Chapter 16 Territorial Marking
Ryder POV
The call comes at eleven PM while I'm reviewing territory maps with Cass.
"Boss, we have got a problem," Knox's voice crackles through the radio, tense with controlled anger. "Steel Serpents jumped two of our guys at Murphy's Bar. They beat the hell out of them."
I set down my pen carefully, feeling that familiar cold settle in my chest. "How bad?"
"Tommy's got a concussion. Jake's got three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder." Knox pauses, and I can hear engines revving in the background. "They left a message carved into Jake's back. Says the Iron Fangs are going soft."
The cold in my chest spreads outward, turning everything sharp and clear. The Steel Serpents have been testing our boundaries for weeks, small provocations to see how far they can push. But attacking my men directly, in public, with witnesses?
That's a declaration of war.
"Round up the boys," I tell him, already reaching for my leather jacket. "Full gear. We ride in twenty minutes."
"Copy that, boss." Knox's satisfaction bleeds through the radio. "Been too long since we reminded people why they fear the Iron Fangs."
Cass looks up from his maps. "How many are we taking?"
"Everyone except Doc and Luna. Someone needs to stay and protect the compound." I check my weapons—knife in my boot, gun at my back, brass knuckles in my pocket. "And someone needs to stay with Jolie."
"You think they'll come here?" He ask arching his brows,
"I think they're testing whether I've gone soft over a female." I shrug into my jacket, feeling the familiar weight settle across my shoulders. "Time to show them how wrong they are."
The Steel Serpents' clubhouse is a converted warehouse on the bad side of town, surrounded by chain-link fence and security cameras. They think technology makes them untouchable.
They're about to learn we are different.
We cut their power first. Phoenix scrambles their communications while Knox and I breach the perimeter. The security guards go down quiet and quick, zip-tied and gagged before they can raise an alarm.
By the time we kick in the front door, it's already over.
The Steel Serpents are tough, I'll give them that. But they're not prepared for the kind of violence we bring. This isn't a fair fight or an honorable challenge. This is extermination.
I find their president, a pig-faced biker named Diesel, cowering behind his desk with a chrome-plated pistol that shakes in his hands.
"You made a mistake," I tell him, stalking closer with bloody knuckles and murder in my eyes. "You hurt my people."
"It was just business," he stammers, backing against the wall. "Nothing personal."
"Everything is personal." I grab him by the throat, lifting him off his feet. "You want to test whether I've gone soft? Here's your answer."
The violence is swift and brutal. When it's over, I have eliminated most steel serpents who carry tales about the Iron Fangs losing their edge.
But as we ride back through the mountain darkness, engines roaring and blood still fresh on my clothes, something feels different.
I have something to lose now. Someone who makes me vulnerable.
The compound is quiet when we return, most of the lights is already out. Doc meets us at the garage, taking inventory of injuries with professional efficiency. Nothing serious—some split knuckles, a few bruises. The Steel Serpents got the worst of it by far.
"Clean kills?" he asks quietly, bandaging a cut on Knox's forehead.
"As clean as it needed to be," I confirm, washing blood from my hands in the utility sink.
I'm bone-deep tired but too wired to sleep, my wolf still riding the high of violence and dominance. This is who I am, who I've always been. The kind of man who solves problems with blood and fear.
A soft light glows from under Jolie's door.
I should go to my own room, shower off the violence, let her sleep in peace. But something draws me toward that light like a moth to flame.
I knock softly. "Jolie? Are you awake?"
The door opens to reveal her in an oversized t-shirt, hair tousled from sleep. Her eyes widen when she takes in my appearance—torn clothes, split knuckles, the satisfaction still radiating from my pores.
"You're hurt," she says immediately, reaching for my hands without hesitation.
"It's not my blood." The words should scare her. Should send her running back to bed and locking the door behind her.
Instead, she steps aside to let me in. "Sit down. I'll get the first aid kit."
I want to tell her I'm fine, that Doc already checked me over. But there's something about the way she's looking at me—concerned but not afraid, accepting the violence as part of who I am—that makes me sink onto her bed and let her fuss over me.
She works in silence, cleaning cuts I didn't even know I had, her touch gentle but sure. When she finds a particularly deep gash on my forearm, she makes a soft sound of distress.
"This needs stitches," she murmurs, examining the wound with careful fingers.
"It'll heal." I watch her face in the lamplight, memorizing the concentration in her expression.
"Not properly. It will scar worse if you don't treat it right." She looks up at me with those pale green eyes. "Let me take care of you."
So I do. I sit still while she cleans and bandages every cut, while she treats me with the same gentle attention she gives broken machines. Her touch is soft where the world is hard, healing where I bring destruction.
"Who did you kill tonight?" she asks quietly, not looking up from wrapping gauze around my knuckles.
The direct question catches me off guard. Most people dance around the violence, pretend they don't know what I am.
"Steel Serpents," I answered honestly. "Most of them."
She nods like she expected that answer. "Good. They hurt your pack."
"Doesn't it bother you? What I am? What I do?"
She finally meets my eyes, her expression serious and sad. "You protect what's yours. That's what alphas do, isn't it? That's what my father should have done for me."
Something clenches tight in my chest. She understands. She sees the necessity in the violence, the protection wrapped in brutality.
"Are you afraid of me?" I ask, because I need to know.
"No." Her answer is immediate and sure. "I'm afraid of losing you."
The confession surprises me as I reach up to cup her face, thumb tracing the delicate line of her cheekbone.
"You won't lose me," I promise, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "I'll burn down the world before I let anyone take you from me."
She leans into my touch, eyes fluttering closed. "Is that healthy? Being willing to kill for someone?"
"Probably not." I lean closer, breathing in her scent—soap and something uniquely hers. "But I've never been accused of being healthy."
She laughs softly, the sound like music in the quiet room. "Get some sleep, Ryder. Your war can wait until morning."