1

Ravage

Screams mean different things. Over the years, I’ve learnt to recognise their sounds, and what they signify by the timbre alone. Judging by the squealing this dumb fuck is making, Fury’s having a little more fun than he should be. Time to wrap it up. My sergeant-at-arms can get carried away at times and if I don’t rein him back in…

Well, dead men can’t talk.

I push a booted foot off the wall and straighten, pulling my kutte back into place. I’m readying for the fight I know I’m about to have because once he’s out of the box, Fury doesn’t like going back in it. I used to think history was fun when it talked about berserkers—men hungry on bloodlust, so lost to it they didn’t know their own names. Seeing it first-hand, it’s a different ball game. Breaking through Fury’s fury is never easy, but I need Frankie breathing, which isn’t on the cards with Captain Bloodlust dealing from the deck.

As I cross the room, my footsteps loud on the concrete, the stench of copper is heavy in the air. It mixes with the thick, cloying smell of urine. The bastard must have pissed himself. Then again, if Fury was waving that pig-sticker around and carving bits off me, I might not think twice about pissing myself too—especially if I was hung up from the ceiling by my wrists and surrounded by men from a club with one of the darkest reputations around.

The Untamed Sons are not just my club, they’re my brothers. We don’t share blood, but our bond is deeper than that. We’re bound by a different kind of sanctity. I trust each and every one of them to have my back, as I would have theirs. I’d bleed for them, just as they would me, because that is what club is. It’s being part of something bigger than you.

It’s also taking fucking orders.

I glance across the room towards Daimon, who’s leaning against the wall, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his expression blank despite the scene in front of him.

“Day.” I snap out his name and his eyes raise to meet mine.

I’m going to need his help. I’m a big bloke at six-five, but Fury’s got a taste of the rage in him, and bringing him down when his bloodlust is flaring is not going to be easy.

Daimon stubs out his cigarette. His shaggy dark hair falls into his eyes when he lowers his head and he has to brush it back out of his face when he looks up again, ready to do what I need.

Fury makes a guttural groan as Frankie squeals.

Shit.

I twist back around and snag Fury’s wrist just in time to stop him slamming his knife right between Frank’s ribs. Glassy eyes slide up towards me. His face is covered in blood, sticking to his eyebrows, to his beard. His bare chest is blood spattered, and clean. He doesn’t have a scrap of ink on him, other than the Untamed Sons insignia between his shoulders. They had to sedate him to do it. The guy might bleed a man without a second thought, but he’s shit-scared of needles.

“Why’d you stop me?” he asks, as if I just walked in on him balls deep in a club bunny, not bleeding Frankie, but then Fury has always got off on blood and pain.

“You remember the talk we had?” I hiss at him.

Daimon strategically hovers at his back, ready to strike out if necessary, which I’m grateful for. I can manage Fury on my own, but it doesn’t hurt to have a little back up.

Fury doesn’t make any attempt to move, though. He just stands still, his blood-crusted brows drawn together.

“I got carried away.” I watch the demons sink back down, the blue of his eyes returning. He drops the blood-soaked knife on the floor and Day picks it up.

I squeeze his shoulder letting him know it’s okay.

“Go and grab a smoke.”

“Boss—”

“Not up for negotiation, Fury. You’re done.”

He looks disappointed, which doesn’t surprise me. He has an astonishing work ethic for a psychopath. I watch him leave the room before my attention goes back to Daimon, who merely shrugs.

“You patched that crazy fucker in,” is all he says as he pulls out his packet of cigarettes and lights a new one.

He’s not wrong, but even so, would it kill him to be a little more supportive?

With a sigh, I turn back to my current predicament: Frankie Germain. I shrug out of my kutte, hanging it on a hook near the door. Time to get to work.

Ten minutes, and eight cracked and bleeding knuckles later, I emerge from the basement with the answers I need. Daimon exits behind me, the smell of nicotine following him as we step out from the pits of the clubhouse. I lock the door behind us and wait for him, watching as he scrapes his hair into an elastic band at the nape of his neck.

“Let him stew down there for an hour or two, see if he’ll spill anything else. Then find Levi and Titch and get rid of our problem.”

Get rid of Frankie, I mean. He’s a liability. Arsehole knows too much and he’s got a big mouth.

I know he’ll do what I ask, so I don’t wait for his agreement. Instead, I head down the maze of corridors to the common room and push through the doors. When I step into the bar area of the clubhouse, I’m hit with the heavy bass of some old rock tune and the din of voices talking over the music. It’s noisy tonight. Then again, it’s noisy most nights. My brothers like to party and they like to do it hard and loose.

I head for the bar, ignoring Noelle who tries to climb me like a tree as I pass her. Usually, I’d give the tiny half-naked blonde some attention, but tonight, I’m not in the mood. She must sense this, because she backs away quickly, moving on to find another target. I should feel bad, but I don’t. She’s just another club bunny wanting to get her teeth into a biker. They’re all the same. They want a taste of rough and my boys are more than happy to give it to them—for the night at least. You don’t take bunnies home.

I slide onto the first empty stool at the bar and raise two fingers to crook at the prospect behind it. Kyle is barely eighteen and he peers at me with eyes as black as his fucking soul and as dark as his skin. I like the kid, though. He’s tough as nails and he’ll make a hell of a brother—if he survives the prospect term.

Sin, my vice president, right hand and my little brother, found him at an underground fight club. He’s got a lip piercing that I suspect my road captain, Titch, did pissed up one night. He’s quiet and unassuming—unless he’s fighting. Then, he’s a demon.

He strides over to me, tossing the towel he was wiping the bar with on the side.

“Whiskey, kid. Make it a home measure.”

Kyle nods and goes to make the drink. I lace my fingers together on the bar and glance around the room. This is my kingdom, my domain. It’s a beat-up shithole of a place that smells of weed, cigarettes, stale beer, and pussy, but it’s mine. I fought and bled to win and keep this slice of London. This patch of town belongs to the Untamed Sons and I’ll bury anyone who tries to take it from me. I’ve buried more people than I can count over the years who thought different.

A tumbler with four fingers worth of amber coloured liquid in the bottom is slid in front of me. I lift it in salute at my bartender.

“Cheers.”

It’s about an hour later and another two tumblers of whiskey before Daimon comes to sit next to me. He orders a pint, before he says, “It’s done.”