The boys tie him to the chair, and when he’s secure, I set the gun on the counter and pick up a paring knife from the block on the bench. I test the blade. A single drop of blood pools on my fingertip. The knife is small, by torture standards, but sharp enough to get the job done.
“That must have hurt, huh? Watching your old lady die right in front of you. Watching your kid get taken away.” The words stick in my throat, thick and burning like acid. “That’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.” I grab hold of his ear and slice it clean off. Blood sprays the carpet and my white T-shirt as Daryl screams. His head lulls, and his eyes roll back as if he’s about to faint.
“Oh, come on, Daryl. You can hold out longer than that. We’re just getting started. You know what the worst part about losing a kid is?” I ask, circling this sorry fuck. “Watching your old lady break, and there’s not a fuckin’ thing you can do about it. Though, I guess I saved you from that fate, didn’t I? That’s okay. I got your little boy, and you know what I’m gonna teach him? That the sons always pay for the father’s crimes.”
“No. Please.”
I jam the knife in his thigh. His eyes widen, and he roars. I grab the hilt and apply a little pressure. His cry cuts off abruptly with a gurgled sob.
“Well, shit. Now I ain’t got no knife,” I say, looking at my boys, who I know each have one. “And Tank’s gone—taken your little boy with him—so I just lost my best torturer. Guess that means I’m gonna have to get creative.” I walk over to the duffle bag that Tank dropped and rifle through. There are several different knife rolls, rope, wire, pliers, a hand saw, a power drill and a few interesting drill bits, and several other implements of torture I don’t even have names for, but there’s just one that catches my eye. I pull it out. It looks like a vegetable peeler but much larger and with a battery pack like you’d find on a power drill.
I tear open his shirt and turn on the grafter. The buzz is deafening. “Do you know what this is?” I shout over the noise.
Daryl shakes his head, but it wasn’t really a question I expected this braindead, fucking Hitler-lover to answer.
“It’s a skin grafter. It peels back your skin, one layer at a time. I hear it hurts ... a lot. You’ll have to tell me if it’s as good for you as it is for me.”
Daryl shifts in his seat as if he could get away from this, as if he’s capable of going anywhere—with two broken kneecaps and a knife in his leg. I can’t imagine he’s too comfortable right now, but that pain is nothing compared to what’s coming.
I press the grafter to his flesh and the screams are unholy. A thin piece of skin just slides right off the grafter and falls to the floor like deli meat. I pick it up and toy with it, waving the sliver of skin in front of his face. “Fuck, boys. I think I need a cigarette already, and I’m just getting started.”
Trigger chuckles, pulling up a dining chair and straddling it backwards. “I’m gonna need to see that again, Prez.”
I grin at the little shit. “I’d offer you a turn, but I figure there’d be nothing left of him for me when you’re done. So you can just sit and watch.”
“I don’t mind. I like to watch as much as I like to participate.”
“Why does that not fuckin’ surprise me?” I grip the handle of the grafter tighter in my sweaty fist and flick the switch to turn it on again. “Trigger, get the fuck over here and hold his head.”
“Alright, now we’re fucking talkin’.” Trigger was up out of his seat before I could even finish my sentence. I press the grafter to Daryl’s skull and slide it backwards, the way a barber might shave a head with a straight blade. The grafter doesn’t cope as well with hair and it gets jammed before I can peel the top layer of his scalp clean off.
Daryl passes out, and I set the grafter down and slap his face. “Hey, stay with me. I can’t have you blacking out on me. I want you know that she stayed awake through all of it—the murder of our neighbour, the way you tried to rape her, and the murder of our unborn baby. She didn’t get an out, and neither do you.”
