Page 17 of Savage Loyalty

I thought about Ghost.

About the way his lifeless body lay sprawled on the ground, his cut soaked in blood. The way his face was frozen in that last expression, a mix of shock and pain, like he’d barely had time to realize what was happening.

And I thought about Chains. The way he’d crouched over Pitch his massive hands moving with an uncharacteristic gentleness as he tried to scrub the blood off the kid’s patch. Like somehow, if he could just make the cut clean again, it would undo what had been done.

But there was no undoing it.

Ghost was gone.

He’d been one of us, a part of something bigger than himself. He’d worn the patch with pride, had earned it through sweat and loyalty and the kind of fire that made me think he might actually go the distance in this life.

And now he was just... gone.

For what?

A message? A show of power? A fucking ego trip from Axel Cruz and his pack of rabid dogs?

It wasn’t just Ghost and the other’s death that weighed on me—it was what it represented. A failure. A chink in our armor. Proof that the Reapers weren’t as untouchable as we wanted the world to believe.

And I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was my failure.

I’d been the one to send him to the depot.

It was supposed to be a routine check, nothing more, a way to give him some experience, to ease him into the kind of responsibilities that came with wearing the patch. He was eager, always the first to volunteer for a job, no matter how small or mundane.

And I’d let him go.

I’d sent him there without thinking twice because why would I? The depot wasn’t supposed to be a target. The Vipers hadn’t made a move in weeks. Things had been tense, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary.

I should’ve known better.

The signs had been there—the quiet, the way the Vipers had stayed just out of sight, the way the air in Ridgewood had felt heavier than usual, like the calm before a storm.

But I’d missed it.

I’d underestimated Axel Cruz. I’d assumed he’d play it safe and bide his time before making his move. I hadn’t thought he’d come at us this hard, this fast.

And they had paid the price for my mistake.

His face wouldn’t leave my mind.

Not just the way he’d looked in death but the way he’d been in life. That cocky grin he always had, the way he’d swagger into the clubhouse like he’d been a Reaper for years instead of months. The kid had fire, and I liked that about him.

I’d seen potential in him.

And now, all I could see was the bullet hole in his chest.

The guilt sat heavy in my chest, an ache that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to shove it down. I wasn’t the one who’d pulled the trigger, but it didn’t matter. I’d put him there. I’d made the call, and he’d followed it without hesitation, because that’s what Reapers did.

And now he was gone.

This life didn’t come with second chances. There were no do-overs, no way to rewind and fix your mistakes. You made the call, you lived with the consequences, and you moved the fuck on.

That was the rule.

But knowing that didn’t make it any easier.

Their deaths weren’t just a loss. It was a crack in the foundation, a warning that the Reapers weren’t as invincible as we wanted the world to believe. And if I didn’t figure out how to patch that crack fast, it would spread.

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