Chapter 4

King

My cock aches like it's got a pulse of its own as I scroll through the family group chat—Alyssa and Niko going back and forth like they forgot I can fucking see it.

My slut's still bragging about the head he gave her this morning, like rubbing it in my face won't earn him a punishment later. Knowing he can still taste her sweet pussy makes me want to hunt him down and claim it off his tongue myself.

It's been too long since I've had her.

Since I've tasted her. Fucked her. Felt that perfect body wrap around me like it was made for me alone.

But life hasn't given me much choice.

I've been busy.

Collecting payments. Chopping off limbs. Keeping my family safe by reminding every son of a bitch out there what happens when they forget who the fuck I am.

What I'm capable of.

And now I've been standing in this warehouse fifteen minutes too long, waiting for one of our flaky-ass clients to drag his cowardly face in here with my cut.

When they're late, it only means one thing—the bag's light, or they ran. Too scared to face the enforcer of the Crimson Reapers.

If that's the case? He's dumb as fuck.

With me, it's simple. Pay what you owe, or face the consequences.

And losing another finger is still a hell of a lot better than being hunted down and killed.

Slow. Painful.

Just the way I like it.

The warehouse reeks of dust and motor oil—the kind of stench that clings to your clothes long after you leave. The concrete's stained with shit that'll never scrub out. Oil. Blood. Maybe both.

I lean against a steel beam, rolling my knife between my fingers to keep from punching a hole through the wall.

Every tick of the clock winds me tighter.

I'm ready to get the fuck out of here.

Ready to hold my daughters.

To spend time with my wife. The men I love. My family.

I can see my kitten clear as day right now—standing in front of some mirror, slipping into the dress she's been talking about for months.

Three weeks until the wedding.

Three weeks until I get to watch her walk down the aisle in white, looking like an angel when I know damn well she's the naughtiest, most sinful little bride this world's ever seen.

The thought makes my cock twitch all over again. Because that dress? It won't stay on her for long. Not with me, Niko, and Mason ready to tear it off the second our vows are said.

Still... she deserves this. The fairytale. The spotlight. Everything she was robbed of the first time she got forced into a dress.

I remember watching her walk down that aisle.

How unsure she looked. How unhappy she was without even realizing it.

And nobody did a fucking thing to stop it.

But now? Now she's where she belongs.

She's mine.

Ours.

And she'll never spend another day wondering if she's enough—or settle for being anything less than happy again.

Because I'll kill for that smile.

I'll burn the whole fucking world to keep it.

Anyone stupid enough to threaten her happiness will end up like Isaac and Silas—screaming, begging, feeling the full extent of my wrath while I watch the light drain out of their eyes.

That's the difference now.

She doesn't walk through life unprotected anymore.

She's got me. Niko. Mason.

An army at her back and a devil at her side.

And God help whoever tries to take what's mine.

The groan of metal breaks the silence, echoing through the warehouse as the side door creaks open.

About fucking time.

A scrawny kid in a hoodie slips inside, clutching a duffel like it weighs more than it does.

Sweat's already dripping down his temple, and he hasn't even looked at me yet.

Fucking coward.

His eyes dart through the shadows like he's praying someone else is here to save his ass. But when they finally land on me, leaning against the beam, rolling my knife between my fingers, he freezes.

I arch a brow, pushing off the post, unhurried. 

"You're late," I drawl, my voice menacing enough to scrape bone. "Why didn't your boss come himself?"

The kid stutters, eyes darting anywhere but me. "H-He... he's busy."

I chuckle. "Busy, huh? Must be real important to send his weakest link to deal with me."

Silence hangs heavy as I take a slow step forward, twirling the blade so it catches the dim light.

"Tell me somethin', kid," I murmur, tilting my head. "Did he send you because you're expendable... or because he thought I'd go easy on you?"

His knees wobble, damn near buckling. For a second I swear he might piss himself right there on the ground.

"Go on then," I press, my tone low, even. "Answer the question. Am I supposed to see you as a messenger... or a sacrifice?"

His mouth opens, but all that spills out is a strangled sound.

"Billings is one stupid motherfucker," I sneer, letting the words drip out. "Sendin' a kid to do a man's job."

