Page 62 of North’s Claim

I glare at him. “If you have to ask, you don’t know me.”

Inside, the air is thicker. The mix of motor oil, gunpowder residue, and the tang of sweat slams into me. The concrete floor vibrates faintly under my boots from the distant rumble of bikes outside. Iron and two prospects slip ahead, their movements sharp, calculated, the kind of quiet that’s louder than a scream.

And then I see him.

Hanging from chains bolted into the ceiling, wrists wrapped in steel links, feet dangling inches from the ground. His head is slumped forward, blood streaking down his temple, dripping off his jaw. He looks, Christ, he looks, dead.

Panic claws at my chest, vicious and fast. My lungs refuse to work, and the edges of my vision go black. Somewhere behind me says my name, but I don’t hear it right. I can’t. All I can see is him.

I force myself forward. One step. Two. Don’t think. Just move.

And then, that voice.

Myka.

It slithers through the air, low and sharp. He’s barking orders to the men around him, his tone all bite and no mercy. My muscles lock, but only for a second. “I see ten armed men, and Myka. North, Soul and Rook are hung.” I whisper into the comm. I keep moving, weaving between stacked crates until I’m close enough to see the pulley system holding the chains.

Soul’s eyes find mine first. They go wide. “The fuck⁠—”

I put a finger to my lips, mouthing quiet. He grits his teeth, but he doesn’t call me out.

I reach the chains, fingers trembling as I grab the lever. It’s heavy as hell, but I start to crank it, the metal groaning above me.

“We’re close.” Iron’s voice reaches me.

That’s when Stitch nods. His gaze flicks to the men Myka’s yelling at, then back to me. In one swift motion, he draws and fires. Three bikers drop like sacks of meat, but a bullet catches him in the side and he cries out, staggering back.

I keep cranking. My breath’s ragged, my arms shaking from the effort, but the chains begin to lower.

Then I hear it. “Myka, behind you!”

He turns and sees me.

The world narrows to the space between us.

He’s on me in seconds, rage twisting his face. I swing but he catches my wrist, shoving me back. I fight, kicking, clawing, but he’s stronger. He drives a fist into my side, knocking the air from my lungs, then shoves me hard enough that I crash to the floor.

Right under North’s feet.

His boots sway above me. His eyes are closed, head tilted, blood dripping onto the concrete beside me. Too much blood. No. No. No.

Pain flares through my skull, but I don’t stop. Myka’s hand clamps down on my arm like a steel trap, yanking me backward so hard my feet scrape the concrete. The iron knuckles dig into my palm as I twist, thrashing against him.

“Well, well,” his voice snakes into my ear, slick and venomous, “look what the Saints' left lying around. Prez’s little toy.”

“Let. Me. Go.” I drive my elbow back toward his ribs, but he sidesteps, shoving me into a crate. Pain splinters up my spine.

He grins, and it’s pure poison. “Feisty. Bet that’s what he likes about you.”

I swing with the knuckles, aiming for his jaw, but he catches my wrist mid-swing and shoves me again, hard enough that I almost lose my footing.

“You really think you can play with the big boys, fucking slut?”

I spit blood at his boots. “I’m not here to play, asshole.”

This time, I drop low, twisting my arm free the way Jules taught me in boot camp. I put everything into it, every bruise, every scar, every night I lay awake imagining killing this son of a bitch. The metal slams into his temple in a solid, bone-crunching hit. Pain shoots up my arm so hard I see white, but Myka staggers, roaring in agony.

And then, chaos.