CHAPTER 9
PUNISHED KRAIT
This chapter has a BONUS SCENE available: Tribunal
The table was cold under Klaus’s forearms.
“…a huge mistake,” he was saying, already mid-sentence, already past patience. “Not just you. Not just Kolton. The whole MC.”
Kait didn’t answer. She sat straight-backed, hands flat on the tabletop, eyes fixed on the knot in the wood between them.
Klaus leaned forward. “Brews N’ Crews is neutral ground. Everybody knows that. Everybody respects that. You don’t bleed there. You don’t settle scores there.”
A beat.
“And you certainly don’t pull out your gun at Chugs there.”
Kait’s eyes lifted to his.
“We heard what happened with Kyle,” Klaus continued. “I understand why Prince lost it. Shit was personal.”
He let that sit, then stripped it clean.
“But personal doesn’t mean private, and now everyone knows that two Krait MC members broke the only rule we have.”
Kait’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry. He pulled a shotgun at Kolton. I had to protect him.”
“I don’t disagree,” Klaus said flatly. “But that doesn’t change the math.”
He tapped the table once. Controlled. Final.
“Kolton walked into neutral ground and made it about himself. You pulled out a gun. Now it’s not about Kolton setting Luis straight for hurting his son. It’s about whether Krait respect lines everyone else lives by.”
Silence stretched.
Kait didn’t look away this time. “I wasn’t gonna let him shoot Kolton.”
“And you weren’t stopping him either,” Klaus said. “You escalated. You made yourself part of it—and you turned Kolton’s personal shit into club business.”
A pause.
His voice dropped, more dangerous for how even it was. “Now, this mistake falls on all of us.”
She swallowed, just once.
Klaus observed. He knew she understood that part.
“I thought I always had to have my brother’s back, no matter what,” she said quietly. “Kolton hissed, Klaus. He marked him. That asshole is supposed to be dead.”
He leaned in, close enough that his shadow swallowed her.
“Those are Krait rules. They don’t apply in there.”
“Well, they should.”
Klaus shook his head. “You just haven’t been here long enough to understand.”
He found her eyes.
“But you will tonight.”
Klaus stood, his boots scraping softly against the concrete.
“What’s going to happen tonight?” she asked.
He paused, looking down at her one last time. “You’re going to see exactly how thin blood runs when rules get broken.”
Then he turned and walked back toward the Nest, leaving Kait at the table as the weight of it settled in—heavy, unavoidable.
LATER
Kait got out of the shower and paced, debating whether it would be a mistake to talk to Don—or a bigger one not to. He needed to hear her side.
Or maybe he didn’t.
She pulled on her kutte and stepped into the walkway.
Randy and Ram were already watching her from the garage. Not curious. Measuring.
Mack stood guard at the chapel.
The door was shut. Too shut. No sound bleeding out. No raised voices. Just the kind of quiet that meant Don was working.
Mack straightened when she got close to the door. Arms crossed. Posture loose in a way that wasn’t casual at all.
“I need a word with Don,” Kait said.
Mack didn’t move. Didn’t look surprised.
“He’s busy right now, Toast.”
“I need to tell him what happened.”
Mack finally looked at her. Not unkind. Not soft either. “He already knows.”
Kait hesitated. “But not my side of it.”
Mack shook his head once.
That was the answer.
Kait stared at the door another second, like she could feel what was happening on the other side of it. Then she turned away.
“Gotta let it take its course, Toast,” Mack said.
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t turn around.
She didn’t talk.
The chapel door opened.
Only Don came out.
She didn’t know when Kolton had left.
“King,” Kait said—quiet, but loud enough.
He glanced at her for a split second. Nothing in it she could grab onto. Then he said something low to Mack and walked past her coming down the stairs.
That was it.
Don’s disappointment had weight. Real weight. Worse than anger. Worse than punishment.
And she’d handed him a reason.
