Page 42 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

THOR

Charlotte's fingers tighten around mine as the SUV hits another pothole, jostling her against my side. Her face doesn't betray the pain I know she's still in, but I feel it in the way she tenses with each bump in the road. Three days of healing hasn't erased what that monster did to her.

“You okay?” I ask quietly, brushing my thumb across her knuckles.

She nods. “I'm fine.”

It's a lie, but I let her have it. We're all lying today, pretending we're fine, pretending this is just club business. The truth is messier. This is Charlotte putting the monster under her bed to rest. Six feet fucking under, where he can’t hurt her anymore.

Raze catches my eye in the rearview mirror, his face grim. “ETA twenty minutes,” he says, turning the SUV down a dirt path that cuts through the Nevada desert.

“Place secure?” I ask, shifting to take pressure off my still-healing thigh. The bullet wound throbs with each heartbeat.

“The Black Hoods and Hero have it locked down tighter than a virgin on prom night.”

“So that’s where Hero has been,” I remark.

“Hasn’t left his post. Didn’t want to chance the man of the unholy hour getting away.”

The landscape outside the window grows increasingly desolate as we travel deeper into the Nevada desert. Sand and scrubby vegetation stretch endlessly in all directions, broken only by the occasional outcropping of sun-bleached rock. No buildings. No power lines. No signs of civilization at all.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere nobody will hear him scream,” Raze answers from the driver's seat.

The SUV crests a small hill, and suddenly I see it—a dilapidated mining structure, its wooden frame weathered gray by decades of desert sun and wind. A handful of motorcycles and a black van are parked beside it, the only indication we're not the first to arrive.

“Old silver mine,” Raze explains as he brings the vehicle to a stop. “Been abandoned since the fifties. Perfect for our needs.”

Dust swirls around us as I step out, my boots crunching on the gravelly soil. I scan our surroundings—nothing but empty desert in every direction. The silence is absolute.

I move around to Charlotte's side, offering my hand as she steps out. Her face is a mask of determination, but I feel the slight tremor in her fingers as they grip mine.

“Ready?”

“As I'll ever be.”

I press my lips to her temple, breathing in the clean scent of her hair. She's traded hospital gowns for jeans and a simple black t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that exposes the fading bruises on her neck. Even wounded, she's fucking beautiful.

“You say the word, and we leave,” I remind her. “Anytime.”

She shakes her head, already moving toward the mining structure. “I'm not going anywhere until he's dead.”

Raze falls into step beside me as we follow her. “She's something else,” he mutters, low enough that only I can hear. “Most women would be in therapy, not walking into an execution.”

“She'll need therapy too,” I say, watching Charlotte's back as she approaches the entrance. “But this comes first.”

The wooden door creaks open before we reach it revealing Hero's massive frame. His face breaks into a grim smile when he sees us.

“About fucking time,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder with enough force to make me wince. “Your package has been making quite the racket. Begging, mostly. Offering money, women, drugs—you name it.”

“Has he now?”

The cold satisfaction in my voice makes Hero's grin widen. “Pathetic fuck's been cycling through the five stages of grief on repeat. Right now, he's somewhere between bargaining and acceptance.”

“Come on. Let's get this over with.”

The interior of the mining structure is a monument to decay—rotting support beams, rusted equipment, and shadows that seem to swallow light whole.

Our footsteps echo off the wooden walls as Hero leads us deeper into the building.

The air grows cooler as we descend, thick with the smell of dust and something else. Fear.

“Down here,” Hero says, gesturing toward a narrow staircase that disappears into darkness. “We've got him in the old ore processing room. Concrete walls, good acoustics.”

Charlotte's hand finds mine as we descend, her grip steady despite what we're walking into. Each step takes us further from the world above, deeper into a place where justice wears a different face.

The basement opens into a large room carved from solid rock, illuminated by a handful of work lights strung from the ceiling.

Mining equipment rusts in the corners—conveyor belts, sorting tables, things I can't identify.

But my attention focuses on the center of the room, where a single chair sits beneath the brightest light.

Terrance is bound to it with zip ties, his once-pristine suit now torn and stained with blood and dirt. His head hangs forward, dark hair matted with sweat, but he lifts it when he hears our footsteps.

“Charlotte, Thank God. Tell them this is a mistake. Tell them?—”

“Shut up,” I growl, stepping between them. “You don't speak to her unless she wants you to.”

A harsh laugh escapes him, blood bubbling at the corner of his split lip. “Still hiding behind your attack dog, Charlotte? Some things never change.”

Charlotte steps around me, her movements deliberate as she approaches him. The room falls deathly silent. Even the men stationed around the perimeter—Karma, Priest, Judge, and several Heaven's Rejects I recognize—seem to hold their breath.

“You know what hasn't changed, Terrance? Your delusion that I ever belonged to you.”

He flinches as if she struck him, then recovers with a sneer. “You crawled back every time. Every. Single. Time.”

“Because you threatened to kill anyone who helped me,” she says, stopping just out of his reach. “Because you isolated me from everyone who cared about me. Because you made me believe I was nothing without you.”

The mine's shadows deepen the hollows of Terrance's face, making him look already half-dead.

“But I was wrong,” Charlotte continues. “I'm not nothing without you. I'm everything without you.”

Terrance tracks her, his composure cracking like cheap veneer. “This is ridiculous. You think these criminals will protect you? You think this—” he jerks his chin toward me “—this animal loves you? He only wants what I had.”

I start forward, but Raze's hand on my shoulder stops me. This is Charlotte's moment. Her reckoning.

