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Only this sound isn’t pretty, and it’s not a mewl. It’s more like a groan, and it comes from somewhere beneath us. Right under our feet.

I tap my heel on the floorboards experimentally. A hollow sound answers me. I glance at Saint to find the Sons VP watching me. A faint smile decorates the other biker’s face.

“You’ve been busy,” I say softly.

He shrugs and puts his empty beer glass back on the other side of the bar. “I got you a present.” I thump his brother’s shoulder as he strides past, unspeaking, and disappears into a door behind the bar that leads down a set of stairs I don’t remember from my last time in his place. “Come on.” Saint’s eyes are bright, almost manic.

My arm tightens around Poppy. I kiss her temple. “Get yourself something strong to drink. Stay up here. Don’t fucking listen to anything you hear.” I give her a hard look. “And don’t leave. Under any circumstances.”

Poppy glares at me. “I’m not staying here,” she argues.

Her skin is soft beneath my rough fingers, and I’m careful how I touch her. “I don’t want you to see this,” I murmur.

Honey eyes narrow. “You think I haven’t?”

I consider her. “Maybe. Maybe not. Why give you nightmares?’’

“She comes.” Crimson’s flat voice from the stairwell stalls the conversation.

My jaw works. “She won’t leave the clubhouse.” I squeeze her hand when her mouth opens, and my gaze is unyielding.

Poppy’s mouth closes slowly. Her lips rub together and she nods. “Okay.”

“It’s not a question.” A gun cocks.

I look over to Saint. His weapon hangs by his side, and his eyes aren’t on me at all. That sense of chaos still roils around him but it’s quieter now, as though we’re in the eye of the storm, though it’s long since passed.

I grip Poppy’s hand tight and draw her behind me. “All right,” I agree amicably, sliding a blade into Poppy’s hand. She takes the gift with a smooth gesture I appreciate and pray that neither Crimson nor Saint see the pulse throbbing at my throat at the thought of taking her into their blackout den beneath the clubhouse.

The fuck have I gotten you into, Poppy? “We’re on our way.”

“Judge,” Poppy whispers, squeezing my wrist hard.

I don’t look back, but I do look down where her hand flashes into my peripheral vision. Red drops decorate the floor, leading toward the darkened staircase.

All right, Saint. Let’s see how this goes.

He hasn’t frisked us, so we head down the stairwell fully armed, though Crimson is at our backs. His footfalls are heavy, the sound keeping us moving. It isn’t until I feel my way to the bottom, Poppy pressed to my back, that his fist knocks the wall. A light flickers on. And we stare at—

“Mutt?” Poppy leans around me, staring at the young man dangling from a hook in the middle of the room. His arms are tied over his head and his shoulders look distended. A bullet hole marks the shot from the dust bowl that failed to end his life earlier.

I step off the stairs and pull her with me into the side of the room, fixing my gaze on Saint where he leans casually on the other side, a knife flicking in his hand. “Is that what you were doing before you came out to disturb our rest?”

He shrugs. “I mean, I called but I can’t help it if you’re late to the party.”

A hollow laugh breaks free from my lips. “One party favor hardly constitutes an entire gathering, my friend.”

Saint’s grin widened. “Let’s call it an appetizer. Do you need a hand or do you remember what to do?” He holds out his blade as an offering.

Regret tightens my chest. This is the price. The cost of my request in calling in my own favors of the Sons of Sin. Saint needs to test my loyalty, and now Poppy will see exactly the sort of man I am.

I shrug and draw a second blade from my thigh sheath. “You can keep your butter knife.”

Saint’s laugh taints the kiss I press to Poppy’s temple. “I love you.”

Her startled breath is my soundtrack as I stride forward and cut the younger man’s shirt away, leaving him bare. Then I start low, working my way upward. A simple kill won’t do shit for Saint. He needs to see an artwork on the Forsaken Saint’s canvas he’s provided. Hours of torture at keeping this man hovering between a state of life and death, where pain is both present and absent at once.

No cute nurse’s one-to-ten scale does shit in this room. Once he stops crying and screaming, he falls silent. My arms ache, and a buzzing fills my ears. But my breathing is slow. This is the hardest part. But it’s also the quietest. Because this is the sort of job I was designed to do. Both Saint and Crimson know that and they’re showing Poppy exactly what sort of man offered her his cut a few hours ago.