Page 77 of Inked Daddies

He snarls, voice tight, “Then say it!”

“Order them to fall back, to leave this house, and never step foot in Auclair again. Or I finish what I started here.”

His glare intensifies, a mixture of fury and humiliation. “You think I?—”

I apply more pressure on his throat, on the knife. Not enough to break the skin, but definitely enough to scare him. He flinches, eyes widening as the blade threatens that vital area. My own heart is pounding so loudly I swear he can hear it, but I keep my cold expression locked in place.

Over his shoulder, I see a swirl of movement—a few of his men drift uncertainly across the yard, perhaps hearing the commotion. They see me pressed close, see the glint of the blade at Crow’s groin, and freeze. Fear or confusion halts them.

One even starts to lift a gun, but I hiss, “Don’t even think about it,” loud enough for them to hear.

The man hesitates, glancing at Crow for a signal, but Crow can’t spare him a glance—he’s too busy ensuring I don’t thrust the knife.

“This is your last chance,” I say, voice trembling from the adrenaline. “Call them off. Now.” My stomach twists at the possibility of him refusing, forcing me to cut him. I’ll do it without hesitation. Letting him go free to hurt us more is unthinkable.

He bares his teeth, fury making his jaw clench so tight I see a vein pop near his temple. Sweat rolls down his neck. For a moment, I think he might risk it, might try to grab my arm or headbutt me. If he does, it’ll be a toss-up who ends up more hurt. But that flicker of genuine terror remains in his eyes, telling me he’s weighing the cost.

“You’ll regret this,” he growls, voice thick with malice. I don’t waver. My hands are shaking, but the point of the blade remains pressed flush to his groin. One slip, and he might never fuck or walk right again. Or live. He gets it.

I snarl, “Tell them.” Then I release his throat so he can project his voice.

He exhales sharply through his nose, casting a quick look at the men who stand around us, unsure what to do. Another bullet whizzes by from across the yard, scaring a few into crouching.None of them want to approach while I have their boss by the short hairs. Literally.

A final beat of tense silence passes, and at last, Crow raises his unwounded hand high, signaling to the sniper. Those bullets stop, but more sound off in the house. His chest heaves with ragged breaths. He must hate doing this, but it’s survival, pure and simple. He locks eyes with me, a promise of future vengeance behind them, then shouts, “Fall back!”

Some of his men blink, confused, blinking in the half-dark. Hugo is presumably dealing with a few near the porch. Trick might be moaning in the dirt. None are quite sure if they should obey. Crow’s jaw tightens, fury twisting his lips into a snarl. “Fall the fuck back!” he yells a second time, voice cracking with the strain. “Now!”

32

SAM

Shatteredwood from one of Preacher’s side tables litters the floor, and the walls bear gashes from hasty knife swings and missed bullets. I can’t count how many times I’ve nearly slipped on shards of glass or tripped over the wreckage that used to be the TV stand.

Preacher stands at my back, breathing hard, a fresh bruise forming on his cheek. The man might be in his forties, but he’s still as solid as he ever was. And tonight, we’re working in tandem—same as we did years ago in tight corners, each of us aware of the other’s next move. Age might’ve slowed us, but adrenaline’s giving us new life.

Even as we stand shoulder to shoulder, I hear his ragged grumble behind me. “I told you to keep her out of trouble.”

I don’t get a chance to answer because a crowbar swings at my head. One of the remaining Hell’s Hammers—a scrawny guy with hate in his eyes and a swastika tattoo on his forearm—tries to crack my skull open. I can’t duck—he’ll hit Preacher’s skull. Instinct flares, and I raise my forearm in a block that rattles my bones.

Pain blooms, but I ignore it, slamming my other fist into his ribs with a short, brutal punch. He doubles over, choking on his breath. I seize the moment to smash a knee into his abdomen. He hits the floor with a groan, crowbar clattering free. Mine now.

I bring it down on his face a few times before I’m satisfied.

The entire room resonates with violent thrashing—broken furniture shifting underfoot, the crack of fists on flesh, curses, and grunts like an awful soundtrack.

Another man charges with a broken wine bottle. The jagged edges glint in the overhead light, and I barely have time to duck. A shard rips the shoulder of my shirt, leaving a sting across my skin. “Could’ve warned me!” I bark, twisting around to see Preacher. He’s engaged in his own scuffle, delivering a punishing strike to a different thug’s jaw.

Preacher snorts. “Thought you saw him!” he snaps, landing a final punch that sends his opponent reeling into another side table. The table collapses under the impact, adding to the chaos of splinters. He glances at the broken bottle in my assailant’s hand. “You fucker! That’s the good stuff!”

One of the guys behind me tries to get up, but Preacher lashes a swift kick into his ribs, not even looking at him as he does it. A second later, a fist whistles toward my temple.

I drop low, letting the blow breeze overhead, then come up with a straight jab to the man’s jaw. He staggers back, eyes fluttering. Preacher deals the final blow—a swift kick across the bastard’s chest that sends him flying. “Thought you had it all under control, Sam! What the fuck is this shit?”

“We’re handling it?—”

“Handled, huh? You’re supposed to be the responsible one!” He’s winded, beads of sweat rolling down his temple. “Instead you’re letting my daughter?—”

He doesn’t finish because the last of the four surges from the hallway, ramming a dining chair into Preacher’s side. They slam into a wall with enough force to rattle the family photos. My heart jolts.

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