Chapter 15

Chapter 15
War
Blunt pinched between my fingers, I let the smoke curl slow toward the ceiling as one of my dancers, Naomi, flips herself upside down on the pole. Her heels smack chrome, legs spread wide for the kinds of men who couldn't get laid unless they paid for it.
Business at Rapture's been good. Too good.
Nothing sells better than ass. Doesn't matter if it's dusted in glitter under neon or raw in some backroom—men'll bleed their wallets dry for five minutes where they feel wanted. Powerful. In control.
The Iron Serpents is my kingdom. Rapture's the throne room.
Every dollar that moves through this joint feeds the club—fresh cuts on my brothers' backs, a roof over their heads, ammo stacked for the next asshole dumb enough to test us. The girls get paid. The rules stay clear. Cross one and you learn quick why we run this town.
Working with the Reapers fattens the cash. Their enemies are ours now. Their assets back mine. Muscle multiplies. Protection sharpens. Power consolidates.
Moonshadow Creek is ours. Ours to run. Ours to keep clean.
Outsiders don't get it. They see leathers and patches and think it's all pissing contests and turf wars. But we've bled together. Buried together. Made sure enemies paid the price for planting their rot on our soil.
Yeah, it's messy as hell. The Reapers run on family. The Serpents? We're still figuring out what the fuck that even means. But I'll take messy over weak every time.
Weak doesn't last. Family does.
And I'll make damn sure we stay strong.
The door bursts open, shattering whatever quiet I'd let sit in my head.
Hammer and Gator stroll in, a human-sized duffel bag slung across Hammer's back like it weighs nothing.
They drop it at my feet. The bag jerks, rolling just enough to make the lights ripple across the vinyl.
Then come the muffled screams.
The whole room freezes. The music keeps beating, lights spin like nothing's wrong—but every man knows this isn't part of the entertainment. This is club business now.
If you aren't patched, it's time to get the fuck out.
I take one last drag, then snap the blunt into the ashtray. My gaze cuts to Naomi. She doesn't wait for an invitation—she yanks off her heels and bolts backstage like her life depends on it.
Smart girl.
Snake-Eyes and Chains move through the crowd, clearing seats, dragging anyone without a patch to the door. No questions. No hesitation.
Silence settles heavy, thick enough to choke on.
I shift my attention back to the duffel. It thrashes again, another choked wail straining through the fabric.
My voice cuts through the room, steady, edged with steel.
"Who the fuck's in the bag?"
Hammer and Gator trade a look, grins stretching wide like a pair of hyenas dragging fresh meat back to the den.
"Prez," Hammer says, breathless with excitement, "we've bought you a gift."
My eyes narrow. "Explain."
Gator chuckles and drives his steel-toed boot into the side of the duffel.
"One of our runners came back from a drop," he says. "Overheard some junkie runnin' his mouth about a politician. Claimed the guy's got a taste for young girls."
My jaw ticks. A junkie's word ain't worth shit ninety-nine percent of the time. But that other one percent? That's when you catch something rotten—too foul for anyone else to say out loud.
"Which junkie?" I growl.
Hammer's face sours. "Richard Holmes. Registered sex offender. Says he can't even take a piss without a cop ridin' his ass, while this politician's sittin' pretty—clean record, clean image. Even runnin' for reelection this November."
Figures. The worst monsters are always the ones you don't see coming.
The ones in pressed suits, preaching family values while the rot eats them alive. Men with money and pull, polishing their image so bright that the whole fucking world turns a blind eye.
I arch a brow. "He give a name?"
"Alder somethin'."
I pull my phone out. A few swipes and there it is.
Senator Grant Alder.
Eight years in office. Four as mayor before that. Campaign posters, baby-kissing photos, that same slimy grin on every billboard.
My skin crawls.
Maybe Holmes is full of shit. Maybe he's a liar with a needle in his veins. But men like Alder don't stay spotless by accident. Birds of a feather flock together—and if Holmes isn't yapping nonsense, Alder's either knee-deep or he's the one holding the door.
Either way, he knows something.
And I'm gonna make him talk.
I stare at the bag. "Get him out."
Hammer drops to his knees like a kid tearing open a present and rips the zipper. The screams cut off the second light slaps a face smaller than I expected—skin yellowed, eyes glassy from whatever poison he's chasing.
Gator yanks the tape off his mouth. The guy hacks and retches like he's trying to cough his life back up on the floor.
Ugh.
Logan starts buzzing in the back of my skull—sharp, impatient. Make him talk. Then finish him.
The itch crawls under my skin, but I don't hand the keys over. Not tonight. Logan would paint my floor red and smirk at the mess. I'm not in the mood for that shit.
Hammer drags Holmes fully out and props him up, zip-ties biting into his wrists. He's small—bones under skin, brittle as old twine.
Holmes jerks his chin up, and the second his eyes find mine, his face becomes pure, animal panic. "W-War, I swear—I'll pay Malachi in full next—"
"Save it." I cut him off. "Word is you saw Alder. You put his name in your mouth."
His lip curls—half defiance, half dirt-under-the-nails terror. "I ain't no snitch," he spits. "You want info? Get it from someone else. I don't know nothin'."
