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“You want me to call him?”

“No,” I said reaching for my phone. “I’ll do it. You make sure everything is ready just in case that fucker is right.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Valhalla

He was fucking lying through his perfectly white teeth. I should have known that dicks stuck together.

Fucking coward.

Storming outside, I walked over to my bike, threw my leg over the seat, and then grabbed my helmet and shoved it on my head. Starting up my motorcycle, I revved the engine just as Malice stepped outside and frowned. Ignoring the grumpy fucker, I peeled out of the compound and headed deep into the city.

The Big Apple passed by in a blur as I merged onto the highway, and kept the throttle wide, the roar of my engine drowning out the chaos in my head—the sharp betrayal, and the weight of what I was going to do next. Every mile between the compound and downtown felt like a challenge hurled by the universe: how much more could I take before breaking?

Streetlights blurred past, golden smears on obsidian glass, as the city’s pulse grew louder in my chest. I didn’t slow down until I hit the edge of the grid, where alleyways twisted like veins and secrets grew like weeds. I killed the engine. The sudden silence was jarring, and I listened. Nothing but the distant wail of sirens and my heartbeat, too fast, too anxious.

I didn’t spend the majority of my life trying to protect those I cared about, burying my own needs and desires beneath a mountain of responsibility, just to have one stubborn fool do nothing and let the chips fall where they lay. Montana might not give a damn about August, but I sure as fuck did, and sodid Dante and Amber. The thought of losing my family again, after all I’d sacrificed—after all the times I’d compromised my happiness, even my morality, to keep them safe—was a brand searing my soul. Now that my past was out in the open, I fucking refused to let anyone, even someone like Montana, take it from me again.

But the rage, the righteous fury that fueled me, felt... hollow. A bitter taste lingered; the taste of the compromises I’d already made. To protect them, I’d played dirty, I’d bent the rules, I’d even crossed lines I swore I’d never cross. And now, to save them again, a chilling voice whispered, urging me down a path even darker than before, a path that violated everything I believed in. It demanded I use the very tactics I despised, embrace the very darkness I had fought so hard to escape. To win, I had to become the very thing I’d dedicated my life to fighting against.

The choice was agonizing. Let August fall victim to Montana’s apathy, allowing the pain of inaction to fester, a pain I knew I could never truly outrun. Or descend into the moral mire, sacrificing my integrity, potentially scarring myself and those I swore to protect in ways that would take lifetimes to heal. The weight of that choice, the possibility of failure, the certainty of regret, pressed down on me, heavier than any physical burden I’d ever carried. The fear wasn’t of losing them this time; it was of losing myself entirely in the process of saving them.

I knew as soon as he started speaking that he wasn’t telling me everything. He was hiding something. Something big, and whatever it was had to do with August, because even though Montana was a son of a bitch, I fucking knew he loved August like a brother. Those two were thick as thieves growing up. They did nothing without the other being involved. Which only begged the question: was Montana protecting August or was August protecting Montana? The thought twisted a knife in my gut. It felt like choosing between two poisoned chalices.

My gut screamed at me to stay away from him. He was a viper, a predator I’d sworn off years ago. His help came at a price—a price I knew I couldn’t afford morally, but I was running out of time. August was in danger. I could feel it in the marrow of my bones. The image of his wide, trusting eyes haunted me. To betray my own principles, to align myself with him... it felt like selling my soul. But the alternative—doing nothing, letting August face this alone—was unbearable. It felt like failure already, a preemptive collapse of my character.

This wasn’t just about finding answers; it was about choosing between my self-respect and the possibility of saving someone I cared about. I knew with a sickening certainty that whatever information he provided would leave me irrevocably stained, complicit in something dark and ugly. Yet the desperate hope, the fragile chance of rescuing August, outweighed the nausea of impending moral compromise. I had to do this, even though I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life.

Parking my bike in the alley, the hot metal groaning a protest against my touch, I looked up. The security camera—a cold, unblinking eye—seemed to bore into me. It slowly panned, lingering on my face as I wrestled with my helmet. Each click of the buckle felt like a hammer blow against my already fractured resolve. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t me. My stomach churned—a nauseating blend of fear and something else, something darker, something I desperately tried to ignore: exhilaration.

My hand trembled as I finally pulled off the helmet, revealing my face to the camera’s unforgiving gaze. The thought of August’s disappointment, his anger, felt like a physical blow. Yet, the pull of desperation, the gnawing need to save him, overpowered my better judgment. The backdoor clicked open, an invitation to the dark path I was choosing. Each step toward it felt like a step further from the person I wanted to be, a personI might never be again. I was already failing, not just at this job, but at life itself. The regret was already a bitter taste in my mouth, even before I’d stepped inside.

My boots echoed on the concrete inside. The hallway reeked of expensive cologne and overpriced champagne—an odd blend, yet sharp and nostalgic. The air was thick with the promise of danger, or maybe just regret. I didn’t bother glancing at the camera above the door—I knew he was watching, his eyes glued to my every move.

At the end of a long hallway, a door stood open.

He was in there. Waiting. And as I stepped across the threshold, his lips curled in that infuriating, knowing smirk. He thrummed his fingers along the edge of the expensive mahogany desk, the kind of rhythm that meant he was bracing himself for a storm—or maybe summoning one.

“Didn’t think you’d come to me,” he said, voice low and as smooth as the whiskey in his hands.

“I’m not here because I want to be,” I shot back, planting myself in front of him. “But you’re the only one I know with answers. And I’m done letting the past dictate what happens next.”

His eyes flickered with something—pity, maybe, or amusement. “Funny. You always were the one who thought you could outrun the Devil. But here you are, sitting before the Devil himself.”

“Cut the shit, Sinclair,” I snarled. “What the hell is Montana hiding? And before you feed me some bullshit, remember what happened the last time you tried to play your games with me.”

He studied me for a long second, then pushed a file folder across the desk. I hesitated, hands trembling, then snatched it open. Photos spilled out—grainy, black-and-white snapshots, timestamps glowing in one corner. An unknown woman in the arms of a Soulless Sinner club brother in the dead of night.

“Who are they?” I demanded, voice cracking.

He leaned back in his chair. “Some truths are heavier than bullets,” he said quietly. “And once you pull the trigger, there’s no going back.”

I stared at the photos, rage and fear knotting in my gut.

The silence pressed in, thick as velvet. My fingertips ghosted over the images—the man’s profile caught in the harsh glare of a streetlight. His shadow stretched long and distorted. The woman’s face turned just enough to keep her secrets, as he held on protectively to her.

Sinclair watched, swirling amber in his glass, eyes never leaving mine. “You won’t like what you find, you know. Curiosity is a dangerous addiction.”