Page 27 of True Bastard
I swung.
The impact was sickeningly dull, a wet crunch followed by a guttural grunt of pain that wasn’t entirely mine. He staggered back, his hands flying to his face, a crimson bloom spreading across his leather jacket. For a fleeting second, the predatory fire in his eyes flickered, replaced by shock, then pure, unadulterated fury.
But the momentum was mine.
The ceramic shards, still clinging to my bloodied hand, were a stark testament to the line I had just crossed. The naïve girl who abhorred violence was gone, shattered along with the mug. A new Keely, one forged in the fires of necessity and primal survival, was taking her place.
He lunged again, a raw, animalistic snarl tearing from his throat. But this time, I was ready. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was no longer paralyzing. It was fuel, an accelerant. My body moved with a speed and grace I hadn’tknown I possessed, dodging his wild swing, the scent of stale coffee and his blood filling my nostrils. He was no longer just a phantom reminder from my father’s past; he was a tangible threat, and I was no longer just a victim.
But he was stronger, and though I thought I could take him, I was wrong.
The brutal assault of his fists hit their mark as he tackled me to the floor once more, punching the survival instincts out of me until I surrendered. His heavy boot planted on my chest, the cracked ceramic shards digging into my skin. His breath, hot and reeking of stale beer and something metallic, washed over my face.
“Thought you were tough, huh?” he spat, his voice a gravelly growl. “Thought you could run? You’re just like the rest of ‘em. Pathetic.”
My vision swam, the edges blurring as another blow landed, this one to my ribs. A gasp of pain escaped me, but I bit my lip, refusing to give him any satisfaction. The fight was draining out of me, leaving behind a hollow ache and the bitter taste of defeat.
This was it.
I’d underestimated him, letting my brief burst of adrenaline blind me to the brutal reality of our mismatch. He stripped me bare with a careless disregard that was a violation in itself, my body a canvas for his brutality. He picked me up, not with strength, but with contemptuous ease, and threw me over my small kitchen table. Each jolt sent a fresh wave of nausea through me, and with it, the agonizing realization that I wasn’t fighting. My hands, now bound to the table legs, felt weak; my will to resist felt fractured. I knew with a soul-crushing certainty that I should be fighting. Every fiber of my being, every lesson about self-preservation and dignity, screamed at me to struggle, to find a way out, to shatter this oppressive silence with a roar. But the terror had frozen me, and the whisper of surrender hadgrown louder. And in that paralysis, a dark, insidious thought slithered into my mind, a thought I’d always loathed, a thought that felt like a betrayal of everything I was.
Just make it stop.
It was a whisper of surrender, yes, but laced with a desperate pragmatism that shamed me.
I, who prided myself on my resilience, on my refusal to be broken, was contemplating the ultimate capitulation, not out of a lack of will, but out of a desperate, nauseating desire for peace, even a peace born of defeat. It was a choice I never imagined making, a choice that felt like a stain on my very soul. I was supposed to be strong, to be a fighter. But the strength I’d always relied on felt like a hollow echo, and the only path forward, the one I was being forced to consider, was the one that would leave me irrevocably changed, forever regretting the moment I allowed myself to consider it.
When he slapped my ass, the sting so sharp it promised a deep, festering bruise, a flicker of something close to anger ignited within me. It wasn’t the righteous anger of someone fighting for their life; no, it was a pathetic, impotent rage at my own inaction. I hated myself for not screaming, for not thrashing, for allowing this degradation. A voice, a whisper of defiance I’d always clung to, screamed to fight, to bite, to claw. But another, colder voice, born of a desperate survival instinct I’d always suppressed, hissed that resistance was suicide, that this was the only way to live. And the shame of choosing to live like this, by submitting, was a poison already seeping into my bones. I hated myself for not screaming, for not thrashing, for allowing this degradation, for the part of me that was already calculating the path of least resistance.
And then he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanked my head back with a force that threatened to snap my neck, and placed a gun at my temple. The cold, metal kiss against my skin was achilling confirmation of my failure. My mind, once a sanctuary of resolve, fractured. Part of me yearned to charge, to meet the cold steel with my own fury—a final, desperate act of agency. But the primal fear, the instinct to preserve this wretched existence, chained me. It was a betrayal of everything I believed about self-respect, about dignity. I knew I should choose death over this, that life without integrity was no life at all. Yet, the overwhelming terror forced my hand, compelling me to live, to endure, to become something less than I was.
I knew in that horrifying instant that I had already lost. My internal battle was over, and my will had been utterly broken. The choice was stark: a final, defiant stand that would end everything, or a capitulation that would leave me a hollow shell, forever haunted by the echo of my cowardice. I had always told myself I would never be a victim who surrendered their soul. But faced with the abyss, the instinct to survive, however degraded, had won. I had failed myself, failing the person I aspired to be, by choosing to live on. The thought of the life that would follow this moment, a life tainted by this ultimate surrender, was a deeper wound than any physical blow.
The next sound I heard—the sickening rasp of his zipper being lowered—was a soundtrack to my deepest shame, confirmation that I had failed myself in the most profound way imaginable, just before he pulled the trigger.
And in that split second, as my eyes met his, a chilling realization washed over me: he hadn’t just taken my body; he had taken the part of me that believed in my own strength, leaving me with nothing but the ashes of regret and the gnawing certainty of my own unforgivable weakness.
Chapter Seventeen
Firestride
The clubhouse was a thunderous inferno of sound as Cerberus and I dragged Jessup into the Brotherhood of Bastards. The moment the heavy steel door slammed shut behind us, Cerberus whistled, a piercing shriek that cut through the cacophony, silencing the raucous revelry. Every head snapped toward us, a sea of expectant, hardened faces.
With a raised hand, and a triumphant grin splitting his face, he bellowed, “BASTARDS BY BLOOD!”
“BROTHERS BY CHOICE!” the room roared back, a visceral wave of loyalty that vibrated through the very floorboards. Morpheus, perched on a raised platform, his eyes like chips of obsidian, narrowed his gaze. A satisfied gleam sparked within them as he surveyed the scene, a subtle tightening around his mouth.
He clearly approved.
“Good work, brothers,” Morpheus’ voice, a gravelly rumble, boomed across the stunned silence. “You know the drill. Get him downstairs. I have several questions for this motherfucker.” He then turned his piercing gaze to me, and my gut twisted. His gaze lingered, heavy and possessive, a familiar, unwelcome weight. “The debt is still outstanding. Until we collect, she’s still collateral.”
His words landed like a physical blow. A knot of dread tightened in my chest, a cold counterpoint to the boisterousenergy of the Brotherhood, but I nodded and said nothing as a few brothers walked over and dragged Jessup away, his muffled curses echoing behind him.
As I watched them go, the familiar rhythm of the clubhouse once again filled the air. But tonight, something felt different. The usual camaraderie, the riotous energy of the Brotherhood, had shifted in some way. The booze, fights, girls, fucking—none of it called to me. A mere week ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice before joining in with my brothers to celebrate a victory, yet all I wanted was to head upstairs to see Kyllian. Just thinking about her in my bed got my dick painfully hard. This was the life I’d signed up for, fought for, the one I’d bled for, the only thing I’d ever known.
Yet, here I was, a traitor to my own ingrained instincts, a deserter of the very celebration that had always defined me. My brothers’ laughter, raucous and unthinking, grated on me. They expected me to be there, to be one of them, to drown out this growing disquiet with the familiar beckoning of oblivion. But my body, my blood, screamed for a different kind of oblivion.
Kyllian.
