Page 1 of Victorious, Part 2 (The LA Defiance MC #6)

CLOVER

Screams tear through the darkness, the hoarse sound raw, frenzied, building like continuous gunfire.

First, the pain.

Second, the rage.

And then, it doesn’t end. It’s ripped from them, spine-deep, as if their throats are being carved open.

I just can’t tell if the screams are coming from them or me.

Gunfire pops in stuttering bursts, bullets zipping through muscle, splintering bone.

The metallic clink of ricocheting bullets is drowned out by the thud of bodies hitting concrete.

Liquor ignites where bottles shatter, fire blooming across the floor as if hell itself has opened beneath the clubhouse.

Alpha’s arm is snapped backward, elbow bending the wrong damn way, while a Rojas soldier laughs.

Haven’s screams splinter into sobs as they drag her by the hair, glass embedding in her back. Maverick’s face is a mask of rage until they crush his kneecap with a crowbar. The sound, oh God, the sound, it makes me gag.

They’re not just being killed.

They’re being unmade.

Fingernails peeled off.

Skin carved into.

Eyes swollen shut from repeated blows.

Loki is nailed to the wall by his palms, the blood dripping slowly and steadily, resembling a clock ticking down, his bloodied and pummeled face trying hard to stay conscious.

To fight.

But the Cartel soldier slams another fist into Loki’s face, forcing his body to fall limp and hang by his confined palms.

It’s a warning.

A promise as a Cartel soldier rips at Bea’s clothing in front of him, pinning her to the floor. Her screams pierce through the clubhouse as she fights frantically to get him off her.

The smell of scorched flesh churns my stomach as a blowtorch hisses to life, and the unmistakable sizzling sound makes me gag.

And the begging turns to silence.

The kind that means another member of my family has just stopped breathing.

And still it rages on.

The Rojas don’t rush their art…

They perfect it.

I run, hearing Maverick scream, my feet taking off as fast as I can up the stairs of the Chapel.

But the Chapel walls aren’t walls anymore.

They’re canvases.

Blood smeared like fucking artwork, dripping, Jackson Pollock style.

Maverick is lashed to the president’s chair, South’s eyes wide, his fingers pressed to my brother’s stomach as Maverick’s intestines slip through South’s fingers while he frantically tries to hold them in.

And over it all, a scream, a plea.

“Clover!” Maverick whimpers, his terrified eyes finding mine.

The metallic tang of blood chokes me. It coats my tongue, my teeth.

It’s a vision.

A nightmare.

A psychic gutting.

But it feels real. So fucking real.

My family. My club. My blood.

All of them are broken.

But I’m the one who left.

Haven’s hand reaches out from behind the Chapel door, her fingers trembling, her skin flayed raw.

“C-Clover,” she whispers, just like our brother before her. Then her lips stop moving. Her eyes vacant, her final breath leaves her, and I choke on a sob.

My body shakes violently, the scream clawing its way up my throat burns like acid.

Like punishment.

I did this.

I let them die.

“Clover!”

My siblings are calling me again.

“Clover!”

Clenching my eyes tighter, I try hard to reach for them, my breathing racing so fast as they move farther and farther from sight.

“Clo!” The voice shatters everything, as rough hands grab me. Their grip is strong, anchoring.

Real.

My eyes snap open, my vision blurs, but I feel it.

The weight of Phoenix’s palms cupping my face, the heat of his body crowding mine.

“Clover, breathe. Jesus, look at me.” His intense blue eyes meet mine, and somehow, the vision stutters.

The reality fractures, and for one awful, soul-tearing second, I don’t know if I’m still trapped in it, or if Phoenix is dead, too, and I’m hallucinating him back to life.

But then I see his eyes—wild, angry, scared.

I gasp, dragging in a much-needed breath that tastes like leather, sweat, and salvation, and suddenly, I’m here.

Not in the Chapel.

Not covered in blood.

But back in the desert at the abandoned waterpark, sitting on the sand.

Phoenix pulls me in, my face crushed to his chest, his heartbeat a drum against my cheek.

But I can’t stop shaking.

Because the images won’t fade.

Because part of me still swears I heard Haven and Maverick die.

And I wasn’t there to stop it.

I clutch Phoenix’s shirt as if it’s my lifeline, fingers curling so tight they ache. The cotton bunches in my fists, damp with sweat or maybe tears.

I can’t tell.

“Hey,” Phoenix murmurs, his voice low but firm, his breath warm against my temple. “You’re here. With me. You hear that?”

