Chapter 23

Chapter 23
Grayson
"Prez, your woman's demanded I drive her to some nightclub. You good with that?" Luther's voice crackles through my earpiece, loud enough to grate against the headache already thumping at the base of my skull.
I chew slowly on a piece of licorice, eyes fixed on the photos Mason sent me this morning.
Three male bodies.
What's left of them, anyway.
Hands and feet sawed off. Faces gone—literally carved away—nothing but mangled bone and pulp where features should be.
My jaw ticks as I flip to the next image. Same brutality. Same signature. Same deliberate precision.
Whoever did this didn't just want them dead.
This was a message.
But the real question is...a message to who?
And does it tie back to the trafficking ring—or is this some new bullshit we have to deal with?
I drag the licorice from between my teeth, forcing my voice steady. "What the hell does she need to go there for?"
She called me this morning. Said she was spending the day unpacking.
It's been a week since she moved in.
The morning after I told her she was coming home with me, I made sure there was no room for doubt.
Cleared the rest of her lease.
Slipped her landlord enough cash to forget her name. Had her shit packed and waiting on my porch before she even woke up.
Clean. Fast. Final.
What I didn't expect was just how much shit one woman could own.
Christine's closet always looked like a boutique exploded, but Ashley? She's got towers of mystery boxes stacked damn near to the ceiling. Half the time she opens one and acts like she's discovering buried treasure she forgot she bought.
My little shopaholic hoarder.
But I can't complain.
It feels good having her in my home. In my bed. In my space.
Feels good having someone waiting for me to walk through the door again.
Someone steady to return to after a day of keeping this town stitched together with fear and blood.
And the most important thing?
She's safe.
Exactly where she's supposed to be.
And I've worked too damn hard to keep it that way.
I'm not about to let anything, or anyone, drag her out of the security I carved out for her.
Even if that means shutting down whatever the hell made her think going out to a club without me tonight is an option.
"Before you drive anywhere, tell me what the fuck put that idea in her head," I order, my voice low and gruff.
"Fuck if I know, Prez," Luther replies. "She just came up to me and told me her, Alyssa, and Chelsea were goin' out—and she wasn't takin' no for an answer."
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I ask, "Does she look pissed?"
Last time she went to the club, it was because she was mad at me. And the way she moves when she's angry—yeah, I'd recognize that shit in a heartbeat.
I can't shake the feeling this is more of the same.
But what the fuck could I have done this time?
I've been following her rules. Communicating. Doing every goddamn thing she's asked of me.
Hell, I even dicked her down this morning before I left.
Maybe I haven't told her I love her yet, but I'm getting myself there. Trying to convince myself that she's not the last woman I said those words to—and that it won't be a waste of time to say them again.
Shit.
Is that what she's pissed about?
Guess I'll have to ask her later tonight when I get home after I get some answers about these murders.
Until then, she can have her fun.
Well... supervised fun.
"Fine," I relent, even though every part of me hates the idea. "Take them to Rapture. War'll be there tonight. Still, don't take your fuckin' eyes off them. I'll be sendin' backup to trail you."
"Ain't my first rodeo, Prez. They'll be safe. You got my word."
Once I end the call, my attention snaps back to the bodies.
The pressure in my chest tightens.
Fuck.
There's too much shit moving at once.
And every instinct I've got is telling me it's all connected.
I just have to figure out how—and who the hell is pulling the strings.
A sharp knock hits the office door.
"Come in," I say, not taking my eyes off my laptop.
The door cracks open and Boulder steps inside—broad, silent, blocking out half the damn hallway. But it's the kid behind him that makes me lift my gaze.
Scrawny. Wide-eyed. Twitchy as hell.
He looks like he doesn't belong anywhere near the clubhouse, let alone in my office.
So why the fuck is he here?
And most importantly—what convinced Boulder to bring this little stray inside?
Boulder clears his throat, which is the only reason I look away from the kid long enough to acknowledge him.
"Prez," he rumbles, jerking a thumb at the scrawny shadow behind him. "This one's been hangin' around the lot the last few days. Says he wants to prospect."
My stare snaps to the kid so fast he flinches.
Prospect?
Here?
In my club?
I let the silence stretch until the kid shifts like his knees might give out.
"You brought him into my office," I say slowly, my tone sharp enough to slice through bone, "because he asked to prospect?"