I let the knife trail just beneath his jaw—not enough to cut, just enough to make him flinch.

"He must not like you very much."

The kid's breathing goes shallow, his chest rising and falling like a rabbit caught in a snare.

"P-Please don't hurt me," he stammers. "He said... every dollar's in there."

My eyes narrow. "He said?" A dark laugh rumbles out of me. "That supposed to mean something to me? Billings 'says' a lot of shit."

I press the knife against his chest, right over his hammering heart. "And here you are, betting your life on his word."

Stupid fuckin' little boy.

"Drop it," I order, jerking my chin at the duffel.

He doesn't hesitate. The bag hits the concrete with a heavy thud, dust kicking up around his sneakers.

I crouch, blade still in hand, keeping it where he can see. Unzipping the bag, bundles of cash stare up at me—stacked neat, rubber-banded tight, dressed up to look right.

I flip through a few with my thumb, the smell of ink and paper heavy in the air. At first glance, sure, it looks fine.

But I've been doing this too long to trust appearances.

I've seen too many desperate motherfuckers hide behind neat stacks and shaky confidence, praying I don't catch what's missing before it's too late.

Problem is, I always notice.

Every single goddamn time.

I rip another bundle free, peeling it open with deliberate care. My eyes stay on him more than the cash—the twitch in his shoulders, the shift of his weight.

The second he bolts?

I'll carve off his fucking heels and make sure he never forgets what happens when you run from a predator.

"See," I murmur, flipping through dollar after dollar, letting the paper snap between my fingers, "the problem with trustin' a liar is it makes you look like one too."

My eyes cut to his, sharp as the blade in my hand. "So tell me, kid... are you a liar?"

Doubt flickers across his face before he swallows it down, his throat bobbing hard.

Too late.

I already caught it.

A feral grin spreads across my mouth. "Thought so."

He shakes his head quick, panicked. "N-No, you're wrong. I swear—"

I press the knife flat against his chest, silencing him. "Don't fuckin' insult me. Your coward boss didn't show his face. You stroll in late. And this bag?" I give it a rough kick. "Light. So tell me, why shouldn't I kill your ass right now?"

The color drains from his face, leaving him pale as a corpse, ready to collapse before I've even cut him.

"Please don't hurt me. My little sister, I'm all she's got."

I pause, the knife steady against his chest. For a second, it isn't just some trembling kid staring back at me.

It's me.

Sixteen years old, doing whatever Jax told me just to stay alive.

"What's your name, kid?" My voice stays edged, rough.

"P-Paxton."

I tilt my head, studying him like a bug pinned under glass. "Tell me, Paxton... why the fuck are you running jobs for a slimy piece of shit like Billings?"

His throat works hard as he swallows. "My parents are dead. Just me and my sister. She's nine. If I don't bring money in, she doesn't eat."

A breath drags through my nose, easing the twitch in my hand. I slip the blade back into my pocket.

He's not lying. I can see it clear in his face.

Desperation like that? It'll drive you right into choices that get you killed.

I shove the duffel back into his chest, the weight of it nearly knocking him off balance. "Take it."

His gray eyes go wide, confused. "W-What?"

"You heard me. Take the fuckin' money." My tone leaves no room for argument. "You're done running jobs for Billings. Find something else—anything else—that doesn't end with you in a ditch. Your sister doesn't need a dead brother."

Paxton clutches the bag like it's salvation, still blinking like he can't believe I didn't gut him already.

I step closer, my voice dropping low. "Billings is mine to deal with. You go back to him, and I won't save you twice. Understood?"

He nods so fast his head looks like it might snap off.

"Good," I mutter, straightening to my full height. "Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind."

Paxton doesn't wait for me to say it twice. He scurries out of the warehouse until the metal door slams shut behind him. 

I drag a hand down my face, clenching my jaw.

Fuck.

Gray was right. Married life has made me soft. 

I pull out my phone, my thumb flying across the screen.

Me: Need a team. Tonight.

Looks like I'll be working late. 

Billings thinks he can play me? Send a kid as a shield, short my cut, hide like a little fucking pussy?

That motherfucker just signed his own death warrant.

And unlike Paxton, he won't be walking away from shit.