Page 15 of Heresy
And bleeding things can be killed.
SIX
WHAT IS DONE IN BLOOD
HEX
The heavy steel door slams shut on her defiant face, and I throw the bolt home with a vicious finality that reverberates through my bones like a tuning fork struck against the frequency of my own fury. I lean my forehead against the cold metal, knuckles white where I grip the handle with enough force to leave an impression in the steel.
The silence of the hallway does nothing to quiet the storm raging in my head.
My ghosts are bigger than yours.
The words—my words—echo back, a raw admission. In that room, I let her see the cracks in my armor. The realization is a strategic failure, a momentary lapse in control that infuriates me. It wasn't just about dominance; I had the dangerous impulse to make her understand.
That is a mistake I will not make again.
This situation has metastasized. The club can feel it; a pack always senses a disruption in its alpha. They are watching, waiting for a sign of weakness. The beast needs certainty. It needs a decree.
I push myself off the door, a decision crystallizing with cold precision. I will not let this woman—this splinter—create chaosin my kingdom. I will control the narrative. I will transform a personal complication into an organizational asset. A weakness into a weapon.
I descend stairs with a heavy,purposeful rhythm, boots hitting worn wooden steps like a percussion section announcing royal decree. Each footfall carries the weight of authority reasserting itself, the king returning to the throne room where subjects await word from their sovereign.
The noise of the main room washes over me in a familiar symphony.
Conversation, laughter, clink of glasses—acoustic signature of brotherhood functioning according to design. But I don't hear individual voices or specific words. My consciousness operates on different a frequency now, focused entirely on transformation about to occur.
I walk directly to the bar, and grab my whiskey glass from where I left it.
Crystal still holds residue of Macallan that tastes like liquid authority, an amber reminder of rituals that bind this organization together. I turn to face the room full of men who have sworn loyalty to vision I must constantly reimagine.
I raise the glass and bring the silver ring down against the rim.
Tap. Tap.
Sound cuts through ambient noise like blade through flesh, percussive command that bypasses conscious thought and speaks directly to conditioned responses built through years of shared ritual. Every conversation dies. Every laugh chokes off.Every eye turns toward the source of the sound that means only one thing.
My voice emerges as a low command that carries absolute authority.
"Church. Now."
The transformation is immediate and total.
A brother near the jukebox catches my eye. The music dies in a violent scratch as he rips the needle from the spinning vinyl, silenced mid-note. Laughter becomes an extinct species, conversation joining it in a sudden extinction event that leaves only respectful silence.
Heavy, reverent quiet falls like a familiar blanket.
This is something I can command. This is an order imposed through will rather than negotiated through consensus. The ragged edges of my temper find soothing in absolute obedience, psychological balm that speaks to power functioning exactly as designed.
I stand by the bar and observe as my men begin their choreographed movement.
Prospects and club girls freeze where they stand, becoming invisible through irrelevance. Only patched members—true Kin who have earned the right to voice opinions and cast votes—respond to summons. They down drinks, stub out cigarettes, movements economical and synchronized like a military unit executing drill.
No talking. No eye contact. Each man knows his duty.
Years of shared ritual have programmed responses that operate below conscious thought, muscle memory that transforms command into immediate action without requiring interpretation or hesitation.
They file past me in procession of leather and denim.
