Everything I’d been carrying suddenly shot free.

The guilt, the fear, the betrayal—it all disappeared.

It was as if I’d somehow found my innocence that was lost that horrible night. Finally believed I deserved Cleo, even though I’d become a monster in order to slay one.

Everything was as it should be.

I’m finally free.

The only thing left was to drench the place in gasoline. To destroy the scene of carnage once and for all and say goodbye forever.

So much fire in my past.

So much destruction.

There would be no need for such violence ever again.

No need for revenge.

No need for hatred.

It’s over.

The flames devoured the corpses.

The Night Crusader Clubhouse was nothing but ash, and the women left behind scattered like mice.

We stood there, retinas burning with bright orange and skin prickling with heat—each man closing this chapter of his life in his own way. Never again would I kill. Never again would I wear someone else’s life on my soul.

The victory wasn’t celebrated. We’d won, but lost. Mo’s and Beetle’s empty presence blemished the night.

No one spoke as we waited for the fire to fully take hold. Crackling and spitting echoed in the darkness as the fire chewed its way through filth. We waited until the evidence was consumed by the blistering heat before straddling our bikes and roaring for freedom.

The battle had been a success. However, there’d been casualties.

Terrible, terrible casualties.

My hands clutched around the throttle.

That ever-elusive happiness was finally mine.

I had my vengeance. I had my closure. And finally I had my woman.

But I’d also paid a heavy debt.

Two lives.

Two lives that’d belonged to me—that’d trusted me to keep them safe.

The wind in my face dried the streaks of blood, seeping the crimson through my skin to my soul. The slash in my side burned with agony. I’d torn up some sheeting to wrap around my chest, doing the best I could to stay conscious.

I needed a doctor—and this time, I would obey every instruction. Along with my body, I would fix my mind … I would get better—spiritually, physically, and emotionally.

The hum of my tires soothed my jagged nerves and for the first time in almost a decade, I could fucking breathe.

Breathe knowing I’d avenged Cleo.

I’d claimed what I was owed.

Even my headache couldn’t take that away.

Everything would be better. I had a new future, new possibilities, new horizons.

My heart fisted as Mo and Beetle came back to mind. I couldn’t shake off their sacrifice. I would never stop being grateful for the termination they’d given me.

Grasshopper looked over, his bike keeping pace with mine. He smiled sadly.

Tonight was a celebration and mourning all in one.

Our fallen comrades were with us on the road, even though their souls were not.

Their death would forever taint our victory.

Squeezing the throttle, I picked up speed, trying to outrun the sadness and enjoy the freedom just a little longer. I was selfish in a way—wanting to bask in the knowledge that my father no longer existed.

Mo had been a gruff, guiding force, invincible. And Beetle had been my protégé. They were good men.

I pushed my bike faster. Wind gushed harder and I shot forward from the crowd of my brothers.

No matter how fast I pushed the engine, it wasn’t enough.

I wanted to see Cleo. I needed to be in her arms and bury my sadness for causing the deaths of two brothers.

But then … it didn’t matter.

The concussion I thought I’d broken returned with a vengeance. Agony worse than the stab wound in my side splintered my skull.

I cried out.

The road disappeared before me.

Noise, touch, sight, sound—it all shut off as if I’d driven into a silent black hole.

The headache compounded. It didn’t return with vise or needles, but with machetes and machine guns.

It tore through my head. It hacked through my thoughts. It careened me into agony.

One moment, I was lucid.

The next, I was falling.

Skidding.

Sliding.

The road came up to meet me.

My body tumbled to embrace it.

And that was the last I remembered.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cleo

I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I didn’t want to teach or be a chef or fly the world. I wanted to heal animals. I needed to fix helpless creatures who suffered at the hands of sinners. I needed to put goodness back into the world. But mainly, it was because of Arthur.

He was fading before my eyes, withdrawing from me. He thought withholding information protected me. It didn’t. It only made me worry more and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t save him. —Cleo, age twelve

“Take me to Pure Corruption.”

Switchblade looked up, his baby face wreathed in cigarette smoke, his jacket absorbing moonlight. His eyebrow rose, but he didn’t have time to speak.

Charging past him, I straddled his bike resting in the forecourt. With my voice soft but lethal, I demanded, “I won’t ask twice. Take me to the compound.”

Switchblade shook his head. “You know I have orders to keep you here.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s for your own safety.”

“Think about your own safety if you don’t take me to Pure Corruption this very second.” My temper helped hide my fear, but once again the sinking, suffocating feeling of being untethered consumed me. It was like hurtling through space with no rope. Like jumping off a building with no parachute. Like amnesia for my heart.