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CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

THE RUMBLE OF my bike was steady beneath me, a low growl that usually kept my head clear, helped me stay grounded when the noise in my head got too loud. Most nights, that vibration was enough to quiet the ghosts. But not tonight.

Tonight, my mind was still wrapped around Zeynep. Still tangled in the look on her face, the pain, and her walls slammed back into place the second Chelsea opened her mouth and spilled her poison.

I could still hear her voice. That cold, calculated venom slipping out like it cost her nothing.

I should’ve stopped it the second Chelsea showed up. Should’ve shut her down, told Zeynep everything before she ever had the chance to hear it from anyone else.

But I didn’t.

I just stood there—silent, useless, watching the damage happen in real time. Watching Zeynep close up like she’s probably done a thousand times before when she was trying to survive something too painful to face.

The weight of it hadn’t left me since. It sat like a stone on my chest as I rode through the darkness toward the clubhouse, headlights cutting through the quiet backroads, eating up pavement while my thoughts refused to settle.

Up ahead, the gates came into view—familiar, solid, and guarded. Devil stood just beyond them, cigarette glowing between his fingers like a slow-burning fuse. Chain was there too, leaning against the fence, boots crossed at the ankle, arms folded.

They saw me before I saw what was coming.

It happened fast—too fast for the unease to fully settle before it snapped tight.

Blue and red lights flashed out of nowhere, flooding the night like an alarm had gone off in the sky.

The sound of sirens followed seconds later, sharp and jarring, cutting through the stillness like a scream.

My instincts kicked in immediately. I slowed, easing off the throttle, every muscle in my body going tense. My jaw locked, shoulders squared, eyes tracking the movement behind me as three sheriff’s department cruisers closed in—two from behind, one pulling up ahead to block the gate.

I was boxed in before I even had time to blink.

Chain straightened, his stance no longer casual. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, lips tight, gaze tracking every move. Devil stepped forward from the fence, already moving with purpose, his expression dark and unreadable.

What the fuck is this?

I hadn’t even killed the engine before the doors of the cruisers flew open and uniformed deputies spilled out, weapons already drawn, aimed straight at me like I was some rabid animal that needed to be put down.

“Hands where we can see them, Blackwood!” one of them barked, the command slicing through the air.

I didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. Just let out a slow, tight breath, the kind you take when you know something is about to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better. My fingers flexed once around the grips, then I raised them slowly into the air.

This wasn’t random.

This wasn’t coincidence.

This was Chelsea.

That conniving bitch.

She didn’t just want revenge—she wanted destruction.

One of the cops rushed forward, grabbed me hard by the arm, and yanked me off the bike. The force sent me stumbling, boots scraping against the gravel before I was slammed chest-first onto the hood of the cruiser. The hot metal burned through my shirt, and the cuffs bit into my wrists with practiced ease.

“What the hell is this?” Devil’s voice cut through the chaos, calm but coiled tight with threat.

He didn’t raise it. Didn’t need to.

The cop restraining me didn’t look his way. “Kain Blackwood, you’re under arrest for domestic assault,” he said flatly, already reaching for the Miranda card.

The words echoed, but they didn’t sink in—not at first.

Assault?

Domestic?

It felt like a bad dream, like the kind of nightmare where you move too slow, where nothing makes sense until it’s too late.

My pulse spiked, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t resist. I let the words pass over me, clung to the rising fury in my gut like it was the only solid thing I had left.

Chelsea had actually done it.

She hadn’t just implied, hadn’t just threatened—she went all in. Filed a report. Called the cops. Set this whole damn thing in motion, and now she wanted me in cuffs, wanted me branded as something I never was.

She was out to destroy me.

“Bullshit,” Chain growled, stepping forward, voice thick with fury. “We all know he didn’t touch that crazy bitch.”

“She filed a report,” the officer snapped, gripping my arm tighter as he led me toward the cruiser’s back door. “Claims he assaulted her tonight—and multiple times in the past. It’s on record. We’re obligated to take him in.”

I could hear Devil behind him, muttering curses under his breath, voice still too low to catch fully but laced with that calm-before-the-storm quality that meant someone was about to regret crossing him.

“Let me guess,” he said, tone lethal. “You’re going on her word alone? No photos? No witnesses? Just a story she spun out of spite?”

The officer didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

We already knew the answer.

Didn’t matter.

Devil and Chain weren’t just watching this unfold. I knew them. I knew how fast they were calculating—how every move, every lie, every accusation was being measured for its weakness.

They would handle it.

And me?

I didn’t fight the arrest. Didn’t shout or resist or play into the trap she was hoping for.

I let them shove me into the backseat like I was just another statistic on a late shift, stared straight ahead through the windshield as the door slammed shut behind me.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t curse.

But inside, I was burning.

Chelsea thought she’d won. Thought this would break me. Thought this was the final move—the one that would bury me so deep I’d never get out.

She had no idea just how wrong she was.

***

HOLDING CELLS ALWAYS smelled the same.

A sick mix of sweat, piss, and stale fear—the kind of stink that seeped into concrete and never left. I’d been here before, in places like this. Different towns. Different wars. Same damn feeling.

