Page 26 of Savage Loyalty

I let the door slam shut behind me, the sound echoing in the hollow silence. It was a harsh, almost accusatory sound as if the house itself was angry at my return. My boots scuffed against the hardwood as I moved further inside, the noise breaking the stillness but doing nothing to ease the tension that clung to the air.

The living room was still a disaster, a haunting reminder of the chaos that had followed my father’s death. Before the Reapers had dragged me out of here, I’d started cleaning up the wreckage left behind by the Vipers after the wake. Now, standing in the middle of it again, it felt like no progress had been made at all.

Empty beer bottles littered the coffee table, their labels peeling and sticky with dried condensation. A few had rolled onto the floor, their contents long since spilled, leaving behind faint, sticky rings. The ashtrays were overflowing with cigarette butts, their stale, acrid scent clinging stubbornly to the air like an unwelcome guest. Plates sat abandoned on the side table, their contents hardened and congealed, a stark reminder of how little anyone cared to actually grieve.

I moved toward the center of the room, where the faint crunch of broken glass under my boots made me pause. One of the bottles must’ve shattered in the chaos, and the shards glinted faintly in the dim light filtering through the curtains. The soft glow of the streetlamp outside barely reached into the room, leaving long, jagged shadows that seemed to stretch and twist with every step I took.

I bent down to pick up a shard, the jagged edge catching the light as I held it up to my face. It was oddly beautiful, in a broken sort of way. Just like this place. Just like the life my father had built. Everything was sharp, jagged, and dangerous, but not without its allure.

With a sigh, I dropped the shard into the trash bag I’d abandoned earlier, the sound of it hitting the other debris startlingly loud in the silence. My hand brushed against the trash bag’s surface, and for a moment, the plastic felt heavier than it should have. Like it was holding the weight of more than just the garbage. Like it was holding the weight of all the memories I was trying so hard to discard.

The walls loomed over me, oppressive in their silence, like a judgmental audience to my unraveling. Lined with faded photographs, they seemed to stare back at me, bearing witness to the chaos my life had become. Each frame held a slice of history, meticulously preserved despite the decay of the house around them. The pictures were yellowed with age, but undeniably well-cared for—one of the rare things my father had preserved with obsessive pride.

I stepped closer, drawn against my will, the ache in my chest growing heavier with each step. There he was, Javier Cruz, standing tall and commanding in one shot, his leather cut pristine, his eyes hard and unyielding. He was surrounded by the Vipers, their faces a mix of loyalty and intimidation. In another, his arm was slung casually over Axel’s tiny shoulders, his grip firm, almost possessive. Axel was just a boy, barely old enough to ride, but his face was lit with pure, unfiltered admiration. It was the kind of adoration I’d never managed to summon, even as a child.

And then there was me.

In one photo, a younger, wide-eyed version of myself stood awkwardly beside my father, with my forced smile plastered across my face. My arms were stiff at my sides, and my body angled slightly away from him, like I already knew I didn’t belong. I looked out of place, even then,like I was trying to shrink into the background, to make myself invisible.

That picture was the hardest to look at, but my eyes kept drifting back to it, drawn by some masochistic need to confront that girl. The girl in the frame pulled at a long-buried part of me, one I didn’t want to acknowledge. She didn’t know what she was signing up for. She didn’t know what this world would demand of her—how much it would take, how it would twist and break her until there was nothing left.

I could see it now, the cracks already forming in that photo. The way my father’s hand rested heavily on my shoulder was not a gesture of affection but a claim. The way his gaze wasn’t on me but on the camera, like I was nothing more than a prop to complete his image. The way Axel, even as a child, seemed so at ease, so naturally part of this world, while I looked like I was holding my breath, waiting for it to swallow me whole.

My chest tightened, a sharp ache spreading like wildfire. I turned away from the wall, unable to bear it any longer. The weight of those memories was suffocating, pressing down on me with every breath.

The chaos of the living room came back into focus—the mess of empty bottles, the scattered ashtrays, the plates with food left uneaten. But even that didn’t feel real. It was just another layer of decay, another reminder of how much this place had taken and how little it had given back.

