Page 58 of North’s Claim

He stops in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. “Thing about this serum? The more you fight, the faster it works. Happened to her too. Oh, she fought at first. Until she stopped. Until she started enjoying it.”

I want to rip his throat out with my teeth, but I can’t even lift my head without the chains groaning. I close my eyes, steadingingy pulse. I can’t fight him right now. But I will. I’ll tear the skin from his bones. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born. The red that floods my vision isn’t the drug. It’s pure rage. I snarl so hard it tears my throat, every muscle screaming against the poison dragging me down. “Fuck you.”

He laughs low, pats my cheek like I’m some stray dog. “You’ll get there, Prez. And I’ll enjoy watching it happen.”

I glare at him, and my pulse detonates in my ears.

My vision whites out.

Every muscle in my body’s screaming to lunge for him, to bite, to kill but the chains hold. The drug claws at my brain, slowing everything, smearing the edges of rage into something heavier.

But I feel it.

All of it.

The helplessness. The heat in my chest that isn’t fear, it’s the kind of hate that remakes you from the inside out.

I lock my eyes on his and I make a promise without saying a word.

I’m going to kill him.

Not quick. Not clean, and when it’s over, there won’t be enough of him left for the crows to fight over.

The last thing I register before the world tilts is the sound of Soul still fighting somewhere behind me, the thud of fists on flesh, Rook’s voice breaking through the haze.

Then the dirt rushes up to meet me.

And I’m gone.

Chapter 19

Nyxa

Iwake to quiet. Not the usual lazy-morning quiet where the coffee’s brewing in the kitchen and North’s heavy steps thump across the floor. This is hollow quiet. Still. Cold.

The space beside me is untouched. Sheets smooth. No trace of his warmth sinking into the mattress.

I roll over, grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen glares back at me; no missed calls, no texts. Nothing from him.

It’s not the first time he’s come in late, but he always ends up next to me by the time the sun’s up. Always.

I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the kitchen. The coffee pot is bone dry, no mug on the counter. It’s a stupid thing to notice, but the absence punches me in the chest harder than I want to admit. I pull one of his shirts and jeans before marching out the door. I pull my hair up.

The BB’s my first stop and is closed. Dark inside. That’s not right.

By the time I pull up to the clubhouse, my stomach’s a knot I can’t untangle. There’s so many bikes over here, it scares me.

The second I push the door open, the noise hits me like a wall.

Voices sharp, clipped. Boots stomping on tile. The metallic click of weapons being checked, the thud of gear dropped onto tables. The air smells like gun oil, leather, and tension.

Iron’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and commanding. “—double-check your clips. Nobody rolls out half-ready. If you’re not on my list, you’re not on the road. That’s not a debate. We’ve got twenty minutes, and if you’re late, you’re left behind.”

My gaze sweeps the room: Saints' moving like a single machine, packing ammo, strapping on cuts, slamming magazines into place. I catch words here and there. Border. Iowa. Trouble.

“Prez is missing. Him and every man who went with him.”

The words don’t make sense at first. They just hang there, twisting in my chest until the meaning slams home. My lungs seize. The edges of my vision blur. My hands go cold. The sound in the room gets louder, but it’s like I’m underwater, distorted, muffled, too far away.