Page 27 of Savage Loyalty

The air felt heavier now as if the walls themselves were closing in on me. The silence pressed down, thick and oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the house settling. The faint glow from the streetlamp outside flickered, its light casting long shadows across the room. They stretched and writhed, taking on shapes my mind insisted on turning into threats.

I rubbed my arms, trying to banish the chill creeping into my skin. The house wasn’t cold—it was suffocating. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

I turned toward the window, the weight of the shadows making me desperate for any sign of the outside world. Pulling the curtain back slightly, I peeked through the glass. Torch was still there, leaning against his bike with all the casual confidence of a man who knew he owned the night.

The faint orange glow of his cigarette flared as he took a drag, the brief light illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave. He wasn’t going anywhere until he was absolutely sure I wasn’t either.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, I leaned against the wall, my arms crossing tightly over my chest. The anger I’d felt earlier was still there, bubbling just beneath the surface, but it had twisted into something colder, sharper.

Ryder’s words echoed in my mind, low and mocking.“You might want to decide how much loyalty to your brother is really worth.”

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. He thought he had me figured out, thought he could scare me into submission. But he didn’t know me. Not really.

Pushing off the wall, I grabbed the trash bag again, my movements jerky and rushed. The rage inside me needed an outlet, and this was all I had for now. Each bottle I picked up, each piece of trash I stuffed into the bag, was a small, futile act of control.

This house might not have been home anymore, but I wasn’t going to let it swallow me whole. Not tonight. Not ever.

CHAPTER NINE

RYDER

The night was bitter, the kind of cold that crept through your clothes and sank deep into your bones, making every breath feel sharper. Ryder adjusted the collar of his leather jacket, his sharp eyes scanning the warehouse district with practiced precision. The Reapers’ bikes idled behind him, their engines a low, steady rumble that echoed off the weathered brick buildings around them. The suspected Viper stash house loomed ahead like a predator waiting in the shadows—a squat, nondescript structure with boarded-up windows and a single security light flickering above the dented steel door.

Ryder’s stomach twisted, the unease he’d been carrying all day settling into something heavier as they neared the building. The warehouse looked too quiet, too still. It didn’t feel right, but they couldn’t afford to leave any lead unchecked, especially not now.

“This the place?” Torch asked, pulling up beside Ryder. His voice cut through the cold night air, low and tense, laced with the same doubt Ryder felt but wouldn’t show.

“Yeah,” Ryder replied, his voice a low growl that carried an edge of resolve. He didn’t trust the intel—it had landed in their laps far too cleanly, almost gift-wrapped. But every day they hesitated was another day the Vipers or the Serpents gained the upper hand. And every misstep chipped away at the Reapers’ reputation, a weakness they couldn’t afford.

Torch nodded, his hand gripping the handlebars of his bike, his face tight with determination. Chains, Smoke, and Razor flanked them, their expressions grim under the glow of the streetlamp that buzzed faintly overhead. The shadow of Ghost’s absence loomed over all of them, a harsh reminder of how quickly things could spiral.

“We hit fast, in and out,” Ryder said, turning in his seat to address the group. His gaze swept over them, hard and commanding, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. “No games, no dragging this out. Got it?”

The crew nodded, their movements sharp, almost mechanical. Tension hung in the air like a live wire, crackling and dangerous. Ryder took one last look at the warehouse, his instincts screaming at him to turn back, but he forced the doubt away. There was no room for second-guessing—not tonight.

He tightened his grip on the handlebars, his knuckles white against the worn leather of his gloves. “Let’s go.”

The engines hummed low, their steady growl blending with the cold night air as we closed in on the warehouse. The vibrations of my bike coursed through me, grounding me as the familiar mix of adrenaline and unease settled in my chest. The wind was sharp, cutting against my face like a warning, and every crack in the pavement beneath my tires seemed to echo in the tense silence around us.

Behind me, the crew rode in tight formation, their bikes a wall of power and resolve. It wasn’t just about looking strong—it was about survival. No gaps, no weaknesses. The Reapers moved as one, and tonight, that unity was the only thing keeping us steady.

As the warehouse came into view, my stomach twisted. The building loomed ahead, its hulking frame bathed in the pale, flickering light of a single security lamp mounted above the door. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the gravel, clawing at the edges of the lot like the scene of some old nightmare.

The crunch of gravel under our tires grew louder as we approached, each sound biting into the quiet. I slowed, pulling up just shy of the perimeter, and the others followed suit, their bikes rolling to a halt behind me. The engines cut out one by one, the sudden silence slamming into me like a weight. It was thick and oppressive, the kind of quiet that wraps itself around you, waiting for something to snap.

I swung my leg over the bike, my boots hitting the uneven ground with a dull thud. The air smelled faintly of oil and rust, mingled with the sharp, metallic tang of the cold night. I scanned the building, every nerve in my body on high alert. It was too still, too clean. A goddamn invitation if I’d ever seen one.

Chains moved first, his massive frame a shadow against the dim light as he approached the warehouse. He was methodical, his steps slow but confident, his eyes sweeping the area with the kind of focus you only get after years of knowing how fast shit can go south. Torch stayed close to me, his gun already drawn, the sharp click of the safety disengaging cutting through the silence. His knuckles were tight around the grip, his every movement coiled and ready to strike.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Smoke muttered, his voice barely audible but carrying the weight of the unease we all felt. He was jittery, his fingers twitching near his piece, his gaze darting to every shadow that moved with the breeze.

“It never does,” I said, my voice low and steady. I wasn’t about to let them see the doubt creeping into my mind. “Eyes open. Nobody gets comfortable.”

The crew nodded, their faces grim and set, and I could feel the tension rolling off them in waves. This wasn’t the kind of job you walked into with anything less than full focus. Not if you wanted to walk out again.

Chains reached the door first, his gloved hand hovering over the rusted handle. He turned back to me, his expression tight with a question he didn’t need to ask aloud:Are we really doing this?

I met his gaze and gave a single nod, sharp and deliberate. There was no room for hesitation. Not here. Not now.

---