Devil's POV
The bonfire burned low by the time the last shot of whiskey was poured out for the fallen. Smoke clung to the air, bitter and heavy, mixing with the stench of leather, sweat, and grief.
I stood with my brothers, the flames licking shadows across their faces. They looked like wolves circling a wound, raw and waiting for blood. Two of ours gone—two too many. The compound might’ve been alive with mourning, but beneath it all, rage simmered like oil on fire.
I clenched my jaw, keeping my silence through the tribute. That moment belonged to the dead. But as soon as the bottles hit the dirt and the howls to the sky faded into a low rumble, I knew the next moment belonged to me.
“Listen up.”
The voices quieted. Boots scraped, shoulders squared. Every patched vest turned toward me
