Page 12 of True Bastard
“Called my contact at the RCPD,” Nano, the club’s intel officer, spoke up. “Whoever did it, killed Jake quickly, as he was the bigger threat. But what that son of a bitch did to Kaycee. He beat her black and blue before he put a bullet in her head. But that’s not all,” the man said, before taking a minute to gather his thoughts. And when he spoke again, no one in the room could believe the words that came out of his mouth. “After he killed her. He raped her.”
Carver cursed, “Jesus fuck. That means we’re looking for a necrophiliac, or more specifically a thanatophile, a person who experiences sexual arousal and gratification from interacting with corpses. It’s a paraphilic disorder. They are methodical, cunning, decisive, and driven with a primal need that can’t be stopped. Mark my words. Whoever this is, he will strike again and soon.”
I listened, my gut tightening with each word. The image of Kaycee, Inferno’s former woman, conjured a wave of nausea. Jake was solid. A good provider, but he was no Bastard. No matter how good he was to Kaycee or Karter. But Kaycee... she’d been a sweet, fragile thing, not built for our world, and Inferno knew it, but before he could end it, he learned he’d got Kaycee pregnant. Children were both a blessing and a curse in the Brotherhood. Boys meant future Bastards, but girls... well,they were a complication but nonetheless loved. And the idea of someone desecrating Kaycee after ending her life was a level of depravity that made my blood run cold. This wasn’t just about vengeance anymore; it was about purging a sickness from our ranks. Carver’s assessment hung in the air, a chilling prediction of what was to come if we didn’t act fast.
Morpheus, his face a mask of grim resolve, looked at me. “Firestride. You were just in Rapid City. Did you find anything about Jessup Winston?” The shift was jarring, but I understood. Jessup was a snake, a dealer for the Death Dogs, and if he was somehow connected to this, we needed to know. He’d already crossed a line with us, but when he raped and laid hands on Kyllian, well, he’d marked himself. It was a transgression I couldn’t ignore.
“No,” I growled. The memory of Kyllian’s terror, still fresh, left a sour taste in my mouth. “He wasn’t in Rapid City. I checked his place out near the old Crazy Horse memorial, but it was empty. Cleared out.”
“You said he left collateral?”
“Yeah. His soon-to-be ex-wife, Kyllian Ward.” As I spat the words out, the image of her bruised face flashed behind my eyes. She was trouble, sure, but she was also the last link I had to Jessup.
“Bring the bitch in.”
“What about Inferno’s daughter?” Cerberus asked.
Morpheus looked directly at me, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “Firestride, you’re on point. Snatch the bitch and find the kid. And if you get your hands on the son of a bitch who killed Kaycee... don’t think. Kill the sick motherfucker.”
The weight of his words settled onto my shoulders, a familiar burden. My gut twisted. Inferno’s kid. A child caught in the crossfire.
I didn’t question the order. I simply nodded, the whiskey from earlier still burning a hole in my gut. The image of Kyllian’s defiant eyes flashed in my mind, a stark contrast to the brutality that had unfolded elsewhere. My mind, usually sharp and focused, felt clouded with a strange mix of obligation and... something else.
Something akin to concern.
My engine roared to life, a guttural snarl that echoed the storm brewing within me. Kaycee was dead. Inferno, our brother, was on the brink of self-destruction unless I recovered his daughter. This was more than just a debt collection gone wrong; this was an attack, a calculated strike against the Brotherhood. My gut clenched as I swung a leg over my Triumph, the familiar weight offering cold comfort. The kid. Morpheus’ order was clear: find the kid and punish whoever dared touch one of our own.
The drive south was a blur of the roaring engine and my churning thoughts. Rapid City. That was where Kaycee had been living. She wasn’t built for the Bastard lifestyle, but she had still stayed close so Inferno could have a relationship with his daughter. She was a good woman, decent and honest. She didn’t deserve this fate.
I pushed my Bonneville harder as the wind whipped past me, in a desperate attempt to outrun the cold dread that was starting to set in. The thought of Inferno’s daughter, innocent and caught in the crossfire, gnawed at me. It was a darkness I knew all too well. And the motherfucker who had done this, who had dared to spill protected blood and leave a Bastard child exposed, was going to face a reckoning unlike any they had ever imagined.
As I pulled into the outskirts of Rapid City, the familiar grim landscape offered no solace. The moonlight cast long, distorted shadows, and the air itself seemed to hum with a low, dangerous frequency. This was not just about vengeance anymore; it wasabout damage control, about protecting the innocent from the fallout of our violent world. And somewhere in this shadowed city, a Bastard child was waiting, unaware of the fire that had just erupted over their young life, a fire I was now tasked with controlling.
Chapter Eight
Kyllian
Rapid City police swarmed the bus depot as they searched everyone entering the building. Why, I had no freaking idea, and a part of me, a small, rebellious voice that always landed me in trouble, wanted to shove my way past them, to create a scene, to yell about civil liberties. But that was a stupid, suicidal thought. All I wanted was to buy a ticket and get out of this godforsaken city. I needed to get the hell out of here before Jessup or that biker found me again, before the gnawing fear in my gut solidified into something unshakeable.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” an RCPD officer said, stopping me, holding up a photo of a man and a woman. The polite tone, the controlled calm, it prickled at something deep within me—a desperate need to trust, to believe that maybe, just maybe, these people were here for something simple, something that wouldn’t involve me. “We’re asking everyone. Do either of these people look familiar?”
The smiling couple in the picture were handsome. She was stunningly beautiful with long blonde hair and gentle facial features, and he was... wow. Multiple tattoos, muscular and from what I could see, he only had eyes for the woman next to him. And as I looked at their radiant smiles, a sharp, visceral pang hit me. It wasn’t just the man’s rugged appeal, or the woman’s ethereal beauty. It was the sheer, unadulterated joy radiating from them, a warmth that felt like a physical blow against theice that had encased my own heart. They looked like the kind of people who lived lives without the constant, suffocating dread I carried.
Then it happened. My gaze flickered to the woman’s eyes. There was something familiar about them, something—some distinctive, swirling pattern I’d seen etched on eyes that glared at me before. Then my gaze shifted to a small tattoo on her right shoulder and my world tilted.
My carefully constructed wall of indifference crumbled.
The officer was waiting, his eyes patient but expectant.
Here it was, my impossible choice. My instinct screamed at me to deny them, to feign ignorance, to keep my head down and disappear into the anonymity of the bus depot. I didn’t know them. Never met her. But the image of her eyes, those chillingly familiar eyes that I had seen many times before, coupled with the familiar tattoo and the innocent joy on her face, ignited a different kind of fire.
It was a flicker of something I thought long dead—a sense of responsibility.
These people, so full of life, could be in danger. And I, with what I knew, had the power to potentially help them. Or I could stay silent and condemn them.
“What happened to them?” I asked, unable to take my eyes off the pretty woman.
“They were murdered last night in their home. Any information as to who could have possibly killed them would be helpful.”
