Page 44 of Damascus & The Wildfire
After seeing the monster within me, she’d never fall for me. No, she’d seen the truth—the violence, the dark rage, the part of me that could snap a man in half and not lose sleep.
I grabbed Tyler by the scruff of his neck and dragged him into the warehouse. My muscles strained against his dead weight. I grunted at the effort, but my heart was heavier. My mind steeled itself as I considered the girl I couldn’t have, and the brother I wouldn’t betray.
I sat Tyler in a heavy metal chair, leaning his upper body awkwardly against the back. He slumped, still knocked out from the rough ride over. I must have taken one of the turns hardenough that he hit his head. Chains clinked as I pulled them from the wall.
I could’ve used zip ties, but I liked the sound of metal links rattling and how the weight of them against a man’s chest made the point clear: there was no escape.
I wrapped the chains around Tyler’s wrists and ankles, securing him to the chair. I laid out my tools on a nearby table—bolt cutters, knives, pliers, a hammer, a blow torch, and a bone saw. I pulled my favorite blade from my hip, gripping the smooth rosewood handle and running a finger down the water-like patterns swirling along the edge.
The door creaked open, and Reaper stepped inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. I glanced up, a question in my eyes.
“Eva’s got Kenna. She’ll text if anything’s wrong. She’s the right person to help her process what just happened. She knows how to answer the questions Kenna will have about how we’ll handle this.”
I nodded, my jaw tight. “Good.”
Reaper hesitated, then crossed his arms. “You all right?”
I kept my eyes on the tools, my voice flat. “Fine.”
Reaper didn’t let up. “You sure? Because you looked ready to tear Tyler apart with your bare hands. And not just for the club. I know you and Kenna?—”
I slammed a fist down on the table, the sound echoing through the warehouse. “There is no me and Kenna. Got it? I’m not about to let some woman compromise the club.”
Reaper opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, but before he could, the door swung open again. Hatchet walked in, his face grim, his eyes scanning the scene. I shot Reaper a glare—a “shut your fucking mouth”—and he gave a barely perceptible nod.
At that moment, Tyler began to stir, his head lolling as he came to. His eyes fluttered open, confusion quickly giving way to fear as he took in the chains, the tools, and the three of us standing over him.
I leaned in close, my voice a low growl. “Welcome back, asshole. We’ve got questions.”
Hatchet leaned against the table beside me.
Tyler looked like hell. Blood poured from his busted face, and his leg bled where I’d shot him. I’d half-assed a tourniquet around the wound to slow the bleeding earlier, but his skin had already ashened from the blood loss. He tried to shift, but the chains held him tight.
I crouched down, getting right in his face. “Why were you meeting with a fed this morning?”
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “I didn’t have a choice.”
I snorted, shaking my head. “Bullshit. Hatchet?”
My best friend grinned and pulled his hatchet from his belt loop. He threw it in the air and caught it by the handle. I rolled my eyes. Fucking dramatics every time.
“How about your trigger finger?” Hatchet said as he admired the sharp edge of his weapon. “After all, you were going to shoot my girl.”
Tyler screamed as Hatchet held his hand against the arm of the chair and sliced his pointer finger clean off. In his haste, he hit part of Tyler’s middle finger, leaving it dangling by a thread of skin.
“We have all fucking night, but I have shit to do,” I said in a bored tone, pressing down the anxious knot in my gut as I worried about what Kenna would think about what we were about to do. “From now on, you answer questions in detail, or I’ll cut every finger off with a dull spoon before moving to your toes.”
Tyler gasped, pain making his voice shaky. “I’ve been meeting the feds for months. They recruited me after I failed the bar. Said my ties to the club made me valuable. Said I could be an agent, go undercover?—”
“How long? How long have you been a rat?”
“Since I moved back,” he whispered. “It’s why I took the job with Reaper and became a prospect. She promised a letter of recommendation that would guarantee me a shot at Quantico.”
I stared at him. Disgust curled in my chest. Our fathers had founded this club together. The Lone Star Mavericks Motorcycle Club stood because of their blood and sweat. Tyler had betrayed their legacy for a shot at a fucking badge.
Hatchet picked up the pliers, clicking them together with a menacing sound that made Tyler flinch. “What have you told them?”
Tyler shook his head, and panic flashed in his eyes. Hatchet didn’t waste time with threats. He gripped Tyler’s hand and pried one nail up. Tyler howled, blood pooling under the jagged nail bed.
