Page 104 of Massacre
“And yet here you stand,” he said. “But since I’m in a giving mood, I’ll give you a choice, Massacre. You either return to the fold, or I can take your brand right now.”
Massacre gulped as I narrowed my eyes at the large fucker. “You really want to do this shit right now?”
“Rules are rules, Reaper. You know that better than most.”
Fuck! As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Morpheus was right. Every club had its own bylaws; to defy them was instant death, and the Brotherhood didn’t fucking play. Massacre knew the rules when he infiltrated them. He had to have known this day would come.
Nodding, I said nothing as Morpheus stepped forward.
“Shirt off, Massacre,” he ordered.
Massacre hesitated, his eyes darting between me and Morpheus, the weight of his decision hanging heavy in the air. I kept my gaze locked on Morpheus, my demon urging me to tear him limb from limb. But I had to stay focused; one wrong move and this whole clubhouse could erupt into chaos.
“BOSS!” my brother gasped.
“Reaper, don’t let him do this,” Reggie pleaded with me. “He’s still recovering from damn near dying.”
“I don’t have a choice. Besides, the moron beat the shit out of a man in public just the other day, Player. He can handle it,” Iabsently said, never taking my eyes off Morpheus, who smirked, enjoying the show.
When neither Massacre nor Player moved, I groaned. “King. A little help here.”
“Brothers,” King simply said, and damn near all the Silver Shadows moved to lock down Massacre and Player, who struggled to break the hold.
“You heard the man, Massacre,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil within me. “Shirt off. Now.” The room fell silent as Massacre slowly lifted his hands to his shirt, his movements cautious. With a swift motion, he pulled the fabric over his head, revealing the brand on his chest—a tattoo of the Brotherhood crest that signified his loyalty to another club. Morpheus’ eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he took in the sight, reaching for his knife.
I clenched my jaw, my fingers itching to pull the trigger and put a bullet between Morpheus’ eyes. But I had to play this game, at least for now. With a nod, I turned to Massacre, my brother in arms of the Golden Skulls, as Morpheus walked over to carry out the grim task that lay before me.
“I’m really going to enjoy this.” The fucker smiled, standing before Massacre.
Aiming my gun at the back of his head, I snarled, “So will I if you do anything stupid.”
Massacre’s eyes went wide as he caught the glint of Morpheus’ blade—a wicked curve of polished obsidian, reflecting the light of the room. The air, thick with the stench of sweat and fear, crackled before the first, agonizing slice. I felt it—a visceral jolt, like a hammer blow to my own chest—as Morpheus’ blade cut deep. Massacre didn’t cry out, didn’t flinch. His body, a rigid monument to defiance, locked against the exquisite torment. A low growl, raw and guttural, vibrated fromhis throat, a sound that spoke of years spent facing death and spitting in its face.
Morpheus, a predator savoring his kill, smiled. It wasn’t a smile of triumph, but something colder, more calculating—the chilling pleasure of a craftsman meticulously dismantling his masterpiece. The blade moved with a sickening grace, each deliberate stroke a slow, agonizing erasure of Massacre’s Brotherhood tattoo. The smell of Massacre’s blood filled the room so much I could almost taste it on my tongue. The scrape of steel on skin, the ragged tearing of flesh, the muted gasp that escaped Massacre’s lips—every detail was a symphony of brutal artistry designed to break my brother’s spirit. And Morpheus, the conductor of this horrific orchestra, relished every note.
With one last flick of his wrist, Morpheus held up the piece of flesh, blood dripping from his fingers, and muttered, “A life for a life. Your debt is paid.”
The second it was done, the brothers holding Massacre helped him to sit down as Patch, the Silver Shadows’ medic, rushed over to stem the flow of blood.
“You got what you came for, now get the fuck out of my club,” King roared.
Smiling, Morpheus pocketed the torn flesh in his cut and looked at me, my gun still pointed at his face when Jackass rushed into the clubhouse from the outside.
“Someone just dropped Tundra at the gate!” he shouted before running back outside.
Holstering my gun, the Silver Shadows rushed outside, leaving me and King alone with Morpheus, who asked, “Where’s the snitch?”
“I’m right here,” Sypher spoke up, stepping out of the shadows and looking directly at Morpheus. “Patch and Reggie took Massacre to the infirmary,” the kid stated. “And I’ve disabled the cameras. You’re free to talk.”
“Have you found him?” Morpheus snarled, glaring at Sypher.
“No. But I have it narrowed down to three brothers.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Sypher? Found who?” King asked, looking between Morpheus and the kid, who ignored him completely and simply said, “Heretic, Zephyr and Firestride.”
“Fuck!” Morpheus cursed and then said, “Reaper, I need more time.”
“You’ve had over five years. I can’t sit on him much longer. He knows the truth.”