WHEN I’M EXHAUSTED and can barely stand on my own anymore, much less torture a man, I pull my knife from his thigh. Daryl clearly doesn’t even have the energy to scream, and while I’m not done yet, my body is physically spent. I bring the knife down in his stomach and lower abdomen—in and out, fast violent jabs, as his body jerks. Then I thrust it into his groin. Blood pours hot and thick over my hands. I’m surprised he has any left. Daryl lurches forward, his head slumping against his chest. I press my gloved fingers to his neck and feel for a pulse. It’s faint, but still there. I lean into his ear and whisper, “Her name was Sophie. My daughter’s name was Sophie, you fuck, and you killed her before she even took her first breath.”
I straighten and turn away, throwing my gloves onto the floor. I glance at Grim. “Get the kerosene.”
He nods and walks outside to the van, returning a few minutes later with two jerry cans of kero. He unscrews the cap of one, and Kick takes the other. Together they douse the entire house, including the bodies of Daryl’s wife and friend. I take the can from Kick and pour it over Daryl’s head. He jolts awake and opens his mouth, but he doesn’t scream. My guess is he can’t, because he has no fight left. “You’re going to burn, motherfucker, and I’m going to stand right outside and watch.”
I turn and head out of the house, followed by my boys. Grim hands me the Molotov cocktail and I light the end of the kerosene-soaked rag and hurl it at the front porch.
Orange flames lick a midnight sky. The house burns, but there’s still a thirst for revenge in my blood, an itch that no amount of torture will scratch because they killed my unborn baby. They broke my old lady.
I broke her.
I broke the one good and pure thing in my life. She’s right to blame me. I didn’t take enough precautions. I didn’t ensure the two most important people were taken care of. It was a stupid oversight. I know better. I’m the fucking president of Sydney’s most notorious motorcycle club and my stupidity cost me everything. It cost us everything. And killing these sons of bitches doesn’t fix it—it can’t ever bring her back—but it sure does feel good to watch them burn.
RAINE
I STAGGER OUT OF BED. It’s late, later than I expected. The house is quiet. I don’t know if Indie and Ivy are still here, and I don’t really care. I walk the hall and take the stairs one at a time as I cling to the railing for support. Every step is excruciating. That’s the thing they don’t tell you about C-sections—that it’s virtually impossible to function after them. Every movement hurts. Every step I take pulls at tender flesh and tight stitches.
I walk through the recessed lounge and into the kitchen. I stop dead. There’s a man at the table, and for a split second, I think they’ve found me here. But the flicker from his lighter sparks to a fully-fledged flame as he holds it to a cigarette. Orange embers blaze to life and a halo of smoke floats about his head. Jett. My lover. The father of my stillborn child. The big, scary biker who’s stepped in to solve every single one of my problems, except the most important one. He wasn’t there for that. He had other “club business” to attend to.
I sit heavily in the chair and instantly regret it. My wound screams at me and I double and cover my belly, but even that pressure hurts. I snatch the bottle off the table and take a hearty mouthful.
“Should you be drinkin’, darlin’?”
“Why not? It’s not like I have a baby to breastfeed.”
“I meant with your medication. You’ve been acting a little ... off these last few days.”
“Don’t you dare,” I spit, pointing my finger at him. “Where the hell were you? Huh? Where were you when your daughter was killed inside my womb? Where were you when I was rushed through surgery, and they placed her in my arms?”
“Babe, I didn’t know.”
“You did this. You and your fucking precious club, you brought your club business home and I’m the one who’s paying for it. Our daughter paid for it with her life.
”
“Raine.”
I take another gulp from the bottle, bolstering my courage. “She was tiny. So tiny. But so perfect.”
“Babe, come on. Let’s not do this.”
“She looked just like you. I didn’t know that was possible, you know, to see an adult in a baby so small, but she looked just like you. Her hair was pale, and she never even opened her eyes ... she was ... she was already gone.” I suck in a deep, shuddering breath, fighting my tears and failing fast. “But she had your lips, your chin, and my nose. I would have liked to think that when she grew older, that she’d have had my hands and my heart so she could do good in this world, because there’s far too much bad in it already.”
“Come here.”
“No.” I shake my head and rise from my seat, wincing as the movement pulls my wound. “I’m going to bed.”
