Page 33 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

My father laughs. “Weak,” he spits. “That’s all you’ll ever be.”

I snap back to the present as his boot slams into my ribs, pain detonating like fireworks behind my eyes. I gasp, air stolen, and he grabs a fistful of my hair to haul me up, his face inches from mine.

His breath is foul, his voice jagged. “You want to be free? You’re nothing without me. I should have stripped you of your patch years ago.”

I spit blood at his boots. “I’m not your fucking puppet.”

He hits me again, hard enough to make the world tilt and shudder. My ears ring. Blood and bile flood my mouth. I try to crawl away, but he stomps down on my hand, grinding my finger into the gravel.

I bite back a scream, releasing a laugh instead, high and wild, because I refuse to break. “You’re scared. That’s what this is.”

He backhands me, hard enough that I see stars. “I made you. I can unmake you. You’re only breathing right now because I need bait. Don’t forget that. The moment Judge, that Sons Of Sin Nomad cunt, gets here, you’ll watch him bleed out, and then I’ll end you myself.”

Hands grab my arms—thick, tattooed fingers digging into my skin. The prospects reek of old leather, sweat, and gasoline. One has a spiderweb inked across his neck, the other a ragged scar slicing through his eyebrow.

They drag me to a battered chair set in the open, the wood splintered and stained by years of use. Zip-ties bite into my wrists. My father crouches, eye-level now, voice a venomous hiss. His eyes are pale blue, cold and sharp as broken glass.

He snatches the patch off my cut, holding it in front of my face before tossing it in the dirt. “You thought this meant something? You’re a stain on this club. I should have burned this off you years ago. You’re going to learn what happens to traitors, Poppy. You’re going to call your boyfriend, and you’re going to watch me bleed him for every mistake you made.”

I spit at him again. He just grins, cruel and patient. “You’re bait now, princess. That’s all you ever were.”

He stands and nods. A fist crashes into my stomach, stealing every scrap of air from my lungs. The world blurs at the edges. Another blow follows, an elbow to my jaw, sharp and deliberate. I choke, drag in a ragged breath, and fight the scream clawing up my throat.

I won’t give him that. I won’t give him anything.

He ties me tighter, zip-ties biting deep. My head spins, blood drips down my chin, but I bare my teeth in a bloody smile. “You’re going to regret not killing me when you had the chance.”

He laughs, cruel and final, walking away. “We’ll see, Poppy.”

The chair groans beneath me. My body throbs, bruises bloom beneath my skin, pain pulsing in sick waves. Blood and rage coat my tongue, the metallic taste of survival burning in my mouth. The sky is bleeding blue, the world waking up while I sit here, bait on a hook, praying Walker stays away. But I know he won’t. And that knowledge is what breaks me. Because that’s what love does—it destroys us both.

When the pain becomes unbearable, and my body finally gives out, the world slips sideways, and I black out. In the darkness, I dream of Walker.

We are somewhere soft and sunlit, maybe a porch swing, maybe the back of an old truck, the air thick with honeysuckle and dusk. Walker laughs, easy and carefree, his hair falling over his eyes. I reach for his hand, and he lets me.

There’s no blood on us, no club colors or threats hanging between us, just the hush of summer, the promise of ordinary days. He brushes my hair behind my ear and tells me he loves me, not like a secret, but like a sunrise—steady and certain, a future I never let myself imagine.

In my dream, we are free. We are safe. We are just Poppy and Walker, building a life out of hope instead of hurt.

I cling to that dream, even as the pain drags me under again.

Chapter Ten

Stains of Gunfire and Smoke

Walker

I hate calling in favors but the moment she takes my bike, this whole shit fight spirals out of control and into something bigger than I can take on myself. Admitting something like that has taken me years and is the reason I’m still alive.

Still, making the call bites as I unload the arsenal behind my grandmother’s closet. The old woman didn’t get to be the age she did without a handy supply of ordnance. Not out here on the line between two worlds. Sons of Sin and Forsaken Saints.

Here, it’s not neutral territory. It’s a line where no one else exists but me. And here I walk in a place that gives me the freedom to play this twisted game in a way that will get me Poppy back. Maybe with both of us still breathing out of the holes that the good Lord gave us. And a few new ones for her.

“This is an overdue call.” The prez’s voice is heavy with irony. Dominic Kane, better known as Savage, in both name and nature. “I’d like to hear from you more often than once in a blue fucking moon.”

“It’s been a while,” I acknowledge. “Got a little problem on your boundary out here.”

“You do, or I do?” His tone sharpens along with his interest. Always club first, though I know he’s never far from a fight.