Page 73 of Cold Bastard
“I’ll handle it,” I repeated, and this time there was steel in my voice.
Morpheus studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded, picking up his book again. “See that you do. Because if you can’t, I will. And I won’t lose sleep over it.”
He opened the book and started reading again, effectively dismissing me.
I sat there for a moment longer, letting his words sink in. Letting the reality of the situation settle over me like a heavy blanket.
Make her understand or get rid of her.
Those were my options. Those were the only paths forward. And the fucked-up thing? The truly twisted, dark thing that I couldn’t quite admit even to myself? I didn’t want to do either. I didn’t want to break her completely. I didn’t want to turn her into one of the empty-eyed club whores who existed only to serve. And I sure as hell didn’t want to kill her.
What I wanted...
Fuck.
I didn’t even know what I wanted anymore. I stood up, needing to move, needing to think. Morpheus didn’t look up from his book as I walked away, heading deeper into the gathering room.
The scene that unfolded around me was familiar.
Comfortable in its own twisted way.
At the pool table, Cerberus and Garrote were locked in a game, their movements lazy and confident. Money sat on theedge of the table. Probably a few hundred dollars. Mere pocket change for men like us. They were laughing about something, their voices carrying across the room.
At the bar, Cobalt was pouring shots for Abyss and Carver. They knocked them back in unison, then slammed the glasses down and immediately reached for the bottle again. The whiskey flowed freely here. Always had. It was one of the few indulgences we allowed ourselves. And scattered throughout the room, on couches and chairs and even on the floor, brothers were fucking club whores with the casual indifference of men who had done this a thousand times before.
Xzibit had a brunette bent over the arm of a couch, her face pressed into the leather while he pounded into her from behind. She was making sounds. Moans, gasps, the occasional cry, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking over at the pool game, calling out commentary to Cerberus about his shot selection.
Near the far wall, one of the newer prospects had a blonde on her knees, his hand fisted in her hair as he fucked her mouth. She was gagging as tears streamed down her face, but he didn’t slow down. Didn’t care. Just used her like she was a toy, something to pass the time.
This was the Brotherhood of Bastards.
This was what we were.
No pretense of civility. No illusion of romance or connection. Just raw, brutal hedonism. Just men taking what they wanted because they could, because no one could stop them, because the only law that mattered here was the one we made. I had been part of this world for years. I participated in scenes like this more times than I could count. I had fucked club whores in front of my brothers, shared them, used them, discarded them. It had never bothered me before.
But now...
Now I was thinking about Alex.
About what she would make of this scene if she saw it. About how she would react to the casual cruelty, the public degradation, the complete absence of anything resembling respect or care.
She had grown up in the Gods of Mayhem. She knew motorcycle club culture. She had seen brothers with their club whores, seen the parties, seen the violence. Poseidon had probably tried to shield her from the worst of it, but she wasn’t naïve. She knew what this life entailed. But the Gods of Mayhem, for all their faults, had rules. Structure. A code that they all followed. They were a traditional MC. Territorial, violent when necessary, but operating within certain boundaries.
The Brotherhood of Bastards?
We didn’t have boundaries.
We were a creed unto ourselves. A collection of men who were too violent, too unstable, too fucking dangerous for traditional clubs. Men who had been kicked out or walked away because they couldn’t— wouldn’t—follow anyone else’s rules.
Morpheus had inherited this club from his uncle Kalden, who built the Brotherhood with one simple philosophy: the only law that mattered was what we decided. We took contracts. We did jobs. We made money. And we answered to no one but ourselves.
It was freedom in its purest, most brutal form, and it was exactly the kind of environment that would destroy someone like Alex.
She was strong. I would give her that. Stronger than I had expected. She had survived the Gods of Mayhem, four years living on her own, survived stealing seventy-five million dollars, survived running. She had steel in her spine and fire in her blood.
But this? This would break her in ways I hadn’t even begun to explore yet.
I watched Xzibit finish with the brunette, pulling out and coming across her ass with a grunt of satisfaction. She stayed bent over the couch, breathing hard, waiting for permission to move. He didn’t give it. Just tucked himself away and walked over to the bar to get a drink, leaving her there like a piece of furniture. Eventually, she straightened up, wiping herself off with a bar towel someone had tossed her way. Her expression was blank. Empty. Like she wasn’t even really there anymore. That was what happened to the women who stayed too long in places like this. They became ghosts. Shells. Bodies that moved and breathed and fucked but didn’t really exist anymore.
