Chapter Fourteen

Logan

Leaning back against the wall in the dim corner of the Loyal Rebels MC clubhouse, my gaze sweeps over the brothers and women scattered around the room. The clink of pool balls and the low murmur of conversations create a familiar soundtrack to my thoughts. I'm the youngest one here, just twenty, a prospect on the edge of being something more. In this world of leather and loyalty, I know my patch is inevitable—Kyle, my stepfather and president of this chapter, wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm not like the rest of them, though. I've always been a loner, more at home in the shadows than basking in the camaraderie and booze-fueled laughter. My inner landscape is darker, etched with urges that don't play well with others. It's probably why Kyle stuck me with Cutter. Once, Cutter was the blade of the MC, the silent enforcer of its darkest deeds.

Now?

He's just another puppet, strings pulled by the need to please Elaine, his woman.

"Logan!" Cutter's voice cuts through my internal musings. "You missed a spot." His tone is light, but there's an undercurrent of authority—a reminder that even though he's gone soft, he's still above me in the hierarchy.

Pushing off the wall, I saunter over to him. I can almost feel the grit under my palms from when I tore out the filthy carpet in Elaine's house, a shithole Cutter's hell-bent on turning into a palace for her. I remember the dust in my lungs, the relentless scraping—it was a menial task, beneath even a prospect, but orders are orders.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You were told to get rid of all the flooring in Elaine's home."

Rolling my eyes, I say, "No, you said the carpet, and I got rid of it."

"No," Cutter pauses, and his top lip curls back in a snarl.

It's useless to argue with him. I'll be in the wrong no matter what.

"Fine. What did I miss?"

Cutter smiles like he's won, and I want to punch it off his face.

"The bathroom, the linoleum needs to be thrown out."

Now, it's my turn to curl up my top lip, but it's in disgust. Elaine's home is rundown with years of dog pee and graffiti, and the medical experiment that is her bathroom is simply a breeding ground for every kind of disgusting body fluid the human body has. I will need more than gloves—I'll need a hazmat suit to get it out.

"I'll do it tomorrow," I mutter.

It's all part of the game, proving my loyalty until they finally decide I'm worthy to wear their colors full-time.

"Good. Thanks, kid," Cutter says, clapping me on the back with a grin that's too damn happy. "Elaine's thrilled. Can't wait to get out of that attic."

Nodding with fake interest, but inside, I'm scoffing. Once feared and respected, Cutter now spends his days picking paint swatches and worrying about making a former recluse smile. Kyle's influence has blunted his edge. Where a sharp weapon once was now sits a lovesick fool. Walking away, I brush my hands off on my jeans, imagining the disgusting things I'm going to have to touch in that bathroom. They're all oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. To them, I'm just Logan, Kyle's stepson, the kid who'll soon wear the patch. What they don't see is the ambition coiling in my gut, and the darkness waiting to be unleashed.

One day, I'll rise above all this. And when I do, the MC won't know what hit it. I'll be the new fury, the fresh blade. And no amount of love or domestication will soften me like it did Cutter.

For now, I slide back into my corner, the perfect picture of the devoted prospect. I catch Kyle's eye and flash him a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. It's all a performance I've mastered—the art of pretending. Kyle returns his attention to my mother, who smiles at him adoringly.

Biding my time is crucial. Because if I slip up and show my hand too early, I could end up discarded, thrown into the pit reserved for those who don't measure up.

But that won't happen. I'm Logan, and I'm going to make sure this club is mine. It's only a matter of time.

My gaze shifts from a rowdy card game to Sean, muscles rolling under his inked skin as he tosses back a shot. He's our VP, and yet, whenever Beth walks into the room, it's like he forgets the weight of his cut. His eyes soften, tracing her every move with a reverence that seems out of place in this den of sinners. I scoff silently. It won't be long before he's pushing a stroller around, trading his Harley for a minivan.

The memory of Beathan's abduction flashes in my mind, that frantic chaos still fresh despite the weeks that have passed. I remember how Sean tore through the city like a man possessed, fear and fury etched into every line of his face. We found Beathan and brought him home, but a slice of guilt still shadows his features when he looks at the kid. The iron-hard killer with a soft spot for family—I can exploit that if I need to.

As laughter erupts from a nearby table, I turn to see what's caused the commotion. Tyson Reed, the billionaire playboy who's somehow stitched himself into the fabric of the MacKenny clan, stands amidst the old ladies, a smirk on his lips. I can't help but wonder how a guy who should be rubbing elbows with CEOs and supermodels fits so seamlessly here with the grease and leather crowd.

Annette's hand glitters under the clubhouse lights, the diamond on her finger large enough to buy a small island. She's laughing, head tilted back, basking in the attention as the club regulars hover. Tyson's arm is casually draped around her shoulders, an unmistakable claim.

"Look at 'em," Cutter murmurs as he moves to stand next to me, nodding toward Tyson and Annette. "Never thought I'd see the day where the MacKennys let a suit into their family."

"Lochlan had money," I mutter.

Lochlan MacKenny, the youngest of them, has been dead for over five years. His name still makes Kyle's face cloud over with sadness. However, a piece of him lives on in Beathan. The kid will never meet his father, but his uncles seem determined to keep his memory alive for him. They each have photographs of him in their homes. He was never one of us. He dated models and dabbled in the real estate game making bank. It figures Annette would gravitate to another suit.

