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Stepping into my bedroom, I close the door behind me and pull out my phone to dial Stryker, the MC President.

I spell it out flat: I found Eden last night, she’s staying with me, and the brand on her back matches the syndicate's mark. Through the receiver, Stryker lets out a dark, vicious curse—fuming both at the sickening reality of a woman being branded, and at the chilling confirmation of who is behind it.

Because if the syndicate is branding runaways like cattle, it means they aren't just running drugs. They are moving human lives.

CHAPTER FOUR

EDEN

The morning air outside the Rebel Kings clubhouse feels heavy, thick with the brewing tension of a storm that refuses to break. Standing in front of the door, my hands trembling uncontrollably. I keep wiping my sweating palms against my pants, desperately trying to rein in the panic clawing at my throat.

Inside, a storm of a different kind is raging, and I’m the one walking straight into the eye of it.

Onyx notices the second my knees begin to wobble. Without a word, he steps close, taking both of my cold, shaking hands in his massive palms. His heavy thumbs trace slow, steady circles over my knuckles, grounding me.

"Hey," he murmurs, his deep voice wrapping around me like a shield. “You’re incredibly brave for agreeing to talk to high officers of the club. I was nervous when I asked you to tell them about your brand this morning, but you surprised me yet again with your strength.” His deep, dark eyes lock onto mine, making sure I’m paying attention. “The club is here to protect you. I’m here to protect you.”

I swallow hard, my voice coming out as a tiny, breathless squeak. "The brand isn’t the full story."

He stops moving, his thumbs resting against my skin as he waits with infinite patience for me to continue.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, the guilt pressing down on my chest. I know how unreservedly kind and amazing he’s been to me, and keeping secrets feels like a betrayal of that trust.

I give his hand a tight squeeze, blowing out a breath before whispering, “I’d rather only say it once. In front of everyone. Then I guess we’ll… we’ll move on from there.”

Onyx nods once, his expression softening before it hardens back into its protective mask. He loops a heavy arm securely around my waist, pulling me tight against his side, and nuzzles into the top of my head. "Whatever it is, I’ll be right here," he whispers against my hair. "Always."

We head inside, walking down the dim hallway to the back briefing room where the club officers are waiting.

Everyone turns to look as we enter. I keep my eyes glued to the floor, glancing up at Onyx just once for courage before actively avoiding eye contact with anyone else. I’m terrified that if I look at them and see judgment, or worse, disappointment in Onyx's eyes, it might just break me.

Sitting at the table with all eyes on me, I force the words past the tight knot in my throat. “My father… he racked up hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt from a mysterious loan shark. It was more than he could ever pay back in his lifetime, so he brokered a deal with the ruthless crime syndicate called The Black Meridian.”

Around the room, the men exchange sharp glances, though it doesn’t seem to have clicked with anyone who this group really is.

"The logo," I add, my voice trembling as I lift a hand toward my right shoulder. "The... my brand. It’s a globe with an X through it. That’s the official symbol for The Black Meridian syndicate."

At the head of the table, the guy in charge, Stryker, I remember Onyx calling him, is already furiously writing notes on a legal pad. Another man sitting further down—Viper, I think—rapidly types away on an open laptop.

"Please, continue," Stryker encourages, his tone surprisingly steady and non-judgmental.

I nibble nervously on my bottom lip, still keeping my gaze averted from Onyx. But Onyx isn't trying to let me hide. The opposite. His large, heavy hand settles firmly over my knee, which has been anxiously tap-tap-tapping against the floorboards. His thumb brushes slowly back and forth against my thigh, a gesture that simultaneously soothes my frazzled nerves and sends a trail of tingling, electric sparks straight to my core.

I take another breath and lay bare the rest of my story. “After working as an accountant for years, my father only recently stumbled upon something on the job—files he thought gave him bulletproof leverage to force the syndicate leaders to cancel his debts and walk away.” I scoff, remembering the reality of the situation. “Instead, the enforcers showed up at our house, brutally beat my father, and demanded me as collateral. A twisted reminder of who holds the power and sets the rules.”

"Jesus," Stryker curses low under his breath, leaning back in his chair.

Finally risking a glance over my shoulder, I look up at Onyx. His expression is carved in stone, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw set so hard the muscles flex, hiding behind hard, harsh lines that give absolutely nothing away.

I press on, forcing myself to relive the nightmare. I tell them how the men grabbed me out of my room, tied my wrists, and shoved me into the back of a car with a bag over my head. They drove me to a bare, concrete room deep in some subterranean basement before ripping the bag off. How they tore my shirt away, threw me down onto a cold metal table, and then... all I can remember is blinding, white-hot agony, the suffocating smell of burning flesh, and the high-pitched sound of my own screams echoing off the walls, sounding like they belonged to someone else entirely.

A low, animalistic growl rumbles deep in Onyx’s chest. I flinch, instantly shrinking inward, terrified he’s angry with me for being weak.

Instead, he surges forward, wrapping his arm protectively around my shoulders and dragging my chair right flush against his. He bends down, his hot breath ghosting over my ear as he rumbles, a lethal promise vibrating in every syllable. "I will kill them. I will end their lives for how they treated you."

A shiver rolls through me, and I gasp, genuinely, and shockingly, turned on by the unbridled violence of his declaration. There's no time to get lost in the heat of it, however. I pull myself together and push forward through the rest of the story.

“They kept me locked in that concrete cell for hours. I remember staring at the floor, watching the silhouette of two heavy boots planted outside the door—a guard left behind to ensure I didn't go anywhere. The next thing I know, I’m waking up to a metal tray holding bread scraping across the floor. I looked up just as the door was swinging shut. And that’s when I saw it: the guard had been in a rush and forgot to flip the deadbolt on his way out. No one else came to take his place standing guard. I didn’t wait another second. I slipped through the door, ran until my lungs burned, and managed to sneak back into my house long enough to grab a few essentials and throw them into a suitcase.”