Page 86 of Endo
The tension in the air is suffocating, the crowd pressing closer to watch the fight unfold. Owen’s men step forward, and it’s clear this is about to spiral into something ugly.
But I can’t stay. If I do, I’ll lose the bike.
While the chaos unfolds, I swing my leg back over Cruz’s bike, my hands trembling as I grip the handlebars. The engine roars to life, and I don’t look back. Not at Reign, not at the fight, not at anything.
I hit the throttle, the bike surging forward like it’s as desperate to escape as I am. The lights of the strip blur and fade behind me, replaced by the dark stretch of road ahead. My heart races, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts, but I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Because no matter how fast I go, the storm inside me is impossible to outrun.
32
REIGN
Hell & Back - Kid Ink, mgt
The roarof the crowd is deafening, their shouts and cheers blending into one chaotic symphony of violence and adrenaline. My knuckles are split and bleeding, the sting barely registering as my fist connects with Owen’s jaw for what feels like the hundredth time. He stumbles back, spitting blood onto the asphalt, but the bastard doesn’t go down.
“Come on, Matthews!” Owen taunts, his grin sharp despite the swelling on his face. “That all you got?”
“Not even close,” I growl, surging forward and driving my fist into his ribs. The satisfying crack of impact reverberates up my arm, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
Owen retaliates, swinging hard and clipping me across the cheekbone. Pain explodes, but it only fuels the fire burning in my chest. The fire that’s been raging since I watched Owen push Lena.
He fucking touched her.
“Break it up!” Talon’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and commanding, but it barely registers. I’m too far gone, the anger and fear twisting into something primal.
“Oi, mate, pack it in!” Thorne’s hands grab at my arms, trying to yank me back, but I shake him off with a forceful shrug, my eyes locked on Owen.
“You fuckers think this is over?” Owen spits, his voice laced with venom. “Your girl stole from me, Matthews. And when I find her, she’s gonna pay.”
“You’re not fucking touching her,” I snarl, surging forward despite Talon and Thorne’s grip. My voice is low, lethal, and every word drips with a promise of violence.
Owen’s smirk sharpens as he leans in, the stench of weed, blood, and sweat making my stomach churn. “Oh, I won’t just fucking lay a hand on her. I’ll make her beg for it. Wonder if she’ll scream my name or cry out for her dead boyfriend while I make her choke on my cock.”
The world goes red.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on him again, my fists slamming into his face, his chest, his ribs—anywhere I can land a hit. The crowd surges around us, tightening like a noose, their cheers and shouts blending into a deafening roar. Neon lights from the surrounding bikes and cars cast jagged shadows across the asphalt, illuminating the frenzy of bodies leaning in to watch, their phones raised to capture every brutal second.
“Get him, Reign!” someone yells, their voice cutting through the din.
Others aren’t so supportive. “Owen, fuck him up!”
The continued smell of gasoline, sweat, and burnt rubber clings to the air, thick and suffocating. Somewhere in the chaos, a bass-heavy beat pumps from a nearby car, the rhythm syncing with the erratic thud of my fists against Owen’s body. He grunts, trying to block, but I don’t give him the chance.
The crowd is alive with anticipation, a bloodthirsty hum rolling through them like an electric current. They’re not here to stop this—they’re here for the show. Faces blur together, some wide-eyed, others twisted in grins as they egg us on. This isn’t just a fight anymore; it’s a goddamn spectacle.
Someone whistles sharply, and a chant starts: “Reign! Reign! Reign!”
It’s like fuel to a fire I can’t control. My knuckles crack against Owen’s jaw, the impact reverberating up my arm. Blood sprays across the pavement, and the crowd surges closer, their excitement reaching a fever pitch.
Owen’s men try to push through the bodies, but the Demons step in, creating a wall of leather and muscle that holds them at bay. Revel’s voice booms above the chaos, sharp and commanding. “You don’t fucking move unless you want a war!”
The crowd shifts, the tension thick enough to choke on. Phones flash, capturing every second, and the voices blur into a frenzied chant for blood. I can barely see Owen’s face anymore through the red haze clouding my vision, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except making him pay for the filth that came out of his mouth.
And then, in the chaos, I catch movement—one of Owen’s guys reaching into his jacket. The guy steps forward, fumbling at his waistband, and my blood runs cold as the glint of metal catches the light.