By late afternoon, Kait stopped pacing.
Not because the tension eased—because it calcified. Waiting wasn’t helping. Silence wasn’t helping. Sitting there hoping Don’s mood shifted wasn’t helping anyone.
She went into damage control.
She grabbed the kitchen phone, dialing Denmark following the steps on the prepaid card for international calls and Klaus instructions.
The line crackled, then clicked. Heidi answered. She took care of legal stuff for Greg, and now Kait.
She kept her voice even. Asked about timelines. About the bikes. About the clubhouse. About what could be liquidated fast without turning it into a fire sale.
How much. How soon. What could move quietly.
Buster and a hangaround heard her speak in Danish thinking it was the sexiest thing.
When she hung up, she didn’t feel better—but she felt useful. And right now, usefulness was oxygen.
By nightfall, she was at the Dirty Alley.
The music was loud enough to drown out thinking. The lights low and forgiving. Familiar faces, familiar rules. Work was work. It didn’t ask questions.
Dulce spotted her almost immediately.
She always did.
She slid in beside her at the bar, all confidence and heat, dark hair spilling over bare shoulders, a smile that had never once been subtle.
“You look stressed, hermosa,” Dulce said, voice warm, eyes already reading her.
Kait exhaled slowly. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not,” Dulce leaned in, close enough to be felt without touching. “I can make it better.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked.
Usually Kait smiled, deflected, told her she’d let her know.
Tonight, Kait looked at her.
Really looked.
Dulce’s smile softened—not triumphant, not smug. Just present.
They didn’t rush it. Didn’t make a show of it. Just slipped away from the noise into somewhere quieter, darker, where Kait could finally unclench.
Dulce guided Kait into one of the private rooms and closed the curtain behind them, the noise from the club dropping away instantly.
She lit a joint and passed it to Kait without ceremony.
Kait took it, inhaled, felt the burn settle low in her chest.
Dulce moved around the room while the music shifted—Teardrop sliding in soft and slow. She dimmed the lights. Shifted the table just enough to make space.
Small things. Intentional. Familiar.
Kait watched her, shoulders finally lowering, the edge inside her easing for the first time all day.
Dulce came back to her and straddled her without rush, knees braced on either side, one on her shoulder for support, the other on her neck to keep her close.
Then she kissed her.
Not hungry. Not demanding.
Just soft lips and unhurried contact, like a question being asked without pressure for an answer.
Dulce’s hands moved slowly over her—down her arms, across her back, grounding her there. Keeping her present. The joint burned forgotten between Kait’s fingers, smoke curling into the dim.
It wasn’t about taking.
It was about staying.
Soft and slow was exactly what Kait needed—to pull her back into her body, out of her head. Enough to quiet the noise. Enough to remind her she was still here.
No strings.
No meaning.
Just release.
For a little while, the waiting stopped.
later
Blaze showed up at the Alley like it was any other night.
Inside, Godsmack’s Voodoo thumped through the floor. Neon washed over skin and smoke and sweat, the room thick with movement and noise and money changing hands.
Blaze scanned the room once.
There she was. Commanding. Intense. Stunning.
Kait was behind the bar, steady, contained in a way that didn’t match the place. Doing her job perfectly. Eyes moving between the girls onstage and the men packed tight against the rail. Tracking hands. Watching faces. Managing energy.
Controlled. Professional.
Like nothing was wrong.
He’d already been told what happened at Brews. He knew what was coming next.
Blaze felt bad for Kait—but worse for Kolton.
He remembered the last time this happened. He’d only seen it once, back when he was a prospect. Randy had gotten special permission to bring him along, just to make sure he understood what neutral ground meant—and what happened when someone broke the only Rule in Dryden.
That lesson had stayed with him.
Kait looked up and saw him.
Blaze caught the flicker in her eyes. Just a flash—but it was there.
She knew something was up.
He gave her an easy half-smile as he leaned on the counter. “Hey, beautiful.”
