Reaper's Pov
The air inside the clubhouse crackled with a tension so thick it felt like static before a lightning strike.
The heavy oak table in front of Jax, scarred with a century of knife marks, cigarette burns, and the dried, faded stains of old blood, bore the brutal history of a hundred violent decisions. It was a monument to the Blackfangs’ reign, and tonight, it felt like an altar for sacrifice.
Riot, his most loyal, most volatile brother, leaned forward, his scarred fists clenched on the table.
His dark eyes, usually glinting with mischief, burned with an unbridled fury that Jax recognized all too well. “We don’t have time to play goddamn babysitter, Jax. That girl? Sarah? She’s baggage.
You know it. I know it. Every man in this room knows it. You hand her over to the Vul
