Page 63 of Ravaged and Ruined
The ride out is a quiet one. Just the road, the hum of my engine, and a storm building behind my ribs. I ridestraight through, three hours non stop because if I stop moving, I might fall apart again.
The sky bleeds red behind me, the sun dipping over the Jersey horizon like it's trying to bury the sins I left behind. But they cling to me. Every mile closer to her is another reminder of what I nearly destroyed.
Christ.
I grip the throttle tighter, the wind howling past me like it knows I don’t deserve forgiveness.I used to think I was built for war. Violence, blood, chaos. I lived for it. But nothing’s wrecked me more than waking up in her bed, hungover and empty, only to find a fucking pregnancy test in the trash.
That moment everything shifted.
She didn’t tell me, because I didn’t let her. I threw up walls, sharpened edges, sent her away like she was something fragile I couldn’t afford to break. But I broke her anyway.
And still she kept me somewhere in that battered heart of hers, according to Emery, even if she hates me for it now. I deserve that hate. But it doesn’t stop the ache. Doesn’t smoother the fire that’s been eating me alive since I pushed her out the door.
I’m not riding to Pennsylvania as anything more than a man who’s hit rock fucking bottom and realized what matters. It’s not just this patch on my back. Not the power. Not the bloodshed. It’s her. It’s that kid. And the sick truth is, I don’t know if I’m enough for either of them.
What if she doesn’t forgive me? What if she slams the door in my face and tells me I blew my shot? I wouldn’t blame her. But I still have to try. I have to fight for what’s important and all of a sudden what’s important looks less like Harleys and bullets, whiskey and one night stands and more like cribs and pacifiers, diapers and bottles. It shouldn’t have taken me this long to figure that out but that’s where my head is now and damn, I am royally screwed.
I roll up on the Krymson Destroyers’ compound and it looks more like a bunker than a home. From the street it’s all pavement and concrete, barbed wire fence, metal gates and no bullshit. A long building stretches behind the fence with a covered bay up front for bikes. There’s no sign of softness anywhere. The kind of place where you’re either trusted or removed. Let’s hope I’m not the former.
I kill the engine just outside the gate. Two KDMC brothers wearing the club's colors step out from a booth near the entrance. A skeletal face grins back at me from a white skull with deep black eye sockets and a wicked, knowing smile, framed in blood-red on their cuts. One of them has a hand on his hip hovering near a sidearm. Not drawn but not welcoming either.
“State your name,” the taller one barks.
“Aero. Atlantic City chapter of the Royal Bastards. I’m here for Lacey Evans.”
He eyes me like I just tracked mud across his mother’s freshly mopped floor. The other one keys into his radio. There’s a short buzz, then the gate unlocks with a mechanical groan.
I roll in, slow and cautious. My sole focus was on getting to Lacey, not what I was going to do when I got here. I’m not sure what kind of greeting awaits me from the members of the Krymson Destroyers. Since I came alone, I have to hope they extend an olive branch at my unannounced arrival.
I park just outside the bay, cut the engine, and swing my leg over the bike. As I dismount, a lean but lethal looking man steps into view. He’s dressed in all black wearing the club's cut. A coiled cobra tattoo slithers up from his wrist, winding over his bicep, disappearing beneath his shirt like it’s alive and waiting to strike, and then curling out of it up and around the back of his neck. The ink gleams under the security lights, like it’s watching me too. Then I notice the patch. Cobra, the club’s Enforcer and Lacey’s brother.
I heard his hands are lethal weapons. Certified, trained, and deadly in martial arts. He has no need for blades, no need for guns. Cobra could kill you with a flick of his wrist before you even see it coming.
His dark hair’s pulled into a tight knot at the nape of his neck. His eyes lock on me from across the lot, unblinking, unmoving. A slow death in a single stare. Every move I make is deliberate, and controlled, like I’m approaching my damn executioner.
I don’t approach, I let himcome to me.
“You got some fuckin’ nerve showing up here,” Cobra says.
I nod once. “I came to bring Lacey home.”
“To what? More threats. More violence. You sent her away because you couldn’t protect her and now you think you get to show up and take her back?”
“I made a mistake.” I drag my hand through my hair, hating feeling vulnerable in front of anyone, especially a stranger but right now, this man is standing in the way of me and Lacey. “I’m the President of the Royal Bastards, my reputation precedes me. I can protect her just fine,” I swallow hard, “What I couldn’t protect was my heart.”
There you have it, all my cards and vulnerability laid out at this man’s feet to stomp on if he chooses. He stares me down with those deep, dark brown eyes, and I can’t decide if I should show him the savage I’ve always been, or keep the cracks showing, so he knows how much I love his sister. Both facts are equally true.
“You’re broken, man.” His voice sharpens, cutting past every defense I’ve got. “And that’s the part I actually respect.”
Then, he moves faster than I can brace myself.
His fist slams into my jaw. A crack echoes through my skull as my head jerks sideways, my spine twisting with the impact. Copper rushes over my tongue, bitter and hot. My vision blurs at the edges, white heat flashing behind my eyes. For a second, everything tilts. The ground. The air. My pride. I don’t fall, but I feel the shift.
I don’t hit back. I take it. Because I deserve it.
“Been wanting’ to do that for days,” he mutters, flexing his knuckles. “Figured if no one else could knock some sense into you, maybe I would.”
I rub my jaw. It doesn’t stop the sting, but it steadies me.
