Ink got up and placed his knife back in his pocket. “Tell them, then. Tell the rest what we’ve been doing the last few nights, and that we’ve buried five Pythons already. Just remember, you’re the president. I’m not. No matter what they vote, I’m not stopping until my blade is jammed in Slither’s spine. I won’t stop, Granite. Even if it means costing me my seat at the goddamn table.”
I got up and walked over, not in the least bothered by the fact that I was stepping in a dead man’s blood. I placed my hand on his shoulder. “I swear to you that Slither will burn in hell for what he did. And nothing or no one will take your place at the Kings table. You got it?”
Ink’s lips were pulled in a straight line, and up close it seemed like he had aged years over the last few days. “I want to be the one who does it.”
“Does what?”
“I want to be the one who sends that motherfucker to hell. Me. Can you promise me that?” The determination in his eyes, and the way his face remained stone as he stared at me, told me there was only one thing that would ultimately make him able to breathe again. It was the same thing that had been paving this path we had been on for years.
Revenge.
At that moment, there wasn’t anything I wanted more than to be the one who drove a knife through that bastard’s black heart. But Ink needed it more than I did, and my guys were more important to me than my need to spill blood.
“You have my word.”
He slapped his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, bro. Just,” he scrunched his nose, “let’s not ever talk about my place in the club like it’s some fucking King Arthur movie, okay? Good God,” he brushed past me, “referring to it asmy place at the tablesounds all kinds of wrong.”
I let out a laugh. “You started it.”
“Yeah, well…I make it sound cool. You just fucked it up when you said it.”
“Good to know you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
He glanced over his shoulder with a cocked brow. “Sense of humor? Dude, I could not be more serious right now.”
I smirked. One thing was for sure—our club would not be the same without this man.
“Yo, Ink.”
“Yeah?” He turned to face me.
“I’ll make this right for her. For Neon.”
He nodded. “Nah, man. You got it wrong.We’llmake it right for her.” With that, he left. I stayed behind, listening as he made the call to send a clean-up crew.
I glanced down at my hands, blood stuck in the corners of my nails. Like every one of these fuckers we tortured and killed, I had Neon’s blood on my hands as well. And in some poetic way, Alyx’s too.
For a moment, I closed my eyes, thinking of how it felt to be with her, against her, inside her. It felt better than I ever could have imagined. Being president of one of the biggest motorcycle clubs in New York didn’t make me feel as powerful as it did when she finally surrendered herself to me. For a hardened man like myself, those moments with her, experiencing that euphoria was the closest I’d ever get to feeling the kind of emotion that stemmed from a person’s soul. God! I didn’t want it to fucking end. But it did. Badly.
Deep down, I had always known the day would come when I’d ruin my pretty ballerina girl. But I took her anyway, corrupted her, then tore her apart. I couldn’t stop myself because I wanted her too much.
Selfish fucker.
I took a deep breath while pulling my fingers through my hair. These metaphorical walks down memory lane were crushing me, slowly killing me like some wretched disease without a cure. But I deserved it. I deserved to be haunted and tortured by memories, which was why I’d never let myself forget.
Ink and I got back to the safe house before dawn. Of course, after silently pushing our motorcycles to the back of the house, Onyx was sitting on the porch waiting for us.
“Fun night?”
Ink and I glanced at each other, and I looked back at my brother. “Maybe.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Out.”
I paused in front of Onyx, and Ink casually took a seat next to him, lighting himself a cigarette. “She had to be a lousy lay for you to be up at the crack of dawn.”
Onyx glared at Ink before turning his attention back to me. “I know what you’re doing.”