Page 53 of Massacre
Standing my ground, I said nothing as Sandman silently moved around the club brothers. No one really paid him any attention and when he was within striking distance, I inquired, “Got something to say, Player?”
The instant the words escaped my lips, Sandman reacted—a blur of muscle and shadow. His grip, like a vise of raw flesh and bone, clamped onto Player’s shoulders, pinning him in place. The sudden silence in the room pressed down as I snatched a chair, the smooth, cold wood a stark contrast to the burning rage that coursed through me. With a harsh screech, I spun it around and straddled the seat, my eyes boring into my brother’s face. His skin, the color of old parchment, stretched taut over his high cheekbones. His breath hitched, a strangled groan escaping his lips.
“How... how the hell did you know?”
The question hung between us, thicker than the suffocating silence. His eyes, wide and desperate, mirrored the turmoil churning within me—a chilling testament to the secrets we both harbored.
Leaning forward, I grinned. “You have the same guilty look.”
“He just asked me to give her a note. That was all.”
“Of course he did. What did the note say?”
Player shook his head and groaned. “Take the key Kytten gave you and release Massacre. He’s waiting for you.”
“Anything else I need to know?”
“Yeah,” Player scoffed. “I’m gonna beat his ass when I see him. I told him this shit was stupid. Even for him.”
“What shit?”
“Oh, come on, Reaper,” Player groaned. “I can’t narc on my brother.”
My breath hitched, a hot, feral thing in my chest. I leaned in, the stale reek of his cheap cologne a physical assault as my face, inches from his, contorted. Every muscle screamed, a silent symphony of rage. My voice rasped against his ear and dripped with contempt.
He flinched, not from fear but from the sheer, uncontainable fury burning in my eyes—a fury born not of petty anger, but of a lifetime of betrayals, a simmering rage finally, explosively unleashed. “Not gonna ask you again, Reggie.”
“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath before cowering back. “Dumbass plans to give himself over to Yuri. He believes it’s the only way to protect Amber. He stupidly thinks he can kill the motherfucker himself.”
“But you don’t?”
Player shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
At that, Player looked me dead in the eyes as he slowly shook his head. “I won’t tell you.”
My head lolled back as I studied Player, the brother I’d known since he and Massacre showed up in Purgatory asking to prospect for the club. I knew even back then, I couldn’t take one without the other. They were a pair. Yet, I didn’t think twice. Player’s loyalty and laid-back manner made him a good fit, but it was his unrelenting, annoyingly aggravating loyalty to followMassacre straight into hell that sealed the deal. Player’s devotion to his brother was as cold and unwavering as a glacier. Which left me with a hollow ache in my chest, because whatever secret Player was guarding, it was coiled around Massacre’s heart, and by extension, mine. And considering the origin, the possibilities were horrifyingly, terrifyingly few.
Refusing to look away, I said, “Sypher. Deep dive on Yuri Nikitin.”
“Nav and I already looked, boss. There is nothing on the man.”
“Call Maxim,” I calmly said, and Player stiffened.
My blood ran cold, a glacial river freezing my veins as Sypher stalked out, the clubhouse door slamming like a gunshot behind him. The air hung thick, heavy with the scent of stale beer and simmering rage. My gut wasn’t just screaming; it was a primal roar, clawing its way up my throat, threatening to choke me. The urge to pulverize Player, to reduce him to a quivering mess, was a physical force, a crushing weight against my ribs. But I held back. A vise of self-control clamped down, because of the haunted look in his eyes, the raw, animalistic protectiveness he held for his brother... I understood that desperate, suffocating loyalty.
But the why? That gnawed at me like a festering wound.
Player’s chilling silence, the way he flinched at a sudden sound, the tremor in his usually steady hand—it wasn’t just fear. It was something darker, something that whispered of secrets best left buried, secrets that threatened to drag me down into a mire of violence and regret.
And the more I saw, the less I wanted to know.
There were a lot of things Massacre hadn’t divulged to me since his return.
Not that I pried, but maybe I should have.
That was on me.