I leaned back against the cold concrete wall, spine pressed to stone, arms resting loose over my bent knees. My head tipped back until it knocked against the wall with a dull thud. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, breathing slow, letting my pulse even out.

Chelsea probably thought I was in here panicking. Thought I was sweating bullets, pacing in my cell, chewing on my regret.

She never fucking learned.

She thought fear would still work on me. That after all this time, I’d still be the man she kept on a leash with her threats and games.

The door buzzed, the mechanical groan loud in the quiet, followed by the solid thump of boots on the floor. I didn’t need to look up to know who walked in.

“Come with me.” The deputy’s voice was flat, bored, like he’d already made up his mind about me.

I stood without a word, let him cuff me again, and followed him down a narrow hallway lined with peeling paint and flickering lights. He didn’t say anything else, just shoved me into a side room that reeked of old sweat, burnt coffee, and institutional decay.

I sat in the metal chair, the legs scraping across the linoleum, and leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on my knees. My wrists were still cuffed, tight and raw, the skin there aching from how long I’d been bound.

But I wasn’t worried.

Devil and Chain were out there. I knew them. Knew how they worked. By now, they’d already started flipping every stone and cornering anyone who owed them a favor. Chelsea’s so called case was nothing but air and venom, a lie so thin it couldn’t hold up to the truth once it came knocking.

The door opened again, and the sheriff entered. Late fifties, maybe older. Worn down by years of small town bullshit and power plays that didn’t quite make him the king he liked to think he was. He sank into the chair across from me with a tired sigh, rubbing a hand down his jaw before leaning forward to press the button on a small recorder sitting between us.

Then, without warning, my own voice filled the room.

I froze.

The air in my lungs turned sharp.

A breath—mine—jagged and uneven.

“No—fuck, get away—”

A crash. Something shattering.

Then came my breathing again—panicked, strained—like I was trapped beneath a weight I couldn’t throw off.

Another clip.

“I said get the fuck back—!”

Something slammed hard. More ragged breath.

The sound of my nightmare.

But not just in my head this time. Played out in the open, dissected, replayed for judgment.

It was me. But not the man sitting here now.

It was the man I used to be—the one dragged home from a war half-dead, waking in cold sweats, fists swinging at ghosts only I could see.

The sheriff pressed stop. Silence dropped like a curtain, thick and choking.

I clenched my jaw and shifted my shoulders, trying to push the tension out of my spine, but it had already settled in deep.

Chelsea had kept those recordings for years. She’d used them like a weapon every time I tried to walk away. She didn’t need fists to break me—she had my past, recorded and ready.

I could still hear her voice in my head, sickly sweet and manipulative:

“What do you think the cops’ll say if they hear this, baby?”

“What do you think your precious club’ll do when they find out what you’re really like?”

“You’re a fucking time bomb, Kain. I’m the only reason you haven’t gone off.”

For a long time, I believed her. Because I had been a mess. I had been angry, broken, dangerous to myself. And the truth was, if you spun it just right, took the worst nights and stripped away the context, it would sound exactly like what she wanted it to.

Evidence.

Proof.

Guilt.

The sheriff stared at me like he was trying to decide whether I was the monster she painted or something worse.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” he asked, voice unreadable.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

He leaned back in his chair, waiting. “You wanna explain why you were threatening your wife? Breaking things? Acting aggressive?”

I lifted my head and met his gaze square. My voice was quiet, steady, stripped bare of apology.

“You ever been to war, Sheriff?”

His lips flattened. “That’s not what we’re here to discuss.”

“No,” I said, letting the word sit. “It’s not. But maybe it fuckin’ should be.”

We sat there in silence. Him trying to read me. Me daring him to.

Then the door slammed open.

Devil entered first, all slow confidence and unreadable calm. Chain followed, a laptop tucked under one arm. His jaw was tight, eyes burning with something that looked a lot like fury restrained by purpose.

The sheriff straightened. “You can’t just walk in here—”

“The hell I can’t?” Devil’s tone was relaxed, almost bored, but I saw the fire beneath it. “You planning to press charges based on a few cherry picked soundbites?”

Chain didn’t bother with words. He strode to the table, flipped open the laptop, and hit play.

The room filled with sound again. But not my voice this time.

Chelsea’s.

Loud. Clear. Recorded earlier that day.

“I’ll fucking ruin you, Kain. You wanna leave me? Fine. But I’ll make sure you go down as the violent piece of shit everyone already thinks you are.”

The sheriff’s expression didn’t change at first. But I saw the flicker—doubt, then realization.

Chain clicked the next clip.

“I can make you look like anything I want. And you know what? They’ll believe me over some fucked up monster of a biker.”

The sheriff glanced at me, then to Devil, then to the screen still glowing with damning proof of the encounter.

It was all there.

Every bit of manipulation. Every threat. Every second of truth she never thought would surface.

He sat back, rubbed his face with both hands, and let out a long breath. “Looks like we’re done here.”

Devil’s grin was slow and razor-edged. “Uncuff him.”

