Page 68 of North’s Claim

The clearing is already lit by the high beams from the brothers’ bikes, the light slicing through the dark. A fresh-dug pit yawns in the middle, the dirt piled high beside it.

And there’s Myka.

He’s on his knees, zip ties biting into his wrists, duct tape hanging loose from where Cutter ripped it off his mouth earlier. His face is a mess, purple, swollen, blood caked along his jaw. Still, he’s breathing. Barely.

Iron meets my eyes and tips his chin toward him. “He’s yours, Prez.”

I step forward, my boots crunching on gravel. Myka lifts his head and the stupid bastard smirks. “North,” he croaks, “you look like shit.”

I swing before I think, my fist cracks against his cheekbone. The satisfying thunk of knuckles on bone echoes. He hits the dirt, coughing, spitting blood.

Soul grins behind me, stepping in only to kick his face. “Guess we’re skipping the warm welcome.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rook mutters, but there’s a grin in his voice too while he kicks him in the stomach.

I grab Myka by the back of his neck and haul him upright. His breath reeks of blood and fear. “She lived,” I tell him, my voice low enough that he has to strain to hear. “You won’t.”

He spits a red glob at my boots. “She’ll never be rid of me.”

I slam my forehead into his. His skull cracks against mine and pain lances down my neck, but I don’t stop. I drag him to the edge of the pit. The dirt smells raw, damp. Like it’s hungry.

“Face down,” I order.

He hesitates, so Rook steps forward, shoving him hard enough he stumbles in. Myka lands on his side, groaning. I toss the first shovel of dirt over him, the earth pattering against his back.

When Myka tries to push himself up, Cutter slams the flat of the shovel into his spine. “Stay down, motherfucker.”

The dirt rises. Myka’s curses grow muffled. Soon, the only sound left is our breathing and the scrape of shovels.

Soul takes the next one without a word. Then Rook. Then Iron. We work in silence, one shovel, then another, the pit filling slow but steady. My arms ache. My ribs burn. My jaw throbs. But every scoop feels like putting something back in order.

When the last mound is leveled, Iron tosses his shovel aside and looks at me. “We done here?”

I stare at the spot where he’s buried. My heartbeat slows, the rage curling in on itself. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re done.”

Iron eyes me up and down, then smirks. “You stink like roadkill, Prez. Get a shower before someone puts you outta your misery.”

“Fuck you, Iron.” I huff a laugh.

The engines roar to life as we tear out of the clearing, the night swallowing the pit behind us.

I’m not leaving her waiting any longer.

The ride back from the clearing is a blur of exhaust, dirt, and the pounding in my skull. My brothers peel off one by one, the rumble of their engines fading into the night. No questions. No words. They know what we just did stays between us and the dirt.

Iron’s voice from earlier echoes in my head and I swing by my place for a quick shower, scrubbing hard enough to take skin with the grime. When I step back out into the garage, Soul’s leaning against my bike like he owns it.

He’s holding something.

“Don’t tell me you went through her stuff,” I growl.

He smirks, the bastard. “Didn’t have to. I made it. Been working on it since the night she tore Myka apart with those knuckles. She’s family.”

I take it from him, rough leather warm in my hands. The back patch—Saints' MC—feels heavier than any weapon I’ve carried.

“She is,” I say, voice low, final. “She’s my ol’ lady. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Soul’s grin widens. “She’s gonna set you on fire when she finds out.”