Boulder doesn't blink. "Figured the kid's got a lot of balls showin' up here." He shrugs one massive shoulder. "Didn't run when the brothers barked at him. Didn't back down when we told him to fuck off."
I lift a brow. "Is that so?"
My gaze stays locked on the kid. "What's your name?"
He steps forward, blue eyes meeting mine head-on, even though I can see the tremor running through him.
"P-Paxton," he manages. "Paxton Reed."
"Paxton Reed," I repeat, letting the name roll off my tongue like I'm testing it for weakness. "All right then—tell me why the fuck you think you're cut out to prospect for the Crimson Reapers."
Paxton swallows hard. "King... he could've killed me." His fingers twitch at his sides. "He—he had every reason to. My boss tried to play him... didn't have the full payment and sent me instead."
He takes a shaky breath, eyes flickering to the floor before forcing himself to look at me again.
"When King saw the bag was light... I thought it was over for me. I thought I was dead. Nobody else would've let someone walk away from a screwup that big."
His voice cracks—barely there, but I hear it.
"But he didn't kill me. He didn't even cut me. He just... told me to take the money and take care of my sister. Told me I deserved better than running jobs for someone who wouldn't lose a wink of sleep if I died."
He swallows again, shoulders pulled tight like he's trying to stand taller than he feels.
"That's why I'm here, sir. If a man like him comes from this club... then this has to be a place worth fighting to get into. I want to work. I want to earn it. I want to be part of something that isn't just getting used up and thrown away."
Surprise flickers inside me, but I keep my expression deadpan.
The night King killed Billings, he told me it was because the bastard didn't have the money.
He sure as hell didn't mention sparing some kid's life and handing him the damn cash instead.
Guess Paxton must've managed to hit one of the few soft spots King has left.
And if King spared him, that alone says the kid's got something in him.
Maybe enough to earn a patch someday.
I study Paxton for a long time, letting the silence do what it's best at—stripping people down to whatever they really are beneath the nerves.
He holds my gaze. Barely. His shoulders stay tight, jaw clenched like he's bracing for a blow that hasn't come yet.
Good.
Anyone who strolls in here comfortable is either stupid or lying.
"King doesn't spare people lightly," I say at last, my voice calm, measured. "So don't mistake that for approval."
Paxton nods quickly. "Yes, sir."
I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand down my jaw. "Prospecting isn't a job application. It's not charity. And it sure as hell isn't a shortcut to belonging."
He nods again—slower this time. Listening.
"You'll clean shit. You'll get yelled at. You'll bleed. And if you fuck up bad enough, nobody's coming to save your ass the second time." I tilt my head. "Still interested?"
"Yes," he says without hesitation. "I am."
A low hum rolls through my throat as I consider him one last time. "Fine. You can prospect."
Paxton's eyes widen, surprise crashing straight into something dangerously close to hope.
"Thank you, Sir."
"Don't thank me yet," I cut in. "You're on probation. You fuck up, you're gone. You lie to me, you're gone. You bring trouble to this club, I'll make sure you regret walking through that goddamn door."
His spine snaps straighter. "Understood."
I nod toward Boulder. "Get him a spare room. If he eats, it's because he worked. If he sleeps, it's because he earned it. He follows orders, keeps his mouth shut, and doesn't touch shit that isn't his."
Boulder gives a single nod. "Got it, Prez."
Paxton hesitates—just a second—then looks back at me. "I won't waste this chance, sir."
I hold his gaze, unblinking. "Make sure you don't."
Boulder turns him toward the door, guiding him out of my office. When it shuts behind them, the quiet rushes back in.
My eyes drift back to the computer on my desk where the mutilated bodies stare back at me in bone-chilling images. 
I exhale slowly, close the tab, and reach into the top drawer for another piece of licorice. 
Maybe Paxton showed up at exactly the right time.
We're bleeding on too many fronts, and I need every advantage I can get if we're going to get ahead of this shit and shut it down before it gets worse.
And really—who better to mold a new prospect than the motherfucker who decided not to kill him?
I pull out my phone and shoot off a text.
Me: Congrats. You just earned yourself a new shadow. 
I lock the screen, already knowing King's gonna lose his shit over it.
But if the kid's really cut out for this life, surviving my enforcer is just the beginning.