Page 21 of Savage Loyalty

I hated that name.

Hated how it lingered, how it made my chest tighten with a mix of fury and unease. Ryder Kane. The Vice President of the Crimson Reapers. A man whose voice could make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with nothing more than a single, calculated word.

The first drops of rain hit my skin like tiny needles, cold and unrelenting. The metallic scent in the air grew stronger, mixing with the gasoline and leather that clung to the Reapers like a second skin.

Torch didn’t slow, and neither did the rest of them. The line of bikes pressed on, the rumble of their engines cutting through the sound of the rain like a growl of defiance.

I shivered, not from the cold but from the weight of the unknown.

What did Ryder want? What could I possibly have that would warrant dragging me out of my father’s house and hauling me to their turf like some kind of trophy?

Torch must have sensed my tension because he turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the edge of his smirk.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice carrying over the wind. “Ryder’s not the type to waste time. He’ll get what he needs, and then we’ll figure out what to do with you.”

I wanted to scream, to hit something, but the sound of the bikes drowned out every thought, every feeling. All I could do was hold on, the vibrations of the engine thrumming through my body as the clubhouse loomed closer.

The first thing I saw as we pulled into the lot was the line of bikes gleaming under the harsh glow of floodlights. They were parked in neat rows, each one a testament to the Reapers’ pride and unity.

The clubhouse itself was a looming structure, its weathered facade giving nothing away. It was a fortress, the kind of place that didn’t try to hide what it was.

Torch’s bike came to a sudden stop, and I barely had time to steady myself before he was dismounting, his grip still firm on my arm.

“Let’s go,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I stumbled as he hauled me forward, the gravel crunching under my boots. The other Reapers dismounted behind us, their heavy footsteps a reminder of just how outnumbered I was.

The faint hum of voices carried from inside the clubhouse, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of glass. It was a stark contrast to the tension coursing through my veins, the noise a cruel reminder of how normal this was for them.

Torch led me up the steps, shoving the door open with a casual swing of his arm. The air inside hit me like a wall—thick with the scent of smoke, motor oil, and something else I couldn’t quite place.

The noise quieted as we entered, and the conversations tapered off as the men inside turned to look. Their gazes were sharp and assessing, and I felt the weight of every one of them as they sized me up.

This was the belly of the beast.

And Ryder Kane was waiting.

On the mismatched couches and chairs scattered along the edges of the room, other club girls draped themselves over Reapers like living ornaments. Their clothing—or lack thereof—left little to the imagination. One girl perched on a biker's lap, her stilettos dangling precariously as she whispered something into his ear. Another lounged on a threadbare armchair; her legs sprawled wide as she traced lazy circles on a Reaper's chest.

My gaze was drawn to a group in the far corner. A petite blonde was sandwiched between three burly bikers, her lithe body barely visible between their muscular forms. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy as one man pounded into her from behind while another thrust up into her from below. The third biker stood in front of her, his thick shaft sliding in and out of her mouth as she took him deep into her throat.

The blonde's breasts bounced with each brutal thrust, her skin glistening with sweat in the dim light. Her muffled moans of pleasure were drowned out by the grunts and groans of the men using her. Their tattooed hands roamed over her body possessively, squeezing and pinching as they drove into her relentlessly.

The biker fucking her mouth, tangled his fingers in her hair, forcing her to take him deeper. She gagged as he hit the back of her throat, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. The man behind her quickened his pace, his hips slapping against her ass with each powerful thrust.

Torch’s grip on my arm tightened as we moved deeper into the room, his broad frame blocking out everything else. My gaze darted to the side, catching a glimpse of the men gathered around the pool table, their laughter echoing in the bright, chaotic space. Beyond them, a woman perched on the edge of the bar leaned back, her scant clothing leaving little to the imagination as she threw her head back in a peel of laughter.

But before I could take in more, Torch gave me a sharp nudge.

“Eyes forward,” he barked, his tone as sharp as the shove that had me stumbling a step.

I shot him a glare, more out of reflex than bravery, and his smirk deepened, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Don’t get distracted, Cruz. You don’t belong here, and you don’t want to make it harder on yourself.”

I bit back a retort, the sting of his words sinking in deeper than I cared to admit. He wasn’t wrong—I didn’t belong here. Every second in this room felt like I was walking a tightrope, every gaze on me like a blade waiting to cut me down.

We reached the hallway, and I felt like I could finally breathe again, though the reprieve was short-lived. The low hum of the main room’s chaos faded as we moved further away, replaced by the hollow sound of our footsteps against the wooden floor.

Torch stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall and knocked once, his knuckles rapping sharply against the wood.

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