Page 48 of Savage Loyalty

The house was quiet when I walked in, the stillness pressing down on me like a weight. The faint scent of motor oil lingered in the air, stubborn and unyielding, mingling with the faintest hint of my mother’s lavender cleaner. The living room was just as I’d left it—worn furniture, cluttered tables, and faded photos lining the walls. A time capsule of a life I wasn’t sure I wanted anymore.

Dropping my keys onto the counter, I moved to the couch and sank into it, my head falling back against the cushions. My eyes drifted to the wall across from me, to the photographs I’d grown up with but rarely allowed myself to look at. My father, Axel, my mother, and —frozen in moments that felt like they belonged to someone else.

My gaze lingered on one photo in particular: the four of us standing in front of Dad’s Harley, Axel, and me sandwiched between our parents. Axel was grinning like he had the world at his feet, his arm slung over my shoulder as if to say we were in this together. Dad stood tall, his hand resting on Mom’s shoulder, her smile soft but distant.

The memory came rushing back, unbidden and sharp.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke and tension, the kind of tension that seemed to seep into the walls. I was thirteen, sitting on the edge of the couch with my legs tucked under me, watching Axel shuffle a deck of cards. He was grinning like he’d just pulled off the greatest trick in the world, the picture of confidence even as a teenager.

“Ready to lose?” he taunted, flicking the cards expertly between his hands.

“You wish,” I shot back, my tone sharper than I meant it to be. I was tired, my head pounding from the constant thrum of noise that never seemed to leave this house.

Dad was at the kitchen table, his boots propped on the chair opposite him, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He wasn’t paying us any attention, his focus on a ledger spread out in front of him. His cut hung off the back of his chair, the Black Vipers’ insignia visible even in the dim light.

“Axel quit messing around,” Dad said without looking up, his voice low and edged with irritation. “You’ve got real work to do.”

Axel rolled his eyes but set the cards down. “It’s just a break, Dad.”

“There are no breaks,” Dad snapped, his gaze finally lifting. He didn’t yell—he didn’t have to. His tone carried enough weight to make Axel’s grin falter.

Mom hovered near the counter, washing a dish that didn’t need washing. She hadn’t said a word all night, her silence louder than anything else in the room. I caught her glancing at Dad out of the corner of her eye, her movements tense and deliberate.

“And you,” Dad said, turning his gaze to me. My stomach dropped. “You’re not too young to pull your weight around here, Delilah.”

“I’m not—” I started, but the words died in my throat.

“Don’t talk back,” he said, his voice flat. “You think you’re too good for this life? You’re not.”

The air felt colder, heavier, as his words sank in. I clenched my fists in my lap, my nails biting into my palms. Axel shot me a look, something between sympathy and annoyance, but he didn’t say anything. He never did when it came to Dad.

“You’re a Cruz,” Dad continued, his attention already drifting back to his ledger. “That means something. Start acting like it.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. The weight of his expectations—his disappointment—settled over me like a shroud. It didn’t matter what I wanted, what I dreamed of. All that mattered was the name I carried and the world he’d built around it.

The memory dissolved, but the heaviness in my chest lingered, wrapping around me like a second skin I couldn’t shed. I turned away from the photo, my movements sharp, my breath uneven. Every corner of this house was a reminder of him—of the man who’d built a kingdom out of blood and smoke and demanded we all live under its weight. Dad hadn’t been the type to give affection or praise. Love, to him, wasn’t soft; it was a blade, sharp and unforgiving, meant to cut you into shape.

I stopped in front of the kitchen table, my fingers brushing the worn edge of the wood. The faint scent of smoke lingered there, stubborn and inescapable, like a ghost that refused to leave. It was the same table where Axel had once played cards and laughed, where Mom had stood silently, cleaning a dish that didn’t need cleaning. And it was where Dad had sat, ledger open, the world under his thumb—or so he thought.

Axel’s words from earlier rattled in my mind, his voice low and accusing: “You came to us.”

I hadn’t wanted to. But where else could I go? The Crimson Reapers, the Iron Serpents, the Black Vipers—they were all circling, their motives hidden behind leather cuts and sharp smiles. And me? I was caught in the middle, a pawn in a game I didn’t understand and had no desire to play. Yet here I was, standing in the heart of it all, pulled back into the house I’d sworn to leave behind.

“Start acting like it.”

Dad’s voice echoed in my head, as cold and demanding as it had been all those years ago. His words weren’t just a memory—they were a weight I’d carried with me, a chain I couldn’t break. No matter how far I ran, it always led back to this house, to this life, to the shadows he’d cast over all of us.

I sank into one of the chairs, the wood creaking under my weight. My head fell into my hands, my fingers gripping my hair as I tried to breathe through the mounting pressure in my chest. The past, the present, Axel’s recklessness—it all pressed down on me, suffocating until it felt like I was drowning in a sea of things I couldn’t control.

I didn’t want this life. I never had. But maybe wanting didn’t matter anymore. Maybe it never had.

I lifted my head and stared at the table, at the scratches and burns that told the story of a thousand nights I wished I could forget. Dad might’ve been gone, but his presence was everywhere, and his legacy was alive and breathing in Axel’s every move.

The thought made my stomach churn. Axel, the Reapers, the Serpents—they were all pulling at threads, unraveling whatever fragile peace had existed. And I was caught in the center of it, powerless to stop the spiral.

But I wasn’t powerless to walk away. Not yet.

The question was: Could I? Or was it already too late?

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