Jax’s POV
The warmth from Layla’s hands was still on my skin, a ghost touch that almost made me forget the fire in my ribs and the deep, throbbing ache in my shoulder. Almost.
I pushed myself up from the stool, the world tilting for a second before my boots found the solid concrete. The stitches in my side pulled tight, a sharp reminder.
Grizz had called it “clean-up.” In the club, we had other names for it. “Taking out the trash.” “The last ride.” “Sweeping the shop.” It was a president’s duty. You don’t send your brothers to handle the bones of the fallen—yours or the enemy’s—while you sit in a hole and lick your wounds. You lead. You show your face. You carry the weight.
I reached for my cut—the leather vest with the Steel Reapers patch on the back. It felt heavier than usual.
“Y