The sheriff didn’t argue. He stood, reached for the key, and unlocked the cuffs without a word.

“Get out of here,” he muttered, like it was a favor.

I stood slow, rubbing my wrists as the blood rushed back into them, the metal ghosts still lingering on my skin.

As I passed the sheriff, I paused just long enough to say, “Have a nice night.”

Didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t need one.

The air outside was thick with humidity, but it felt cleaner somehow.

Free.

No apology. No acknowledgment that they’d nearly let a liar destroy me.

Didn’t matter.

Devil clapped a heavy hand on my back as we crossed the parking lot, his smirk crooked. “You owe me a drink.”

I huffed out a laugh that felt like a release. “You want top-shelf?”

He shrugged. “After tonight? You’re buying the damn bottle.”

***

I BARELY REMEMBER rolling through the gates, barely registered Chain nodding at the prospects standing by the building. It was all muscle memory now—habit, reflex. The body moving even when the mind had gone quiet. And when the engine cut off beneath me, I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, hands still wrapped around the bars, the warmth of the motor fading into the night as the air turned cold around me.

Behind me, the clubhouse carried on as if nothing had happened. Laughter spilled out the open windows, the sound of music rising and falling with the pulse of the crowd. Pool balls clacked on felt, glasses clinked, and someone let out a holler that reached across the lot.

Life kept going.

Like I hadn’t just been cuffed, locked up, paraded like a criminal.

Like Chelsea hadn’t damn near tried to bury me.

I stared straight ahead, jaw tight, breath steady. The shadows in the night didn’t offer any answers, but I watched them anyway. Maybe hoping they would. Maybe hoping they wouldn’t.

I should’ve known better. Should’ve seen this coming.

Chelsea was never going to let me go without blood on her hands.

She didn’t love me—she never had.

Chelsea didn’t know love.

She knew control.

She knew how to take a man’s past and make it a weapon. How to smile while twisting the knife and make you thank her for the favor.

And somewhere deep down, she still believed she owned me.

I exhaled slowly, the tension easing from my fingers as I flexed them against the grips. My knuckles ached, not from the fight—but from holding too much in for too long.

I felt someone beside me.

Devil.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood by my side, lighting a cigarette with one hand, the flame flaring and casting his face in a wash of red and shadow.

“You good?” he asked, his expression concerned.

I didn’t answer right away. Just let the smoke swirl around us, tasting the ash in the air, running my tongue along my teeth as I fought the urge to lie.

“Yeah,” I muttered eventually.

There was a pause. The kind that hangs there too long to be casual.

Then Devil let out a quiet laugh that held no real humor. “Lying motherfucker.”

That dragged a huff of air out of me, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. I rubbed a hand down my face, dragging across the stubble like I could scrape the day off my skin. “Got no choice.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t call me out again. Just clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, the weight grounding.

“Drink’s inside,” he said simply. “Whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he turned and walked back inside, the cherry of his cigarette glowing brighter with each drag until it disappeared into the haze of the doorway.

For a few seconds, I just sat there, letting the hum of the night stretch out around me. Letting the air clear my head. And when I finally stood and swung my leg over the bike, it felt like dragging my body out of a grave I hadn’t realized I’d laid down in.

The clubhouse door creaked shut behind me, sealing me back into the place I’d once called home. The air inside was thick with the usual smells, and bodies all layered together into something that shouldn’t have felt comforting, but somehow did.

I didn’t look at my brothers gathered by the bar, though I felt their eyes on me, curious, watchful, sympathetic. Didn’t bother to talk with Gearhead and Thunder, standing near the pool table, their quiet conversation dying off as their eyes found me. They didn’t ask questions. Not with words. But their posture, the flick of their gaze, said enough. They were waiting to see if I’d crack.

I didn’t have it in me.

Not for talk. Not for company.

I needed something in my hands to crush, something to let the anger I was feeling have an outlet. Shit, maybe I just needed a corner dark enough to disappear into.

I moved through the room like a shadow, slipping past the noise, letting the voices and music bleed into background noise.

And then—

I saw her.

She was sitting in the far corner of the room, surrounded by familiar faces. Lucy, Fiona, and Amy were there, all talking, laughing, drinks in hand like it was any other night. Like the world hadn’t tilted off its axis.

But Zeynep wasn’t laughing.

She wasn’t looking at them.

She was watching me .

Her gaze was unreadable in the low light, but I felt it like a current across the room—steady, quiet, and cutting straight through me.

My throat went tight.

I didn’t look away.

I couldn’t.

Not after what I’d done.

Not after letting her down. After standing there while Chelsea spat venom in her direction and said my name like it belonged to her. After failing to step between them. Failing to protect Zeynep from the one person I should’ve never let near her.

We stayed like that for a moment—two people caught in a stare that said everything words couldn’t.

Then, without a word, she stood.

And walked away.

No scene. No explosion. No drama. Just silence.

But that silence cut deeper than anything else could’ve.

I stood there, frozen, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides.

I could go to her.

Could follow her into that quiet hallway and say the things I should’ve said from the beginning.

I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

But I didn’t know if I had the right.

Not yet.