“What you had?” She laughs, the sound cold and sharp as broken glass. “You never had me, Terrance. You held a hostage.” She stops in front of him, leaning down until they're eye to eye. “And now, you have nothing.”

For a moment, genuine fear flashes across Terrance's face. Then his mask slips back into place, that practiced corporate smile I've come to hate.

“You're bluffing. You don't have the stomach for this. You never did.”

Charlotte straightens slowly, her face impassive. “You're right. I don't have the stomach for torture. For prolonged suffering. For making someone beg.” She turns to me. “But I have the stomach for justice.”

I step forward, pulling the Glock from my holster. Terrance's eyes widen as I check the chamber, the metallic click echoing off the stone walls.

“Wait,” he gasps, struggling against his restraints. “Charlotte, please. I can change. I can get help. Therapy, medication, whatever you want. Just don't?—”

“Where was that offer when you were choking me unconscious? When you were breaking my ribs?” She stops, jaw clenching. “When you were doing things to my unconscious body that I still can't remember?”

Terrance's face goes pale. “That wasn't...I didn't mean...”

“You meant every second of it. Just like you meant every bruise, every threat, every time you made me feel like I was nothing.”

I raise the gun, pointing it at his chest. “Any last words?”

“Charlotte,” Terrance whimpers. “Don't let him do this. We can?—”

I lower the gun suddenly, tucking it back in my holster. Terrance's breath hitches, relief washing over his face.

“You're right,” I say, turning to Charlotte. “This isn't how it should end.”

I reach behind me, pulling the hunting knife from my belt sheath. The blade catches the harsh light, twelve inches of serrated steel with Terrance Robert’s name on it.

“A bullet's too quick for what you have done,” I explain, stepping closer to Terrance. “Too fast.”

“Thor, please,” he babbles, piss darkening the front of his pants. “Whatever you want?—”

“What I want,” I say, testing the blade's edge against my thumb, “is to hear you scream like Charlotte did.”

I drive the knife into his thigh, burying it to the hilt with a single thrust. The sound he makes, a high, keening wail that bounces off the concrete walls. Blood erupts around the blade, soaking through what's left of his designer pants.

“That's for every bruise you left on her,” I growl, twisting the blade before yanking it free. Blood sprays across my shirt, hot and metallic.

Terrance's head snaps back, tendons straining against his neck as he shrieks. The sound echoes through the mine shaft, raw and animalistic. Blood pools beneath his chair, dark against the concrete floor.

“Stop,” Charlotte says quietly.

I freeze, the knife halfway to his other leg. “What?”

“I said stop.” She steps closer, her face eerily calm. “Give me the knife.”

“Charlotte—”

“Give. Me. The. Knife.”

The authority in her voice surprises me. This isn't the broken woman from the hospital bed. This is someone else entirely—someone harder, colder. Someone who's found her power in the depths of hell.

I flip the knife, offering her the handle. She takes it without hesitation, her fingers wrapping around the grip with surprising steadiness.

“You want to know what I remember most about our marriage?” she asks Terrance, who is gasping and whimpering in his restraints. “Not the beatings. Not the threats. Not even the fear.”

She raises the knife, examining the blood-slicked blade in the harsh light.

“I remember the silence,” she continues. “The way you'd go completely quiet right before you hurt me. Like you were savoring the moment. Like my pain was something to be treasured.”

The knife descends, slicing across his forearm in one fluid motion. Terrance screams again, the sound hoarse and desperate.

“I remember how you'd smile afterward. So proud of what you’d done.”

She pulls the knife back, blood dripping from the blade onto the concrete. “But you're not smiling now, are you?”

Terrance's face is a mask of agony, sweat mixing with tears as he struggles against his bonds. “Please...Charlotte...I'm sorry...”

“Sorry?” She tilts her head, studying him like a scientist examining a specimen. “You're sorry because you're dying. Not because of what you did to me.”

She leans closer. “I spent years apologizing to you. For breathing wrong. For existing. For not being perfect enough to deserve your love.”

The knife finds his shoulder, sliding between muscle and bone. His scream dies in his throat, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound.

“I'm done apologizing,” she says, stepping back to admire her work. “And you're done hurting people.”

Blood runs in rivulets down his arm, dripping steadily onto the floor. His breathing is shallow, labored. He knows this is the end.

“Charlotte, I...I did love you. In my own way.”

She stares at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she shakes her head slowly.

“No. You loved owning me. There's a difference.”

She raises the knife. drawing the blade against his throat in one easy stroke. The blade bites deep, and Terrance's eyes go wide with shock. Blood pours from the wound, dark and thick. His mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air, but no sound emerges—just a wet, rattling wheeze.

Charlotte steps back, the knife falling from her fingers to clatter against the concrete. Terrance's body convulses once, twice, then goes still. His head lolls forward, and the only sound is the steady drip of blood hitting the floor.

I move to her side, wrapping my arms around her. She doesn't resist, doesn't pull away. Instead, she leans into me, her body finally allowing itself to shake with the magnitude of what she's just done.

“It's over,” I murmur against her hair. “He can't hurt you anymore.”

She nods against my chest, her breathing gradually slowing. Around us, the men begin to move—Karma and Priest stepping forward to check the body, Hero already making calls about cleanup. This is business now, the messy aftermath of justice served.

“How do you feel?” I ask Charlotte, pulling back to look at her face.

She considers the question. “Empty,” she says finally. “But not in a bad way. Like a house that's been cleared of all the rot. Ready to rebuild.”

I press my lips to her forehead, tasting salt and iron. “Then we rebuild.”