“Raine, please? Please just ... just let me hold you. I’m fucking spiralling, darlin’. I’m lost without you, without her. And it’s my fault. I know it’s my fault, and I don’t know how to move on.”
I go to him, not because I want to, or because he’s unravelling right before my eyes, but because I’m afraid I am. I go to him so he can hold me together too. I let him hold me in his arms and I bury my nose in his chest. He smells like night, like wood-burning fires, and something more, something acrid and earthly. Kerosene and blood.
“I found them. The bastards that hurt you, the ones who took our baby from us. I found them.”
My blood turns to ice. I gasp, tears springing to my eyes.
“I took their kid.”
I still. “What?”
“I almost fuckin’ killed him, but I couldn’t. I killed the men who did this. I sliced them up like little ribbons, and I slaughtered them.”
“Did they suffer?”
“For hours.”
“Good.” Tears run down my face and I step out of his embrace and walk away.
Upstairs, I walk into the en suite and turn on the shower.
“I sliced them up like ribbons.”
Did they beg for mercy? Did they cry like I did?
I fucking hope so.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. A shiver runs the length of my spine and milk sprays out of my breasts, soaking my clothing. I strip off my sodden shirt and climb beneath the spray. It’s too hot. It burns my skin, but I don’t turn it down because it’s one thing I can feel—pain—and I’m afraid without it, I’ll go completely numb.
RAINE
INDIE PULLS UP IN FRONT of the house at lunchtime, just like we arranged, and I grab my bag of belongings and take the stairs at a clipped pace, even though it causes my C-section to pull painfully with every step. By the time I make it to the foot of the stairs, I’m doubled over in agony. Grim glances up at me from the couch, his eyes settling onto the duffle bag containing my belongings.
He launches his huge body from the couch and out of the living room to the stairs in a single heartbeat.
Grim grabs my arm and wrenches me closer. “Oh, no. I am not going to sit by and let this happen. You’re not leaving him on my watch.”
Outside, Indie tells Diesel to move the fuck out of the way, and then she shoves into the house, past a biker twice her size, and slams the door in his face. “Take your hands off her,” she says to Grim.
Grim frowns and glares at Indie like she’s a stubborn cockroach that just won’t die, but he releases his hold on me all the same. “I shoulda known this had somethin’ to do with you.”
“Oh, eat me, Grim.”
He narrows his eyes. “Well, I would, but I don’t know where you been.”
“Grim!” I chastise, and he has the good grace to look ashamed.
“I can’t let you walk out of here, Raine. You know that, right?”
“You’re not going to let her do anything,” Indie snaps, picking up my duffle bag from the floor where I dropped it. “She’s going, whether you like it or not.”
“And what the fuck am I supposed to tell Prez?”
“Who gives a shit what you tell him? He doesn’t own her.”
“She’s wearing his jacket, ain’t she?” Grim growls as if he abhors the very words coming from his mouth.
“God, you bikers and your misogynistic bullshit.” Indie shakes her head and hoists my bag higher on her shoulder. “Come on, honey.”
I stare up at Grim beseechingly. “I can’t stay here, Grim. I can’t look at him without seeing what I lost. I just ... I need some time.”
“He’s gonna have my balls for this. You know that, right? It ain’t enough to lose you, I gotta take the blame for letting you walk away too?”
“I’m sorry. I am.” I fight back the swell of tears. It seems all I’ve done since I met Jetthro is cry. “I just ... I can’t be with him right now. I need time.”
He shakes his head. “He’s not gonna give you that.”
“He will if he loves me.” I search his gaze, begging him to let me go. “Please?”
He sighs and releases his hold on my arm. “If you don’t wanna be found, I suggest you hide real good, sweetheart, because he will come lookin’, and he won’t stop until he has you home.”
“This isn’t my home. It never was.”
He nods and tucks my hair behind my ear, leaning in to press a kiss to my forehead.
I wrap my arms around him and breathe him in. “Thank you.”
