I didn’t have time for self-fucking-pity.

Cleo had been held hostage for one hundred and ninety-eight thousand seconds. In order to pay the grim reaper, I had to extract the perfect amount of vengeance before killing those who hurt my woman.

My headache intensified; sludge coated my synapses. I was swimming upstream and out of breath.

There’s approximately five liters of blood in an average man.

Punishing the bike with another burst of speed, I beat my brain into submission. In a spark of intelligence, a figure came to me.

A figure of exact revenge.

My thoughts turned from chaos to calmness.

Five liters spread out over fifty-five hours.

Zero-point-zero-zero-five drops of blood for every second.

That’s how much they’ll pay when I get my hands on them.

Darkness was our ally as we purred through the sleepy township run by Dagger Rose.

With a growl of mechanical power, we slipped through suburbia.

My old family.

My old home.

It wasn’t too late—about midnight—but the streets were abandoned. There were no teenagers playing on the seesaw and swings where I’d kissed Cleo for the first time. No couples stumbling out of the diner.

Vacant.

Soulless.

Just us.

My body ached as if we’d been traveling for days, and my head—shit, my head was a damn wasp nest of agony.

Every mile we traveled, it grew worse.

I could barely move my neck to check for traffic. I couldn’t see without blinking through black spots and swallowing back nausea. Everything was a herculean effort.

The second Cleo was back in my arms, I was passing the fuck out.

And taking drugs.

Lots and lots of drugs.

We didn’t stop until we navigated our way through town and onto the outskirts. Our engines cleaved through the stagnant silence like a chainsaw through bread. My skin prickled with anxiety and adrenaline. Now that we were close, I wanted to charge into the compound and pummel to death the bastards who’d done this.

I wanted to howl and turn berserk with no regard for anything but delivering justice.

Turning into the same dead-end where I’d parked the bike when I’d brought Cleo to jog her memory, we rolled onto the grassy uninhabited verge. The undergrowth had claimed any attempt at landscaping by municipality councils, offering natural protection to hide the bikes.

The second we killed the engines, warm air chased away the chill on my skin from riding for so long without a jacket. The man’s clothing that Grasshopper had stolen didn’t invoke fear or hint at my credentials as ruthless president. The sweatpants were too short and I would’ve preferred to go bare-chested than wear the god-awful Hawaiian shirt another fucking minute.

“You look like a homeless bum, Kill.” Mo snickered, climbing off his bike once Grasshopper had jumped off the back.

I threw him an icy stare. Even that small action sent clammy sweat over my forehead, threatening to topple me into unconsciousness.

Hopper cracked half a smile. “He’s right, though. Perhaps you can kill them by making them laugh to death?”

“Shut the fuck up, both of you.” I locked the handlebars and swung my leg over the hot machine. The instant my feet touched terra firma, I wobbled like a drunk.

The night sky glittered with our intent; silver stars and waxing moon shone ready to turn bloodred in retaliation.

Grasshopper cleared his throat. “The rest of Pure are already in position. Got a text about five minutes ago.”

Turning slowly, so as not to upset the unbalanced pandemonium in my head, I nodded. “Good.”

Reinforcements had been sent ahead. I’d made the call while we stormed from the hospital.

In all the years I’d been president, I’d only summoned their help twice in battle: once when fighting off an invading cartel and again when I’d wanted to expand our reach and absorb more Clubs under our name.

Each time my men had fought bravely and loyally.

Each time they’d been rewarded handsomely.

This time would be no different.

But this time everything would be different. Different because this was the start of everything we’d worked toward. The beginning of change.

I want more than this. I deserve more than this lifestyle provides.

“Let’s go.” Mo cocked his head at the undergrowth. “The sooner this is over, the sooner we can blow some shit up and get home.”

I tried to hide my slight sway and the way even the darkness hurt my eyes. But of course, he saw right through it.

Mo came closer. “You’re the prez, Kill. You’re the one pulling the strings on this party. But tonight, let us be the ones in front, yeah?”

Grasshopper froze. I was well known for being on the front line. I never asked others to do what I was afraid to do myself. I shook my head, then stopped immediately.

Motherfucker, that hurts.

Swallowing my groan, my shoulders slumped. “Normally, I’d take a swing at you for sprouting such bullshit. But … you might be right.”

Honesty was a weakness, but it was also a strength. My men trusted me because I wasn’t stupid. If they had a better idea, I listened. If they had reasons to avoid something, I paid attention.

And this was one of those times.

Grasshopper’s boots crunched a twig as he shifted. “You’re still the boss. We aren’t protecting you or doing shit on your behalf; you’re just doing us a favor by not getting in the way.”

As if anyone believes that shit.