Page 16 of Savage Loyalty

And war?

War bled everyone dry.

It would bleed the Vipers, the Reapers, even the fucking Serpents watching from their shadows. War didn’t care about alliances, loyalty, or the bullshit code of respect most MCs pretended to follow. It was about survival, plain and simple.

I wasn’t afraid of that. The Reapers had been forged in blood and fire. Every scar we carried was a testament to what we’d endured, what we’d overcome. Survival wasn’t just in our DNA—it was our way of life.

But survival wasn’t the same as winning.

I tightened my grip on the handlebars, the leather of my gloves creaking under the pressure. Axel Cruz had made his move, and now it was on me to counter. Gage would want to hit back hard and fast, to remind the Vipers who ran this town and why. And he wasn’t wrong. A show of strength was necessary.

But retaliation without strategy? That was a mistake we couldn’t afford.

This wasn’t just about pride. It wasn’t about saving face or even avenging Ghost and the others—not entirely. It was about control.

Axel wasn’t just testing our limits—he was testing the Reapers themselves, trying to find the fault lines he could exploit. And the Serpents? Those snakes were biding their time, watching and waiting for someone to falter.

They didn’t need to swing the first punch. They didn’t even need to take sides. They were the vultures circling above, waiting for the chaos to spiral out of control so they could swoop in and pick the bones clean.

The thought sent a chill down my spine, cold and sharp. Ridgewood wasn’t just our home—it was our kingdom. Losing control of it wasn’t an option, not to the Vipers, the Serpents, or anyone else with delusions of grandeur.

I couldn’t afford fear, not now.

Gage had always been the face of the Reapers. The one everyone looked to when shit hit the fan. He had the charisma, the authority, and the raw presence that made men fall in line without question. He wore the President’s patch like it was a crown, commanding respect with every decision, every word, every glance.

But behind closed doors, the weight of keeping this club together didn’t rest on him alone. It fell on me.

As Vice President, I was the one who had to see the cracks before they turned into canyons. The one who had to make sure Gage’s decisions didn’t tear us apart while still backing him up in front of the others. To them, Gage was the king, and I was his enforcer. His second-in-command. The man who made sure the machine kept running no matter how rough the road got.

It was a delicate line to walk, one I’d spent years perfecting. Gage had the vision, but I was the one who dealt with the fallout. When his calls didn’t land the way they should’ve, or when his heavy-handed leadership rubbed someone the wrong way, I was the one who smoothed things over. I was the one who sat down with Chains when he butted heads with Gage, who kept Torch from spiraling when a job went sideways.

But this war? This war was different.

The stakes were higher, the risks greater, and the fractures within our club more visible than ever.

It wasn’t just the Vipers or the Serpents that had me on edge. It was us.

The Reapers were a force to be reckoned with, a name that carried weight wherever it was spoken. But we weren’t invincible. The cracks in our foundation had been there for a while, growing slowly, almost imperceptibly. At first, it was the kind of thing you could brush off—a muttered comment here, a hesitation there.

But over time, those small things had grown louder, harder to ignore.

Some of the guys were restless, their frustrations simmering just below the surface, waiting for the right—or wrong—moment to boil over. And I could feel it. Every glance, every word that hung a little too long in the air, every choice questioned in the shadows of the clubhouse.

Chains, for all his loyalty, had been questioning Gage’s calls more openly lately. He wasn’t insubordinate—Chains didn’t operate like that—but his frustration was palpable. He had a way of making his dissatisfaction known without ever outright challenging authority. A sarcastic comment here, a pointed look there. It wasn’t rebellion, but it was damn close.

And the thing about Chains? When he was pissed, people noticed. He wasn’t just a member—he was the sergeant-at-arms, the guy who kept everyone else in line. When Chains was steady, the others followed his lead. But when he wasn’t?

That’s when the cracks widened.

Then there was Torch. Young, eager, and too damn reckless for his own good. He had the fire we needed, sure, but he didn’t understand the bigger picture yet. To him, the club was about loyalty and action—hitting hard, taking risks, and proving himself. He didn’t see that this wasn’t just about swinging fists and pulling triggers. This was about strategy, about survival, about knowing when to bide your time and when to strike.

Torch didn’t know how to wait. And in this war, impatience could get us all killed.

And Smoke? Smoke was loyal. Always had been. But even he had his limits. Smoke was the kind of guy who didn’t complain, who took orders and carried them out without question. But lately, even he seemed... off. He was quieter than usual, his sharp humor dulled, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced by something harder, more withdrawn.

They all had their limits.

Hell, we all did.

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