Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
They’re all holding whiskey or beer raised high above their heads. Eyes hungry with something that looks like respect but borders on reverence. The air thick with cigarette smoke, whiskey fumes, and anticipation.
The worn leather couch where prospects sleep is shoved against the wall, springs visible through torn upholstery. The church table—hand-carved oak that's witnessed twenty years of club business, knife marks and cigarette burns telling stories no one speaks aloud—is covered in bottles, glasses, and lines of powder nobody bothers hiding. The walls around us bear witness, covered in photos of brothers living and dead, territory maps marked with red pins, patches taken from enemies who didn't survive the encounter.
I don't move. Don't speak. Just breathe in the familiar smell of cigarettes and brotherhood. The scent of men who live outside laws but inside codes stronger than prison bars. Men who understand loyalty isn't about words—it's about silence when it matters most.
Brick steps forward from the circle. Club president since before I could ride. Face like weathered stone, eyes that miss nothing. He's holding something in his hands—a leather cut, new and unmarked except for the center patch. The Badlands insignia. Skull wrapped in barbed wire, rising from cracked earth. The colors I've earned in blood and silence. The same symbol that marks the clubhouse walls, the bikes outside, the flesh of every man in this room.
"Three years," Brick says, voice carrying even over the pounding music. "Three years you kept your mouth shut. Carried our weight. Walked in a prospect, walking out a brother." His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning only we understand. “There were times, Demon, when I didn’t think you’d make it. Hell, no man I’ve ever known has been around so damn long and taken so damn long to earn his fuckin’ patch.”
I blow out a breath. Not wanting to think about that.
“But you showed up. You came through,” Brick adds.
The unspoken truth: I took the fall. I did the time. I kept the code.
The room erupts again. Boots pound against the floor in unison—a rhythm that the blues blaring form the juke—an earthquake in my head.
War drums. Heartbeat.
Blood rushing before a fight.
The sound reverberates through my chest, replacing the hollow space where Savannah's name used to echo. The vibration travels up through my legs, settles in my bones like a second pulse.
I still don't move. Something's happening here that I stopped expecting that day Cash got me out early.
Something sacred and dangerous.
Something that smells like fire and eternity.
The air crackles with it, electric and alive.
Chains steps up beside Brick, tattooed hands cradling two objects. A blowtorch and an iron rod with its end shaped into a crude letter 'B'.
His glass eye catches the light, reflecting nothing while his good eye gleams with anticipation. The intricate designs covering his fingers—prison work, done with guitar string and ballpoint ink—dance as he adjusts his grip on the torch.
"Going old school tonight," Chains says, voice rough from years of smoke and shouting. "Won't just wear the patch. You'll become it." His words carry weight beyond their sound, an ancient promise passed from brother to brother since before the club had a name.
The torch ignites with a hiss. Blue flame licks at metal until it glows red-hot, casting an unholy light across the circle of watching faces. The brand pulses with heat, hungry for flesh. The metal seems alive in Chains' hands, a living thing with its own purpose and will.
Silence falls. Even the music seems to dim, as if the speakers themselves know to respect what's coming. The only sound is the soft roar of the torch and the collective breathing of men who understand what this moment means.
This isn't standard. This is reserved for the ones who've bled. The ones who've killed. The ones who've done time. The ones who've proven loyalty beyond question or doubt. The sacred ritual that transforms a member into a legend.
I understand now.
Not just a patch party.
Initiation. Rebirth. Branding.
Roach appears at my side, twitchy hands steady for once as he presses a bottle of whiskey into my hand. "Drink deep, brother. Then we make it official." His eyes dart around, always calculating, always watching for threats, but tonight they're focused only on me. For once, his paranoia is at rest, replaced by something like reverence.
I take the bottle. Tilt it back. Let burn wash away Savannah's taste still lingering on my tongue. Amber liquid spills down my chin, soaks my shirt. No one laughs. They watch with reverence. With hunger. With the look of men who've passed through this fire and emerged transformed. The whiskey burns a trail down my throat, settles in my empty stomach like liquid courage.
When I lower the bottle, Diesel's there. Hunting knife glinting as he cuts away my shirt, exposing skin over my heart. There’s a demon there already, but not for long.