Page 128 of Legacy

“No.” I clasp my hand over my mouth while tears spill down my cheeks.

“You’re going to pay for this,” Aimee says, even if it’s barely audible through the screaming. Her tone is deathly calm. There are no tears. Nothing but pure rage radiates from her. “You all will.”

“Don’t worry, Aimee, you’ll get your turn.” The biker winks at her, holding the blonde in his arms now because she passed out from the pain.

I watch as he carries her up the stairs, and I slowly retreat into my cell. My back hits the bars, and the taste of vomit fills my mouth. But I manage to keep it down. Even as the basement door slams behind him, and Aimee drops to the floor again, sitting with her knees hugged to her chest.

Even as we all sit in silence, haunted by the scream of the blonde waking up.

Screaming that doesn’t stop for hours.

37

Legacy

The first time Istepped into the Shack, I was ten years old. King set me on a stool near the door and told me to stay put until he was done.

An Iron Sinner was tied to a chair in the center of the room, and he was already bleeding from where two knives were sticking out of his thighs. His face was beaten beyond recognition. To the point where he could barely peel his eyes open. But when his head bobbed, his gaze landed on me.

Only for a second.

Long enough to make my stomach heave.

I didn’t let it show. I swallowed it down and didn’t so much as flinch.

That was the moment to prove myself to my father—to King. To the club.

I gripped my chair but didn’t let King see me flinch as Helix pulled out a carving knife and squatted down,squaring off with the Iron Sinner. When he started the interrogation, I didn’t hear the words so much as I smelled the blood.

Thick and endless.

Pouring from his wounds as Helix skinned one arm at a time.

It took until his eighth fingernail before the Iron Sinner finally gave the club what they needed, and King had the honor of slicing his tongue out before putting a bullet between his eyes.

When all was said and done, I was excused so prospects could dispose of the body, and I barely made it out the door before I puked up everything I’d eaten that day.

Back then, it was still hard to swallow this life down.

I still had mercy.

Stepping into The Shack now, I feel no guilt over Lincoln sitting strapped to the chair over the drain in the center of the room. I feel no compassion for his tears or the piss soaking his jeans.

The stench of vomit hangs heavy in the air from him puking up his guts from his concussion, and I couldn’t care less how much he suffers.

Blood is caked at his side where the Iron Sinner stabbed him. Patch did enough to keep him alive, but that’s it. He won’t be walking out of here anyway.

The Iron Sinners might be the ones who took Reagan from the school, but Lincoln was there too. He cornered her, probably terrified her. If my enemies hadn’t shown up, who knows what else he would have done.

If I can’t get my hands on the people who have Reagan right now, then Lincoln will serve as the perfect replacement for my rage.

Steel, Soul, Ghost, and Venom stand by the pit, talking. A series of iron rods roast over the coals, but it’s mostly to make Lincoln squirm. Everyone has a preference on how they inflict pain—like Steel with his fists and Ghost with his knives. I like to eliminate the problem with a bullet before they have the chance to cause this many problems. But when that doesn’t work, I find simple things do more than enough—like pliers.

Like father, like son.

Lincoln watches me walk over to a cabinet we have on one side of the Shack. According to Steel, he’s yet to say anything, but that will change soon enough.

My hands graze the collection of knives, and I see Lincoln squirm. He doesn’t relax until my hands grip the pliers instead. I’m sure they seem less intimidating than a blade. It’s proof of how little he knows about torture.

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