Kit watches me, his uncanny eyes missing nothing. He reaches across the table and lifts the top bun of my burger, examining it. “I believe,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the suddenly quiet room, “I mentioned our guest was a vegetarian, Little D.”
I snort softly at the word ‘guest’, the sound escaping before I can stop it. Wrath’s eyes snap to mine, dark with undisguised loathing. Kit clears his throat, and Wrath’s glare shifts back to him.
“My mistake,” Wrath says finally, his lips curling into something that’s not quite a smile. There’s an undercurrent between them I can’t quite parse; Wrath is never openly insubordinate, but he gets close.
Kit rolls his eyes and pushes the plate away from me. Wrath disappears back to the stoves and returns moments later with a different plate, this one holding a burger that looks similar to the first. I eye it suspiciously.
“It‘s a veggie burger,” Wrath mutters, dropping the plate in front of me. “Made with black beans and shit. Healthy.” He says the word as if it were an insult.
I pick it up cautiously, examining it before taking a small bite. It is indeed a veggie burger, and a decent one at that. I eat without comment, aware of the absurd tableau we must make. But I know I need to eat. Need to stay strong.
Because the truth has been settling in my bones since I saw the security footage this morning. Hell, maybe even since Roman refused to answer my calls last night. Roman isn’t coming for me. Even if by some miracle he figures out where I am, I’m not his priority. I saw that clearly this morning. His life, his true loyalties, lie elsewhere.
If I‘m going to get out of this alive, I’ll have to do it myself.
I study Kit as he devours his own burger, noting the way his men defer to him, hanging on his every word. I observe Wrath’ssimmering rage, the way he watches Kit when he thinks no one’s looking; with a mixture of resentment and something almost like hero worship.
I file these observations away, looking for patterns, weaknesses, opportunities. There’s a rhythm to this place, to these men. If I watch carefully enough, I might find a way to use it to my advantage.
Because one thing is absolutely clear: I’m on my own. And somehow, I’m going to have to save myself.
12
Chapter 12
Roman
The Inferno’s clubhouse sits like a fortress in an industrial district of Billings. A warehouse complex surrounded by a tall metal fence; the kind of place most people would drive right past without a second glance, which is exactly the point. I sit astride my bike, glaring into the security camera mounted above the gate, repeating my request to speak with Dragon. Minutes tick by. I’m being watched; I can feel it. The security camera above the gate remains motionless, its black eye fixed on me.
Finally, the camera swivels slightly, adjusting its angle. They’re definitely watching me now. I straighten my shoulders and look directly into the lens.
“I need to speak with Dragon,” I call out, my voice rougher than I’d intended. “It’s urgent.”
More silence. The wind picks up, carrying the various scents from the surrounding factories. I wait, counting my heartbeats, fighting the urge to shout again, to demand entrance. Patience was never my strong suit, and right now, with Kayla’s life hanging in the balance, it’s almost impossible.
Just as I’m about to try again, there’s a mechanical clunk and the gates begin to slide open with a grinding metallic shriek. Relief washes through me.
I kick my bike back to life, and roll through the gates and into the compound. The asphalt is cracked but clean, and rows of motorcycles gleam in the late afternoon sun.
The warehouse itself is massive, converted into what must be their clubhouse. Metal sheeting covers most of the original structure, giving it a patchwork appearance. The main doors are reinforced steel, thick enough to stop a battering ram. As I approach, I realize just how vulnerable I am. I’m walking into the heart of another MC’s territory, alone, with only my reputation and a desperate plea to protect me.
Before I reach the doors, they swing open slowly, the hinges protesting with a long, low creak. A man steps out; he’s tall and lean with thick black hair and cold gray eyes. Unlike most bikers, he’s cleanshaven and doesn’t seem to be covered in tattoos. His cut is adorned with patches I don’t recognize, but the vice president rocker is unmistakable.
“You Viper?” he asks, though it’s clear he already knows the answer.
I nod once, holding his gaze. “I need to speak with Dragon.”
The VP looks me over, taking in every detail from my boots to the circles under my eyes. “Heard you might be coming. Dragon says he’ll give you a few minutes.” He steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. “But just so we’re clear; you cause any trouble, and you leave in pieces.”
The threat slides off me like water. I’ve been threatened by better men than him. Right now, all I care about is finding Kayla. Everything else is secondary.
I follow him into the clubhouse, hit immediately by the familiar scent of leather, cigarette smoke, and stale beer that seems to permeate every MC headquarters I’ve ever been in. The common room is spacious, with high ceilings and exposed metal beams. Groups of men in cuts lounge on worn couches and around pool tables. Every conversation halts as I walk in, every head turning to stare at the Devil’s Rejects VP in their midst. They don’t rise, don’t reach for weapons, but their eyes follow me with a wary assessment that’s not quite hostility but definitely not welcome.
I’m led to a corner of the room where a worn leather sectional creates a semi-private space. Seated in the middle of it is Dragon, and the sight of him stops me dead in my tracks.
It’s like looking at Demon’s ghost.
The same golden hair, though Dragon’s is longer, pulled back in a small knot at the nape of his neck. The same perfectly symmetrical features, like something carved by a master sculptor. The same piercing green-gold eyes that seem to look through you rather than at you. The only differences are the short, neat beard covering Dragon’s jaw and the absence of Demon’s jagged scar.