Page 39 of Heresy
She stood in front of me, a small, defiant woman holding a bottle and a rag.You're bleeding.
No one has tended to my wounds since Abel died. In this world, a President's wounds are his own problem. They are symbols of a war he must fight alone. Weakness is a scent that draws wolves, and for twenty years, I have made sure I never bleed where anyone can see.
But she saw. And she didn't see weakness. She saw a wound that needed cleaning. It wasn't an act of submission. It wasn't a trick. It was... something else. A flicker of the same defiant fire she always has, but this time it wasn't aimedatme. It was aimed at the damage donetome. For a single, insane moment, she was a shield, not a splinter.
That is what broke me. Not the pain. Not the exhaustion. It was that simple, terrifying act of unwanted care. It was a gesture so foreign in my world that it felt like a key turning in a lock I didn't know I had. It opened a door to a room inside me I thought I had bricked up and buried after Abel's death.
I let out a harsh, ragged breath. I told Rook and Zero I'm keeping her alive because she's a Bratva asset. A strategic move.
But as I stare at my own reflection in the dark monitor, I face the real, terrifying truth. I'm keeping her alive because her flicker of humanity is the most dangerous thing I've ever encountered. And I have to either possess it or destroy it completely. I'm just not sure which one I'm trying to do.
SEVENTEEN
A CAGE OF PAPER AND FEAR
VERA
For two days, the chessboard on my table has remained a silent battlefield. My single, defiant pawn sits advanced on the board, a tiny soldier in a war of nerves. He has not made a counter-move. The game hangs in a state of suspended animation, a perfect reflection of my own life. I am a ghost in their machine, a permanent fixture at my corner table, watching the club operate on a low, simmering boil.
The war with the Sin Santos is a fever in the house's bloodstream. The men are coiled springs of aggression, their conversations are low, angry rumbles, and the air is thick with the scent of gun oil and impending violence. I am a forgotten piece in a much larger, bloodier game.
Until today.
The low murmur of the clubhouse dies. Not a gradual fade, but a sudden, surgical cut, as if a switch has been flipped. I don't need to look up to know the cause. I can feel it. The shift in the atmospheric pressure, the sudden, intense focus of every eye in the room. His gravity.
I slowly lift my head. He is walking toward me.
Hex moves through the room with a calm, predatory grace that makes the tense silence even heavier. He doesn't look at anyof his men. His eyes are fixed on me, a dark, unreadable void. He stops at my table, a mountain of black leather and controlled menace, eclipsing what little light reaches my corner.
He doesn't speak. He just places two objects on the scarred wood of my table. A heavy, black leather motorcycle jacket, worn and creased in a way that speaks to thousands of miles on the road. And a sleek, black, full-face helmet. The thud of them hitting the table is a gavel striking wood, a verdict being delivered.
The message is a silent, undeniable command:You're coming with me.
My blood turns to ice water. Pure, animal terror claws at my throat, but the ghost, the survivor, shoves it down. There is no choice here. This is not a request. To refuse is to die.
My hands are shaking, but I force them to move. I stand and slide my arms into the jacket. The leather is heavy, a physical weight on my shoulders. The lining is cool against my skin, and it smells faintly but unmistakably of him—whiskey, motor oil, and that dark, electric scent of a storm.
The act of putting on his jacket, his colors, feels like the most profound violation yet. It is a brand, a public claim that is more intimate and damning than the mark his teeth left on my shoulder. I am no longer just a ghost in his house. I am now wearing his skin.
He turns without a word,and I am expected to follow. He leads me not toward the front door, but through a heavy, soundproofed door at the back of the clubhouse. The moment it opens, the muffled, angry rock music is swallowed by a different kind of sound: the professional roar of impact wrenches, thehigh-pitched whine of a sander, and the sharp hiss of a welding torch.
We step into the workshop of Serpent Cycle Works, and it's like entering a different universe.
This is not the chaotic, beer-soaked den of the clubhouse. This is a pristine, industrial temple dedicated to the art of the motorcycle. The air smells of hot metal, clean oil, and money. The concrete floor is polished to a mirror sheen, and rows of bikes in various states of assembly are mounted on hydraulic lifts like surgical patients. Several patched members, their faces grimly focused, work with a surgeon's precision, their tattooed hands surprisingly steady as they customize engines and fabricate parts.
This is the legitimate face of the beast, and it is terrifying in its professionalism.
Two men in expensive suits—clients—are perusing a finished motorcycle, a masterpiece of black chrome and intricate, airbrushed silver pinstriping. They run their hands over the flawless paint job, their faces a mixture of awe and intimidation. Rook is with them, his voice a low, convincing murmur as he points out the details of the custom engine. He sees us, and his eyes meet mine for a split second. I see a flicker of something—pity? warning?—before his professional mask slides back into place.
Hex ignores them all. He leads me past the gleaming monuments of steel and ambition, his presence cutting a silent path through the controlled chaos. He doesn't stop at the massive, blacked-out beast I remember from my abduction—his throne. Instead, he stops beside a different machine. It’s leaner, more understated, built for speed and silence rather than pure intimidation. It's a predator's bike, stripped of all vanity, painted a flat, matte black that seems to drink the light.
He swings his leg over the seat with a fluid grace, the leather creaking under his weight. He starts the engine. It doesn't roar to life like his other bike; it awakens with a low, menacing thrum, a deep vibration I feel in the soles of my feet.
He turns his head, his dark, unreadable eyes fixing on me. He waits.
The memory of the first ride—the raw terror, the brutal violence, the screaming wind—is a fresh wound in my mind. But this is different. His mood is not the hot, explosive rage of that night. It is a cold, controlled calm that is infinitely more menacing. I am not being abducted; I am being escorted. It’s a subtle but terrifying distinction.
My body is screaming in protest, but I have no choice. The act of willingly getting on this bike, of settling myself behind the man who brutalized me, is a new and profound surrender. My hands are shaking as I lift my leg over the seat. I hesitate for a split second, and then, because the alternative is a bullet, I wrap my arms around his solid, leather-clad waist, forcing a level of intimacy that makes my skin crawl. His body is a wall of unyielding muscle. He is the captor, and I am the captive, chained to him for the illusion of safety.
