Devil stood in the middle of the Highway Demons’ clubhouse, fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked under the strain. His men waited—alert, tense, sensing the storm in him. One wrong word, one wrong look, and Devil would snap.
Killer leaned against the wall, chain swinging idly in his hand, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. Chaos sat at the head of the long oak table, cigarette smoke curling above him like a serpent. He looked every inch the man who had built this MC from blood and asphalt. But tonight, he was silent, watching his son pace like a caged beast.
“They made their move,” Devil growled, his voice low, rough. “They f*****g dared. I won’t let that stand. I won’t wait for them to circle like vultures until she’s nothing but bones.”
“Devil.” Chaos’s tone was measured, but
