Page 11 of Savage Loyalty

For a moment, I thought he was talking to me. But then the men started shuffling out, their boots scuffing against the floor as they moved toward the door. One by one, they disappeared, until it was just the two of us.

I didn’t move.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less sharp. “This isn’t about what you want, Delilah. This is about loyalty. Family. Responsibility. You think you can just turn your back on that?”

“I didn’t turn my back,” I said, my voice breaking. “You pushed me away.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken for too long. Dad’s jaw tightened, and for a split second, I thought I saw something in his eyes—regret, maybe, or pain. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

“You’ll see,” he said, his tone softer but no less resolute. “One day, you’ll understand.”

I didn’t stay to argue. I turned and walked out of the clubhouse, the tears finally spilling over as I stepped into the cool night air. My chest ached, my throat burned, and my mind raced with the weight of everything that had just happened.

I didn’t know if I’d ever understand him.

But I knew one thing for sure: I wasn’t going to let him control my life anymore.

The memory hit me like a wave, pulling me under and leaving me gasping for air. I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the present. My fists were clenched at my sides, just like they’d been that night, and my chest felt just as tight.

Even now, years later, his voice still haunts me. His words echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of the shadow I’d been trying to escape. Maybe he’d been right. The world outside the Vipers wasn’t kind. It was ruthless and cold, just like him. But at least it was mine.

I let out a shaky breath, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket and quickening my pace. The rain had started to fall again, light but steady, soaking into my hair and dripping down the back of my neck. I tried to lose myself in the rhythm of my footsteps, in the sound of the rain, but the weight of the memory clung to me like a second skin.

As much as I hated to admit it, Dad had been right about one thing: the world outside the Vipers was unforgiving. And now, with him gone, it felt even colder.

The rumble of their engines hit me first, a low growl that sent a ripple of unease crawling up my spine. At first, I tried to convince myself it was nothing—just another group of bikers passing through. Ridgewood wasn’t short on clubs, after all. But the sound grew louder, sharper until it wasn’t just background noise but a warning.

My boots slowed on the wet pavement as I glanced over my shoulder, my stomach twisting. Four bikes roared down the street, their riders cloaked in shadow beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. Their leather cuts gleamed in the faint light, the Crimson Reaper on their backs stark and unmistakable.

The Crimson Reapers.

I turned away, hoping they’d pass, but the sound of their engines changed. Slower, closer. My pulse quickened as they eased their bikes to a stop, forming a loose line across the street. They didn’t just block the road—they boxed me in, their presence commanding the entire space.

One by one, they cut their engines, and the silence that followed was worse than the noise. It pressed against my ears, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint patter of rain on the asphalt.

The tallest of them dismounted first, his boots hitting the ground with a deliberate thud. He was broad-shouldered, his leather cut stretched tight across his chest, and his scruffy beard framed a face that was all hard lines and sharper intentions. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but I could feel his gaze burning into me.

“Lost, sweetheart?” he drawled, his voice low and mocking.

I stopped in my tracks, my breath hitching in my throat. “Just passing through,” I said, keeping my voice steady, though my heart was pounding.

His lips curled into a smirk as he took a step closer, his boots splashing through a puddle. “Passing through where?” he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Viper territory’s that way. This is Reaper turf.”

The others chuckled, their laughter low and rumbling, the kind of sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. They hadn’t even dismounted, just sat on their bikes like predators waiting for the right moment to pounce.

I forced myself to hold my ground, my mind racing. They knew who I was—there was no way they didn’t. The daughter of Javier Cruz, walking alone in their territory? This wasn’t a coincidence. It was a message.

“Look,” I said, keeping my tone calm. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Trouble?” Another one of them, shorter but stockier, let out a bark of laughter. He leaned forward on his handlebars, his sharp eyes gleaming with amusement. “Trouble’s your middle name, ain’t it? Cruz blood and all.”

The tall one’s smirk widened, his sunglasses reflecting the faint glow of a nearby streetlight. “Heard about your old man,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Shame, really. Guess the Vipers aren’t as untouchable as they like to think.”

His words hit like a punch, knocking the air from my lungs. My fists clenched at my sides, anger flaring hot and sharp in my chest. “You want to talk shit about my father? Fine,” I snapped. “But don’t pretend you’re any better. The Reapers bleed just like the rest of us.”

The smirk faltered, replaced by a harder edge. The air around us seemed to grow heavier as he stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like he wanted me to feel every second of his approach.

“Careful,” he said, his voice soft but carrying an unmistakable threat. “You might be daddy’s little princess, but out here? You’re nothing. No one’s gonna give a shit if you end up face down in a ditch.”

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