet, and snatch the bottle from the top shelf. Whiskey. I twist the cap off with shaking hands and take a long pull straight from the glass. It burns down my throat, fire in my chest, but it doesn’t put out the flames clawing through me.
I sink into a chair at the table, bottle in hand, staring at the lipstick stain Ava left on my mug this morning. My lip curls. Wrong girl. Wrong taste. Wrong everything.
The only thing I want is gone, and I’ll tear this house apart if she doesn’t come back.
The whiskey burns, but it isn’t enough. It never is. Each swallow just feeds the fire, the rage crawling under my skin until I want to peel it off piece by piece. My hands shake against the bottle, knuckles split and raw, the taste of her still in my mouth though I never kissed her.
Scarlett fucking Everly.
The girl who spits in my face, who lies to me, who dresses like sin and pretends she isn’t begging for someone to notice. My little sister. My obsession. My ruin.
The phone on the table buzzes, rattling against the wood. I ignore it at first, drowning in another mouthful, but it buzzes again. And again.
I slam the bottle down, swipe the screen.
A text from Jax — my oldest friend. The only one dumb enough to send me news straight, no sugarcoating.
Guess who just walked into Hell.
My chest goes tight, my heart thudding like a war drum. My thumb hovers before I type back fast.
Who?
Another buzz. Another message.
Your sister. In that black dress.
The blood drains from my face, only to come roaring back hotter. Scarlett. In that dress. In Hell.
A biker bar. My territory. My kind of place. The worst place for her.
My hand shakes, the phone almost slipping from my grip. Rage claws through me, wild and feral, every nerve sparking until my vision blurs — and then another buzz.
A video.
I don’t want to press it. I don’t want to see. But my thumb betrays me.
The screen fills with light and sound, grainy but clear enough: Scarlett walking through the crowd, that black dress hugging her body like it’s painted on, red lipstick glowing under the neon.
Men turn to look, heads snapping, eyes tracking her like predators scenting blood.
One of them whistles. Another mutters something filthy, reaching out like he might touch her.
The phone almost shatters in my hand.
My vision tunnels, breath tearing ragged from my lungs.
She’s mine.
Not theirs. And if one of them lays a hand on her, I’ll burn Hell to the ground with every one of them inside.
I slam the phone face-down on the table, the video still burning behind my eyes. Scarlett. My Scarlett. Walking into Hell like she doesn’t know what it is. Like she doesn’t know what waits in the shadows of that place.
I snatch the bottle again, take another long drag, but it doesn’t calm me — it fuels me. My blood roars hotter, my skin prickling like it doesn’t fit. I pace the kitchen, back and forth, the wood groaning under my boots.
How dare she.
That dress. Those lips. Strutting into a biker bar full of men who’d eat her alive and leave nothing behind.
She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that when she dresses like that, when she looks at me with those wide, defiant eyes, when she spits in my face like she did this morning — she’s playing with fire. My fire.
I grab the phone again, press replay. The screen glows, and there she is, weaving through the crowd, heads turning, eyes devouring her. The camera pans just enough to catch one man leaning forward, his hand brushing too close to her thigh as she slips past.
My breath leaves me in a snarl.
I want to break his fingers. I want to rip his throat out. I want to drag her out by the wrist and lock her away where no one can see her, no one can touch her, no one can even say her name but me.
The bottle slams down on the counter, amber spilling over my knuckles, dripping onto the tile. I don’t wipe it away.
‘Fuck!’ The roar rips out of me, shaking the cabinets.
I pace again, faster now, running a hand through my hair until it hurts. She thinks she’s proving something. She thinks she’s free. She thinks she can walk into places like that and pretend she’s not already mine.
Another buzz. Another video.
This one closer, clearer. Scarlett laughing, tossing her hair back under the neon glow, a man leaning in too close, whispering something in her ear. She doesn’t move away fast enough. She doesn’t push him off.
The phone creaks in my grip. My vision is nothing but red.
She has no idea what she’s doing, and they have no idea what’s coming.
The whiskey is half gone, my hand shaking as I tip what’s left down my throat, but it drowns nothing. It just fans the fire, sharp and raw, until my chest feels like it’s going to split open.
The phone buzzes again, vibrating across the counter. I stare at it as if it’s a loaded gun. My jaw clenches, veins pulsing hot at my temple.
I swipe it open.
She’s dancing.
A photo this time.
Scarlett in the middle of the floor, the crowd pressing too close, her head tipped back, her hair spilling, the hem of her dress sliding higher with every movement. Some arsehole’s hand almost touching her waist, another man staring at her mouth as if he already owns it.
The room tilts. My stomach lurches.
She’s laughing. She’s glowing — and it’s not for me.
The bottle slips from my hand, shattering on the tile, amber soaking my boots, sharp glass glittering like stars at my feet.
‘Fuck.’ My voice is raw, a snarl ripping from my chest.
I shove the chair back so hard it topples, grab my keys from the counter, and stalk towards the door. My blood is pounding, my vision tunnelling, every thought a blur of violence and fire.
They think she’s theirs.
They think they can look.
They think they can touch.
They don’t understand.
Scarlett belongs to me.