"Yeah, but he was family." Cutter walks back to Elaine, his hand landing possessively on her waist.

But I'm always watching because every bond and weakness is a potential weapon in this world. And I'm learning how to wield them all.

Beathan appears at my side, tugging on my hand to draw my gaze downward. He has a green cowboy hat on his head, and a huge grin lights up his face.

"Do you like my hat?" he asks eagerly, not waiting for a reply. "Uncle Jamie and Uncle Sean gave it to me. Uncle Sean said when I'm older, he's going to get me a bike, just like his!"

The kid is cute, and after everything he's been through, a wave of protectiveness washes over me. No one so young should have faced what he did.

I gently lift the hat from his head, examining it with a smile before placing it on my own. "What do you think?"

Beathan bursts into giggles. "It's too small for you, Logan."

Chuckling, I set the hat back on his head. "Looks good, kiddo."

He nods and ambles back over to his mom and, I guess, Tyson, his new stepdad. With a final glance at the spectacle, I lean back against the wall, pushing the noise and the revelry to the edges of my consciousness. The time will come when my observations pay off, when I'll step out of the shadows and claim what's mine. For now, I play the part, silent and watchful—the perfect prospect—but the ambition burns bright inside.

The raucous laughter dulls to a low hum as my gaze drifts, finally settling on her—my mother. She's perched on a barstool, blonde roots betraying the fiery red she drenches her hair in, all for Kyle. It's like she's his own personal siren, luring him with that fake shade of passion. She laughs at something he says, and it's clear as day, the way they orbit each other, bound by some gravitational pull of mutual need that I will never understand.

"Red suits her," Kyle remarks, suddenly at my side.

His voice is gruff, a note of pride threaded through it like a hidden vein of gold. I grunt noncommittally, not sure what he sees in her. But love isn't a code I've ever cracked—not that I've tried.

"Yep," I say, because what else is there to comment on? The lengths people go to keep the fire alive?

"Never let it get boring, son," Kyle advises, clapping me on the shoulder with a weight that feels like a warning.

His eyes scan the room, miss nothing, yet fail to read the deeper currents swirling beneath the surface. The way his brothers lean into their women, how Tyson Reed has woven himself into the fabric of our world, with Annette glittering at his side.

"Everything changes," I murmur, more to myself than to him, my mind already racing down the path I see unfurling before me.

"Change keeps us sharp," he replies, but his eyes are distant now, lost in thought.

Maybe he's pondering the future, or maybe it's the past that haunts him. Either way, he's missing the inevitable transformation within his ranks.

With Cutter domesticated, an opening has appeared—a dark void begging to be filled. And who better to step into that role than me? There's a hunger in me, a craving for chaos and control that can't be satiated with menial prospect tasks or the patched-in members' approval. Kyle doesn't see it yet, but I can feel the mantle waiting to settle on my shoulders. Cutter's old role is mine for the taking, the blade to be wielded, the silent wrath to be feared.

A day will come when the Loyal Rebels MC answers to me. Until then, I'll watch, learn, and wait. As Cutter laughs at something Elaine says, a softness in his eyes that was once unimaginable, a cold resolve cements in my chest.

Patience, I tell myself, the word a silent vow whispered amongst the noise and revelry. Your time will come.

Kyle nods at someone across the room, his attention already shifting away. I lean back, feigning ease, but every muscle is coiled tight.

I muster a smile, my lips stretching into a fa?ade of warmth as I turn to Kyle. He's deep in conversation with one of the patched members, giving orders with a subtle nod here, a hand gesture there. The clubhouse buzzes with energy, but in this corner, it feels like we're a world apart. My stepfather—the president—looks my way, and I make sure to let the dutiful respect glimmer in my eyes. It's an act, a performance honed over time.

"Everything good, Logan?" he asks without really looking for an answer.

"Couldn't be better," I reply, keeping my voice steady and devoid of any real emotion.

He claps me on the shoulder, a heavy, grounding touch meant to reinforce some familial bond I've never truly felt.

"Good man," he says, his focus already shifting back to his biker brothers, to the club's business at hand.

My gaze slips away from him, drifting across the room. It lands on Cutter, who is sharing a quiet moment with Elaine. She laughs at something he whispers in her ear, and he looks at her like she's the north star in his dark sky.

Our eyes meet—Cutter's and mine. There's a mutual understanding, a silent recognition of what we are—what he was and what I'm becoming. We're cut from the same cloth, shaped and molded by the club's ruthless demands.

I'll need to be careful and bide my time if I don't want to end up in the pit—a place for those who move too fast or too carelessly.

For now, I'll keep smiling at Kyle, playing the part of the devoted stepson, while the truth of my intent simmers just beneath the surface.

"See you later, old man," I say casually to Kyle. My voice carries no weight, just the lightness of a young man with no worries in the world.

"Later, kid," he replies, distracted.

As I move through the crowd, every step is measured, and each breath controlled. My smile never falters, even as my mind races with plans and possibilities.

One day, the Loyal Rebels MC will be mine. But for now, I wait, watching Cutter and knowing the dance we're both bound to—one of us stepping out, the other poised to step in.