Page 70 of Seizing Control: Part One

Every patch Brutus gained over the years has been left behind, discarded like it meant nothing to him. Holding his cut, understanding how easily he walked away from it when the consequences of his actions got too close—it makes me spitting mad.

How dare he desecrate our legacy like this.

How dare he deny us the right to strip him of his cut as punishment for his crimes.

“Pin him down,” I order my brother and Isaiah. With a watchful eye and the muzzle of his rifle trained on the other rats, Wyatt maintains control of the room while I get ready to strip the traitors of their cuts and Shamrocks’ tattoo. Directing my attention to my father, I add. “Fire up the blow torch. I want it nice and hot.”

“No.” The rat flails uselessly as he screams, “Fuck this... just let me leave. I’ll go inland—stay outta ya way.”

“The time for leavin’ has passed.” I bare my teeth at him when he cranes his neck back to hit me with a leading look. “The time for payback has arrived.”

After double-checking that he’s properly subdued, I grab a pair of meat scissors from the knife block and slice his cut straight up the middle of his back patch. The worn three-piece rocker, our club name at the top, the skull in the top hat decorated with charred shamrocks that sits in the middle, and the patch with Australia in bold letters that denotes his membership in the national chapter, parts like butter as the blade glides through it. I shred his t-shirt, nicking his skin as I go, until I’ve exposed the Black Shamrocks MC tattoo on his back.

It’s almost the same size as the cut he once wore.

The mess I’m about to make will be big.

Permanent.

Well-deserved.

“Dad?” I hold my hand out for the blow torch my father has cranked up.

The flame is bright blue, bordering on white, as I lower it to the traitor’s skin. He shrieks as the heat becomes too much to bear. Laughing, I shoot a look of pure hatred at the other men awaiting the same fate before I start burning the tattoo from my ex-club brother’s flesh.

When one of the rats tries to dart past my sentries, Wyatt shoots out his knee.

The echo of the bullet discharging is loud in the small room.

The screams from the charred traitor are louder.

His agony takes the edge off the urgency of my problems.

Reminds me of the depths I’m willing to stoop to for those I love.

These men all played a part in Alex getting his hands on my duchess again. And it’s that thought which stops my gut from going out in sympathy when my first target vomits from the pain. I am methodical, taking my time with each line of his tattoo, turning his skin into strips of blood and blisters as payback for his dishonour.

“Bring me the next one.”

My father nods approvingly as the second rat is strapped to the table.

I quirk my lips in acknowledgment of his pride, then get back to work.

Every scream purges my guilt.

Each blister that forms drains a little of my rage.

My chest loosens as I do exactly what Venom would do in the same situation.

I avenge our woman.

My woman.

The distinctive smell of burnt flesh fills the air while we strip Brutus’ faction of their membership in our brotherhood. I render them unrecognisable. Take pride in leaving them with a permanent reminder of their disgrace. As the pile of sliced up cuts grows, every now and then, one of the rats decides that taking a chance with Wyatt’s eagle eye is better than having their skin melted, but the eighteen-year-old proves himself over and over again. He aims low. Takes out their ability to run with a shot to the knee. Makes them face their sins like men.

When Toker joins us and cracks a couple of heads to make up for missing out on most of the fun, my little brother sidles up to me. "Thinkin' we should leave the Bishops’ a little gift since they were part of the setup."

"I'm thinkin' you might be right there, Hunt."

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