“You’re gonna get me killed, but I never could say no to you.” I pull away and Grim looks at Indie. “You better know what you’re doing, and you better keep her safe because—Kick’s old lady or not—I will kill you if any harm comes to her.”
“You mean more harm, right? Since she was protected by the MC when those bastards broke down her door and killed her baby.” Indie shoots him a snide smile. “We may only be women, but we’ve got this, champ.”
Grim’s nostrils flare, and I grab Indie’s hand and lead her toward the door before he changes his mind. When we open it, Ivy and Indie’s friend Kimba are on the other side talking to Diesel. Or tormenting Diesel is probably more appropriate, given their skimpy little outfits.
I step outside with Indie and Diesel locks eyes with me as Grim creeps closer. “Hey ... you’re not supposed to be—”
A huge scarred arm wraps around Diesel’s throat in a stranglehold and Grim hugs him tight, squeezing the prospect’s neck with his misshapen bicep and forearm until he’s no longer conscious. He lays Diesel’s sleeping body on the porch step and we all back up to give him room.
Ivy smiles at Kimba. “Told you he’d do anything for her.”
Kimba studies Grim closely, her eyes roaming freely over the scars on his face and arm—something most people try to avoid.
“Hi.” She extends her hand in his direction. “I’m Kimba. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
He ignores her hand, glaring down at her. “I know who you are.”
She smiles. “Are you always this abrasive? Because I feel I should tell you before we go further, I have a tendency to fall in love with arseholes, especially ones with scars.”
“Bitch, you don’t even know me.”
Kimba wets her bottom lip and smirks. “And I like you so much already. Play your cards right, scar, and I just might fall for you yet.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Grim at a loss for words, but then, I didn’t think I’d ever see a day where I would want to run from Jett, and look where we are.
“The fuck did you just call me?” He steps forward and Kimba shivers. If the way she bites her lower lip is any indication, I’d guess it was the good kind.
As fascinated as I am by Kimba’s antics, and Grim’s response to them, I don’t want to linger here longer than we have to. “What are you going to tell him when he wakes?”
“That Indie knocked him out.”
“You really think they’re going to buy that?” I say, suddenly not so sure about this plan.
“I think they’re going to have a hard time believing three women
overpowered us at all, but Indie was holding a gun, and we all know that bitch is crazy. I didn’t wanna get my head blown off, so I thought it best to do what the fuckin’ gun-wielding bitch said.”
“Let’s tie him up for good measure,” Ivy says, pulling several bundles of rope from her oversized purse.
Grim grinds his teeth and glares at her.
“I volunteer as tribute.” Kimba takes the rope from Ivy’s hands and smiles at Grim, her bright blue hair swinging off her shoulders.
He flinches. “You gonna rough me up a little too, baby blue?”
“Anytime, big man. You know where to find me, right?”
Grim’s cheeks pink up and he glances at me. I send him an apologetic smile and he shakes his head, as if asking himself why he ever got involved with me at all. He walks inside with his head bowed low and Kimba practically skips in behind him.
Ten minutes later, she comes striding back out with a smug smile on her face.
“I hope you went easy on him,” I say.
“I never do anything easy,” she says with a wink and saunters toward our getaway vehicle, a pink 1969 Cadillac. I glance back at the house, wondering if I should check and make sure Grim is still breathing, but a part of me doesn’t want to see him bound and gagged. I don’t think I’d ever be able to leave my friend in that state, so I carefully tiptoe over Diesel’s inert form and follow the girls to the car.
I don’t know if Jett will forgive me. I don’t know if Grim will either, but I can’t stay with a man who brought me so much pain. I don’t like the woman I’m becoming. I’ve changed. I’m ruled by vengeance, and now that I know it, I have to get out before it’s too late.
AFTER GRABBING BURGERS and fries, a pint of ice cream, and more liquor than I know what to do with, Kimba drives us to a free-standing federation home on the outskirts of Newtown. I climb out of the car and stare at the immaculate property. “Are you sure about this?”
JETT (Savage Saints MC Book 3) Page 17
