Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Highway

I'm a heartbeat away from being too late. Adrenaline surges as my boots pound the concrete, closing the distance to Lyric. The woman's arm is a coiled viper, the blade glinting with deadly intent.

Please, God, no.

"Lyric!" My voice rips through the tension.

Her scream pierces the chaos, slicing through me. But as I surge forward, fueled by raw panic and something fiercer—protectiveness—the distance between us shrinks to nothing. My hand lashes out, fingers wrapping around the attacker's wrist with an iron grip.

I twist hard, the motion as natural as breathing, born of brawls and battles fought in the name of brotherhood. Bones snap, a sound like dry wood splintering in a campfire. The blade clatters to the concrete.

The woman's scream morphs into one of pain, high and ragged. Her face contorts, eyes wild with shock and agony. She crumples, but I don't ease up until I'm sure she's no longer a threat to Lyric.

"Stay down," I growl, the command rumbling deep within my chest.

My heart still races, thumping against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. I lock eyes with Lyric, whose gaze swims with unshed tears and relief. But we're not done here—not by a long shot.

Reaper is there in a flash, his large frame a barricade between Lyric and the crumpled woman. He yanks her back by her jacket's collar like he's pulling a sack of trash from the curb. And me? I'm shaking, vibrating with a fury that's got nowhere to go now but out.

"Dammit, Lyric!" My voice is a snarl, a beast unleashed. "You could've been killed! What the hell were you thinking, not telling anyone where you were headed?"

My hands are fists at my sides, every muscle coiled tight. It's a miracle I had that tracker on her phone, a lifeline she didn't even know she had.

Her eyes are wide, shock giving way to the realization of what just went down. She starts to speak, her voice small against the roar in my ears, "Highway, I—"

"Save it," I bite out, cutting her off. There's no room for excuses. Not now. Not when she was a hair's breadth away from a blade ending everything.

Reaper's chuckle cuts through my rage, but it's hollow, lacking any real mirth. "Girl, you're more trouble than your sister ever was," he says, shaking his head. His hand still grips the woman, keeping her at bay. "But damn if I don't have a soft spot for Lucy. Means you're family, like it or not."

Lyric's trying to stitch herself back together, an apology trembling on her lips. But Reaper isn't done. The laughter drains from his face, leaving it cold as a slab in the morgue. His next words are a low growl meant for her and her alone.

"Don't be so reckless, Lyric. Never, ever dare to be so stupid as to go it alone. That's not what Bastards do! If you want to be part of us then act like it!"

The air is electric with his warning, his protectiveness something fierce and unyielding. For a moment, nobody moves. We're all caught in the gravity of his words, the unspoken consequences hanging heavy between us.

Reaper's grip is iron as he hauls the woman away, her curses trailing like exhaust fumes. I watch them go, tension coiling in my gut.

Lyric is beside me, quivering slightly. She's been through hell, but she's still standing, tough as they come. Her eyes catch mine, full of remorse.

"Highway, I'm so sorry—"

"Stop talking." My voice is gravelly, raw with anger and fear tangled together. "You think sorry is gonna cut it?"

She flinches, and I hate myself for it, but the rage is a living thing inside me. "I love you." The words are harsh, clipped with the effort it takes to keep from shaking her. "But if you pull a stunt like this again…" My hand balls into a fist. "I swear, Lyric, you won't sit down for a week."

Her breath catches, eyes wide and fixed on me. There's fear there, yes, but underneath it, something that looks like wonder.

The words hang in the air, raw and jagged. I can see them hitting her, slicing through the panic and fear. Her lips part, tears brimming in those wide, haunted eyes.

"Highway," she whispers, voice trembling. "I love you too." It's a confession ripped from somewhere deep, a truth laid bare between us.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a drumbeat of war and want. This woman, my Lyric, brave and reckless, has me by the soul. I step forward, closing the gap, my hands finding her face.

"Lyric," I growl, every emotion I've got bleeding into her name.

Our lips crash together, electric and desperate. I kiss her like I'm claiming her, branding her as mine with every sweep of my tongue. She meets me with fire and a need that echoes my own, her arms winding around my neck.

I'm all hard lines and rough edges, and she's soft curves and fierce spirit. My kiss tells her everything—my anger, my fear, and my love. It's all there in the push and pull, the give and take.

"You belong to me," I murmur against her lips, a promise, a vow.

"Yes," she breathes back, and it's all the surrender I need.

***

We arrive back at the clubhouse, Lyric's hand clutched in mine, trembling but alive. The infirmary door swings open with a thud that echoes my racing pulse. There, Justice is working on the woman, wrapping her arm in a sling, his face as hard as the steel of his tools.

"Sit tight," he orders.

I scan the room, taking in the sterile smell of antiseptics and the sight of Reaper leaning against a wall. His eyes are locked on the woman.

