Page 25 of Savage Loyalty

I turned to Torch, nodding toward the hallway. “Don’t let her wander off again.”

Torch smirked faintly, stepping into the room and motioning for Delilah to follow him. “Come on, sweetheart,” he drawled, his tone lighter than mine but no less condescending. “Let’s get you home.”

I didn’t wait to watch her leave, the door clicking shut behind me as I strode down the hall. But the image of her standing there, cornered and bristling with anger, stuck with me.

She thought she could fight this, that she could somehow escape the tangled mess her name had dragged her back into.

She’d learn soon enough. They all did.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DELILAH

The rumble of Torch’s bike was a low, constant growl beneath me, vibrating through my body and rattling my already frayed nerves. The wind whipped against my face, cold and relentless, cutting through the thin jacket I’d thrown on earlier in the day. My arms were locked around the edge of the seat, my knuckles white, my stomach twisting with every mile that passed.

I wanted to scream. To lash out at Torch. At Ryder. At the entire fucked-up world that kept pulling me back into a life I’d fought so hard to escape.

But all I could do was sit there, every bump in the road jarring through me, my mind replaying Ryder Kane’s words on a loop.

"You might want to decide how much loyalty to your brother is really worth."

He’d called mekitten,the nickname curling around my throat like a noose. There was something mocking in the way he’d said it, something that set my teeth on edge. I hated him for it, hated the way it stuck with me, the way his sharp, cold gaze lingered in the back of my mind.

The anger bubbled just beneath the surface, hot and volatile, but it couldn’t quite smother the fear. That was the part I hated most. No matter how much I tried to bury it, to shove it down where it couldn’t touch me, it was still there, clawing at the edges of my composure.

Torch’s voice cut through the roar of the wind, low and gruff. “Almost there,” he said, not even bothering to glance back at me.

The words were simple and matter-of-fact, but they carried weight. He didn’t care about the storm brewing inside me, didn’t care about the fire in my chest or the fear twisting in my gut. To him, I was just a job, another task to be completed before he moved on to the next.

I clenched my jaw, the rush of cold air doing little to calm the war raging inside me. I hated him. I hated Ryder. I hated all of them—the Reapers, the Vipers, the Serpents. It didn’t matter what patches they wore or what banners they flew. They were all the same. Wolves fighting over scraps, pretending it was about power when it was really just about survival.

The house came into view, its hulking silhouette rising out of the darkness like a ghost from my past. Its weathered walls, stained by time and storms, loomed large, pressing against the faint glow of the moonlight. Long, jagged shadows stretched across the gravel driveway like claws reaching for me, pulling me back into the life I’d barely escaped.

The crunch of Torch’s tires filled the oppressive stillness, the sound grinding into my chest with every turn of the wheels. The gravel seemed louder than it should’ve been, every crack and scrape cutting through the silence like an accusation.You’re back. You don’t belong here. You never did.

Torch killed the engine, and the sudden absence of its roar left the night deafening. The faint hum of insects and the distant rustle of leaves barely registered over the pounding of my heart. The house, once a place I’d dreaded leaving, now stood like a dark sentinel, daring me to step inside and face the memories trapped within its walls.

I slid off the bike, my legs stiff from the ride and from the constant tension that had knotted my muscles. The chill of the night air bit at my exposed skin, and I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jacket to keep them from shaking. My boots crunched against the gravel as I stood there for a moment, staring at the house, willing myself to move.

Torch swung his leg off the bike with practiced ease, his boots hitting the ground with a solid, deliberate thud. The sound was sharp, purposeful, and it sent a ripple of tension through me. He didn’t speak right away, didn’t even glance at me. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to remind me that I wasn’t here on my own terms.

“Let’s go,” he said finally, his tone flat but carrying the weight of unspoken authority. His hand didn’t reach for me this time, but it hovered close enough to remind me he could.

“You’re not gonna run, are you?” Torch asked, his voice low, almost amused.

I shot him a glare over my shoulder, the fire in my chest rekindling just enough to burn through the icy fear. “Not tonight.”

Torch smirked, a faint glint of approval flashing in his dark eyes. “Wraith said to make sure you got home. Don’t make me regret leaving you here.”

At the mention of Wraith, my stomach twisted. Ryder Kane’s sharp, calculated words from earlier still rang in my ears. The nicknamekittenwas a thorn lodged deep, mocking and infuriating. I could feel his gaze, his presence, as if he were here now, watching, waiting for me to make a mistake.

I turned my back on Torch without a word, making my way to the door. My hand shook as I fumbled with the keys, every nerve on edge as the weight of the night pressed down on me. The lock clicked, and I shoved the door open, the hinges creaking in protest.

The air inside hit me like a slap, thick and oppressive, heavy with the remnants of a life I’d spent years trying to escape. It was the same as always—faint traces of motor oil, the faintly acrid tang of old wood, and the unmistakable, lingering scent of my father’s cigars. The combination churned in my stomach, a cruel reminder of everything this house had been and everything it would never be again.

I paused just inside the door, the space around me feeling impossibly smaller than I remembered. The walls seemed closer, the ceilings lower, and the weight of the memories trapped within them pressed down on me. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes adjusted to the dim light spilling through the cracks in the curtains.

Every inch of this place carried a memory. The worn grooves in the floorboards by the doorway where my father’s boots had tread thousands of times. The scuffs on the wall near the kitchen were from a fight between two Vipers that had ended with one of them thrown halfway across the room. The patched-up corner of the living room where a bullet had once shattered the plaster during a late-night argument gone wrong.

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