Page 53 of Havoc

I was so fucking wrong.

Aimee tried to talk me down as I climbed off the bed to dress. But her words were a blur. They were lies parading as comfort to try and soften the blow when she probably assumes her confession made something in my brain snap.

She didn’t try to stop me as I kissed her and left. She knows me. She understands.

“Havoc…”

“I’m going to have a chat with Reyes.”

Chat being a bit of an understatement. There’s a tsunami crashing between my temples, and I need to let it out.

Reyes might not have been around back when Aimee was originally taken, but he’s Titan’s nephew.An Iron Sinner.He’s the closest thing to that club that I can get my hands on right now, so I’ll wring this frustration out through him.

My fingers flex at the thought of blood. Of revenge.

No wonder Aimee’s been hiding behind a fortress, barely wanting to participate in anything having to do with the club.

The things they did to her.

My cut has never felt so heavy on my shoulders.

I can’t imagine what she must think when she sees me wearing it. The deep-rooted reasons she flinches at the unexpected sound of a motorcycle. How she refuses to drink alcohol at the clubhouse.

This world took everything from her. And here I am, a part of it.

They sterilized me.

I’m going to break this fucking earth.

“You gonna talk to me before we go in there?” Chaos asks, eyeing his phone, probably responding to a text from Steel.

When I walked out of my room, I managed to compose myself long enough to call my president and let him know I’m going to kill our hostage. But I hung up before he could give me the order to stand down.

“Dead men don’t talk,” Chaos reminds me.

“Good.”

I mean it. We might still have questions for Reyes, but I want anyone wearing an Iron Sinners cut six feet under right now. I want to skin them one by one. To take Ghost’s advice on the best way to inflict pain and make them all suffer for what they took from her.

“Havoc.” Chaos finally cuts in front of me when we’re twenty feet from the Shack. “Stop and talk to me for a second.”

“Are you really going to stand in my way?”

My club is my family more than my own flesh and blood, but that won’t stop me from doing what needs to be done. To contain this anger, spiderwebbing over my skin. Seeping into my blood. My bones.

Chaos faces off with me, and I know he wants to stop me.

For our president.

For myself.

But for whatever reason, or because of whatever look I must give him, he steps aside, letting me pass.

More footsteps follow us now, but I don’t look back to see who has joined us. I could probably guess, and I don’t care.

All that matters is the scent of stale blood when I swing open the door to the Shack. The stench of fear. The type of silence that wakes the drums of war in my veins.

At that, a familiar calm runs through me.