"Talk," Reaper demands, and I can feel the threat in his voice vibrating in my chest.

She shrugs, nonchalant even with her arm busted. "Tore lots of things," she says casually as if discussing the weather.

"Coincidence, my ass," Reaper snaps, stepping closer. He's a predator cornering his prey. "The photo. Why'd you take the other half?"

Her head shakes, and she frowns. "Didn't take nothing."

Reaper's stance tightens, coiling like a spring. "Bullshit," he spits out.

Justice finishes securing the sling and steps back. It's meant to make her feel safe and think she'll be released, but it's all an act. Her eyes dart around the room, perhaps sensing the deceit, searching for an escape that doesn't exist.

A silent moment passes. "Better start making sense," Reaper warns, his voice low and dangerous.

I squeeze Lyric's hand, a silent reminder that I'm here and with her.

Lyric's fingers entwine with mine. "The other half…" Lyric says, her voice hesitant, "… it might be back at the house. Under all that mess… we didn't sift through all of it. I found it ripped in two and assumed…"

Reaper's heavy sigh cuts through the tension, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly—a stark contrast to the coiled intensity from moments ago. "So, it ain't the Locos then," he concludes, almost to himself but loud enough for us to catch. The relief in his voice doesn't quite mask the underlying frustration. "Just a crazy woman causing havoc."

Lyric flinches beside me, and I pull her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. Reaper's eyes meet mine, a silent nod passing between us. We've been through worse scrapes, but every time danger nips at our heels, it leaves a mark. This time, it's a reminder that even in our world, sometimes the chaos is just madness, not the enemy trying to destroy us.

The infirmary door squeaks open, a slice of light slicing the dimness. Jet's unmistakable silhouette fills the gap. She takes one step in, two, then freezes like she's hit an invisible wall.

"Foxy," she breathes out, her voice barely a whisper but loaded with a thousand unspoken words. Her eyes lock onto the woman we've been grappling with, and I see something flicker across her face—fear, recognition, disgust? Hard to tell.

Jet backs out, retreating into the shadows as if she's seen a ghost.

Justice, who's been doing his best to bandage up Foxy's broken arm, shoots a look at the woman. "What'd you do to Jet?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Foxy, sitting on the edge of a cot, her good arm cradling the sling, shrugs. There's no remorse there, no fear either. It's like she's discussing the weather, not the potential fallout of her actions.

"Those other chicks?" Foxy says, a sneer curling her lip. "They ain't like me. They were there for one thing only." She spits the next words out like they're poison. "Lying on their backs. Servicing the Crimson Wheelers." She laughs, and it's a sharp, ugly sound. "Nothing but whores."

I clench my fists, hands are balled up in tension while anger builds. This woman, this… Foxy, she's got a lot of nerve. But I've got to stay cool, keep my head.

"Watch your mouth," Justice warns, the threat clear in his tone.

Foxy smirks like she's untouchable and doesn't care what comes next.

Reaper's gaze locks onto Foxy, ice-cold and merciless. The air in the infirmary thickens with tension, and I can damn near taste the danger on my tongue.

"Time to go," Reaper says, his voice flat as a dead engine.

He doesn't need to raise his voice. Doesn't have to. His presence alone commands the room. Justice nods, stepping forward, his large frame blocking the light as he moves toward Foxy.

"Move," Justice grunts, no hint of a question in his tone.

Foxy stands, her smirk finally wiped off her face. She knows better than to argue. They all do when Reaper's got that look in his eyes—the one that spells out trouble with a capital T.

They march her out, Reaper leading the way, Justice at the rear, like she's some kind of prisoner. Which, hell, maybe she is. Maybe she has always been. The clubhouse door swings shut with a sound that echoes like a final verdict.

"Where are they taking her?" Jet asks behind me.

"Doesn't matter," I reply, keeping my voice low. "It's club business."

But my gut twists, uneasy.

The night's dark, and it's hungry. Hungry for secrets, sins, and whatever Reaper's got planned.

I watch through the window. They are only silhouettes now, three shadows swallowed by the night. No words. No goodbyes. Just the quiet crunch of gravel under heavy boots.

Then, they disappear around the corner of the clubhouse, and it's like they were never here—like Foxy was never there.

"Think they'll…" Jet's words trail off, not finishing her thought. Not out loud.

"Maybe," I say. "Or maybe they'll just teach her a lesson she won't forget."

We all know Reaper's capable of both. And then some.

The night is silent and so am I, but the clubhouse carries on. Laughter spills from the bar, the jukebox kicks back to life, and somewhere, a bottle shatters.

"Let's get a drink," I tell the curious Jet, clapping her on the shoulder and steering her away from the window. "Whatever happens, happens. It's Reaper's call."

But my eyes linger on that corner where darkness swallowed them whole. And I can't help but wonder if Foxy's about to become just another ghost story we tell around the fire.