I shake my head, even though I can. I hear everything. His voice. His heart. The groan of the truck as it roars to life behind us from the mechanic bringing her back to life.

But beneath it all, the screams still echo.

“They’re dead,” I whisper. My voice resembles cracked glass. “They’re all dead.”

Phoenix pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. His brows furrow, his jaw tight like he’s holding something back, probably panic of his own. But his hands don’t waver. One stays cradling the back of my head, and the other slides to my jaw, grounding me with his touch.

“You’re spiraling,” he says, hard and certain. “Whatever that was, it’s not real.”

But it felt real.

The blood.

The screams.

“I saw it,” I croak. “Haven… they tortured her. And Mav? Oh God, Mav. They—” My chest caves.

The air won’t come fast enough. I blink, and I swear I still see it, her body torn, glass embedded like crystals.

Maverick’s intestines are pooling out of his body like some damn carnage you would see at a butcher store.

Phoenix doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t let go. “Breathe,” he commands, his voice cutting through the chaos in my head. “Just breathe with me, Clo.” His thumb traces circles against my cheek, steady and sure, and I try to match his rhythm.

In. Out. In. Out.

But the guilt, the guilt is suffocating.

“I should be there,” I choke out, my fingers digging deeper into his shirt. “I should be fighting with them, not sitting in the middle of nowhere while they—”

“Stop.” Phoenix’s voice resembles steel, uncompromising, unwavering. “You’re exactly where you need to be. Where Maverick told you to be.”

“But what if they need me? What-if—”

“What-if nothing.” His grip tightens, anchoring me to the present. “What-if doesn’t help anyone right now.”

The sound of metal clanging against metal cuts through our moment, and we both turn toward the truck.

The mechanic, a weathered man with grease-stained overalls and kind eyes, emerges from under the hood of Phoenix’s truck, wiping his hands on a rag.

“She’s all set,” he calls out, his voice carrying across the desert air.

I don’t miss his concerned eyes assessing my panic while he continues.

“Hose is fixed, coolant’s topped off. Should get you where you’re going without any more trouble. ”

Phoenix’s jaw tightens. I feel the tension coil through his body like a live wire.

This is it.

The moment we’ve been dreading.

Getting back on the road means accepting that we might be driving toward nothing. Toward a world where everyone we love is already gone.

“Thank you,” Phoenix calls back, but he doesn’t move.

Neither of us do.

The mechanic approaches, sensing our hesitation. “You folks okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

More like a damn massacre, I think, but can’t say it out loud.

“We’re fine,” Phoenix lies smoothly, finally releasing me to stand. But I catch the tremor in his hands as he reaches for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

I tune out as they exchange their pleasantries, Phoenix counting out bills, as I study his profile.

The hard line of his jaw. The way his shoulders carry too much weight.

This man, who was supposed to protect me from a distance, is now the only thing standing between me and a complete and utter breakdown.

But he’s falling apart too.

I see it in the way his eyes dart toward his phone every few seconds, willing it to ring with news from home. I see it in the rigid set of his spine, like he’s bracing for impact. I see it in the careful way he’s not looking at me because looking at me means acknowledging that we’re both terrified.

The mechanic pockets the cash and tips his hat.

“Drive safe now. And hey…” he pauses, studying us both with the wisdom of someone who’s seen plenty of broken people pass through this long strip of endless desert, “… whatever’s waitin’ for you down the road, you’ll face it together, and that’s worth somethin’.

” He dips his hat at me, somehow giving me a small amount of comfort as he turns back for his truck, ducks in, and takes off without another word.

After he drives off, we’re left standing in suffocating silence.

Phoenix runs a hand through his dark hair, the gesture rough and frustrated. “We should go.”

But he doesn’t move toward the truck.

And I don’t either.

Because getting in that truck means making a choice, continue to Vegas like Maverick ordered, or turn around and race back to potentially find everyone we love already buried.

“Phoenix,” I whisper, my voice breaking on his name. “What if we’re making the wrong choice?”

He turns to face me, and the anguish in his blue eyes nearly buckles my knees. This man who always seems so sure, so in control, is just as lost as I am.

“I don’t know,” he admits, the words torn from somewhere deep. “Christ, Clo, I don’t know anything anymore.”

The honesty hits me harder than any lie ever could because Phoenix always knows what to do. He’s the one with the plan, the strategy, the next move mapped out three steps ahead.

But not now.

Now he’s just a man who’s as scared as I am of what we might find or what we might have lost.