This house wasn’t just a mess—it was a mausoleum, a tomb for a man who had built his entire world on blood and violence. A man whose shadow loomed over everything he touched.

And no matter how far I ran, how hard I tried to escape, it always seemed to find me. That shadow had a way of stretching, of following me into the cracks of my life, no matter how tightly I tried to seal them. It wasn’t just my father—it was the weight of his choices, his legacy, his name.

The ache in my chest turned into something sharper, something angrier. I clenched my fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. That girl in the photo? She was gone. She had to be. Because if she wasn’t, if even a piece of her still existed, then this house, this life, would swallow me whole.

And I wasn’t about to let that happen. Not again.

I moved to the couch, the floorboards groaning beneath my weight as if even the house was protesting my presence. I reached for a half-empty beer bottle perched precariously on the edge of the coffee table. The glass was warm and sticky, its label curling from condensation long since evaporated. The sour-smelling remnants sloshed as I tipped it into the trash bag. The liquid hit the bottom with a hollow, echoing splatter, the sound unnervingly loud in the suffocating stillness.

My movements were mechanical, driven more by the need to occupy my hands than any real desire to clean. Each swipe, each step, each toss into the bag felt like a vain attempt to clear away the ghosts lingering in every corner. The mess around me wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, a tangible reminder of a life I’d tried so hard to leave behind. But here, in this house, the past wasn’t just a memory; it was alive, clawing at me with every breath I took.

The grooves in the floorboards near the doorway caught my eye, pulling me back to nights I’d tried to forget. My father’s pacing had worn them down, his heavy boots a steady rhythm as he barked into the phone. His voice had always been low and gravelly, laced with that edge of tension that never seemed to leave him. I could almost hear it now, the ghost of his words swirling in the air around me, faint and insistent.

Then, there was the faded spot on the carpet, a blotch that had stubbornly refused to fade no matter how many times it was scrubbed. Axel had caused that—spilled an entire bottle of whiskey, trying to impress the older guys. He’d been grinning like an idiot, his bravado unshaken even as the others laughed at him. I could still hear their jeers, the way they slapped him on the back, half-mocking, half-proud. It was one of the rare times Axel had been able to draw my father’s attention without earning his wrath.

And then there was the dent in the kitchen wall. That one was seared into my memory, a permanent scar in the house’s flesh and in mine. It had been a night of shouting, the kind of fight that left the air thick and oppressive for days afterward. My father and another Viper had gone head-to-head over a deal gone bad, their tempers flaring until my father’s fist had slammed into the wall with enough force to leave a mark. The sound had echoed through the house, rattling my bones even from upstairs. I’d stayed in my room that night, curled under my blanket, waiting for the storm to pass.

This house wasn’t just haunted by my father. It was haunted by the version of me that used to live here. The girl who still thought she could make him proud without losing herself in the process. The girl who didn’t yet understand the cost of loyalty, the weight of a legacy built on blood and violence.

My gaze drifted back to the photographs on the wall. They stared back at me, silent witnesses to a life I barely recognized. My stomach churned as my eyes locked onto the one of me, that younger, wide-eyed version of myself. Her smile was forced, her posture stiff. She didn’t belong in that picture, didn’t belong in this house, and yet she was trapped there, just like I was now.

That girl was gone. She’d been gone for a long time.

And this house? This place? It had never really been mine, to begin with. It was my father’s domain, a monument to his power, his pride, his control. Even now, with him gone, it still felt like he was here, his presence woven into the walls, the floors, the very air I was breathing.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. The anger bubbled just beneath the surface, simmering alongside the grief and the resentment. I hated this house. I hated what it represented. But most of all, I hated the part of me that still couldn’t let it go.

With a sharp breath, I pushed the thoughts away, grabbing another bottle from the table and tossing it into the trash bag with more force than necessary. If nothing else, I could at least clean this place up. I could make it look less like a shrine to a man I couldn’t mourn and more like a space I could tolerate.

Even if it would never feel like home.

---