A laugh slips out of me, flat and cold. "You really wanna play games? We're working with the Reapers now." I let the name hang there, let it settle in his skull. "I'm sure King Sterling would love to show you how to carve your own heart out."
His eyes bulge. He swallows like someone shoved gravel down his throat. The reek of sickness and cheap liquor clings to him. Fear sharpens every line on his face.
Everyone in this town knows King. Lately he's been cleaning house—making examples. I've been part of that work. Watched him do the most sadistic shit you could ever imagine. Trust me: you don't want his attention.
So this worthless piece of trash better start talking.
Holmes raises his tied hands together, palms open. "Okay, okay. I'll talk," he practically squeaks.
I almost laugh. Say his name and that motherfucker folds grown men like cheap lawn chairs.
"I was sleepin' in a dumpster behind a lot," he rasps, voice thin and frantic. "It was dark. Two black SUVs pulled up. Real smooth. Quiet. They moved kids from one car to the other. Little girls, hoods over their heads. Didn't look older than five, maybe. Men in black. One of 'em slapped cash on the hood and joked, 'Vote Alder, boys.' They was laughin' 'bout it."
"Where, exactly?" I ask.
"Behind the Old Mill laundromat. Alley off Marlow. About three a.m., three nights ago. SUVs had no plates. Too dark to see faces."
The air squeezes my chest. Shit.
Old Mill's the piss-and-rust part of town—the place the city forgets. No lights. No cameras. Perfect for moving kids without anyone important watching.
Hammer clears his throat. "What you wanna do now, Prez?"
I rub my chin, thinking fast. "I'll call the Reapers. Let Gray know. Loop them in. For now, check the alley. See what you can find."
My brothers nod—short, sharp. They move.
Holmes drags his eyes to me, pleading with that desperate, hollow look people call mercy. Doesn't change what he is. He touched kids. Same filth Alder's tied to. Only difference is Holmes got caught.
Pressure starts growing in my head again.
Logan.
I feel his hunger. His lust for blood—vengeance.
Kill him, War. Don't give him another chance. You know his sickness can't be cured.
He's not wrong.
But we already have a thread—a time, a place, a direction. We need to focus on that.
Still, the urge climbs under my skin until I can fucking taste it.
Without a word, I draw my gun. One shot—clean. He slumps, the life folding out of him.
"Fuck," Chains curses, wiping brain matter from his cheek.
Logan hums, small and satisfied. I shove him down so hard my teeth ache.
"There, better?" I mutter, half to Logan, half to the room.
Silence answers. Men move—quiet, efficient. They start the cleanup, getting rid of anything that could point a cop in our direction. Hammer kneels by the body, rifling through pockets like a surgeon. Gator boots the duffel aside and drags it to the trash pile.
I head for my office, thumb already hunting Gray's number.
It rings once, twice—then straight to voicemail.
What the fuck is he doing that's more important than answering me? Yeah, I know he's got some new female in his bed, but he was the one blowing me up about this. Now I've got a lead and we need to move.
Fine. I'll just text him.
Me: Call back ASAP. Got shit you wanna hear.
I tap send, light another blunt, and prop my feet up on the desk. Noise and motion make a good anesthetic. Keeps the edges dull.
Damn. I'd kill for some pussy right now.
Not like I don't have options—the club's a buffet—but every time I try to get my dick wet, my head snaps right back to her.
Alyssa.
It's been months since I saw her. Last time was on accident—I was meeting up with Gray, and of course, she was there with her circus. She barreled into my arms, wrapped me in that goddamn meadow scent that sinks into your skin and takes forever to scrub off.
One touch and I hated myself all over again.
Because I still wanted it. Wanted her. 
Seriously, how the fuck do you let go of someone you never really had?
Oh, right—because there's another voice in my head that never shuts the fuck up.
Logan pulls those memories up like barbed wire. Her lips on mine—hard, claiming. Her pussy clamping around me when she trusted me to keep her alive. Her mouth taking me deep as she tried to rewrite that night, and I cut it short because I knew I couldn't give her what she deserved.
Even after all of that, I can't erase how I feel.
I still can't stand in the same room without my heart banging like a war drum. Every breath feels borrowed. Every second near her is a countdown I don't trust.
That's why I keep busy. Focus on the MC. The club. Work loud enough to bury the rest.
Motion and racket drown it out. Keeps Logan caged—scratching at the bars, but stuck behind them.
It softens the want. Pushes it back a few degrees. Never gone... just manageable.
Enough that I don't lose my goddamn mind.
One day, maybe, we can be friends. Even family. But I'm not there yet.
Maybe I never will be, even though I want it.
I want to be in her life without that hollow ache deepening in my chest every time she smiles.
All I can hope is that going to this wedding—watching her walk down the aisle, hearing her confess her love to the three men she deserves—might be the nail in the coffin both Logan and I need. Let the sight of her moving on bury whatever's left between us so the ache stops keeping me up at night.
Hope's a dangerous thing to carry, but I'll take it strapped to my ribs if it keeps me breathing.
Okay. Enough of this self-pity shit.
This trafficking ring still needs to be shut down. Little girls need saving. Sick motherfuckers need putting down.
So I roll my shoulders, shove the thoughts into the back of my mind with Logan's pathetic ass, and get back to work.