Something tightened in her chest.
“What’s up?”
Blaze shrugged, casual as could be, like he wasn’t carrying weight he didn’t want. “Don wants you at Brews. Right now.”
That was all he said.
No explanation. No softening.
Didn’t need to.
Kait cleared her throat and shrugged, already knowing there were no options. She went over to Ernie, let him know she was done for the night and moved.
Blaze stepped aside to let her pass, keeping his face neutral, unreadable.
Behind him, the music kept playing. The Alley didn’t miss a beat.
Outside, the night air hit different.
Brews N’ Crews was already lined with Harleys—rows of them, angled just so, chrome catching the light. All makes. All models. Different colors. Different logos.
She spotted Reyes del Camino patches. A couple of white kuttes marked with red crosses. A Chrome Union patch.
It looked like a summit.
And it was.
Engines were quiet, but the air wasn’t. Men stood in small clusters, smoking, talking low. No laughter. No music bleeding out back here. Just presence. Just numbers. Everyone watching everyone else without making it obvious.
The Krait van was parked near the back, slightly apart.
Buster stood off to the side, talking low with Kode. Ram and Mack sat astride their bikes, engines off, posture alert. Relaxed, but waiting.
Randy was in the driver’s seat of the van.
He spotted Blaze and gave his son a short nod. Then he turned and said something over his shoulder to whoever was riding in the back.
Kait didn’t try to look.
Her stomach tightened anyway.
Inside, Brews N’ Crews had gone quiet in a way bars never did.
No music.
No clatter.
No drinks being poured.
No girls—
but one.
Every man in the room knew where she was without looking. Kait stood with Krait MC, second row back, not hidden, not singled out. Just another patch in the line. Still. Watched without being addressed.
Kuttes lined the room shoulder to shoulder, each club holding its own ground. Colors stacked. Neutral ground turned tribunal.
Chugs stood near the bar, posture relaxed but deliberate. He hadn’t said a word since this started. Didn’t need to. Everyone there knew exactly why he was standing where he was.
Marine Veteran. Former chaplain, Former high school football coach. Still carried himself like all three. Tall, broad-shouldered, still in shape, his head clean-shaven and catching the light as he moved. His skin was dark, his face lined by sun and years, not softness, and his eyes were sharp without being cruel.
This was the same man who coached football at Dryden High. The same one who’d taught boys how to hit, how to stand back up, and when to keep their mouths shut.
He didn’t shout. He never did.
“This is neutral ground,” Halo said evenly. “No blood. No beef. Just drinks,” he said pointing at the sign.
“And Mitch,” the Chrome Union president, Harvey, added.
A few men laughed.
Kait didn’t. Her attention stayed on Don.
“Yeah,” Halo said calmly. “And Mitch.”
The humor died where it stood.
A pause followed. Long enough to remind everyone what neutral ground meant.
“Earlier today, that rule was broken.”
No names yet.
“Reason being that a child was harmed,” Halo continued. “And the person responsible decided to come here and hide because he knew he would be protected.”
Low murmurs moved through the room and then disappeared.
“However, one Krait MC member entered this bar and assaulted him anyway,” Halo said.
Kait’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t the full truth, and she knew it.
Alacrán elbowed Severino, his VP and they both glanced at Kait.
Halo went on. “Weapons were drawn. Another club was forced to respond.”
His eyes moved deliberately—club to club, president to president.
“This isn’t about investigating what happened or who did what first,” Halo said. “That part’s already settled.”
Kait waited.
Her name didn’t come up.
Neither did the gun.
Still, the two Chrome Union kuttes from earlier shifted their attention toward her.
She noticed.
“Krait has agreed to discipline their own,” Halo said.
That landed heavy.
“Which is why this happens now. Publicly. And it gets quashed tonight.”
Halo stepped back.
“Bring him out, get this shit over with,” Don said.
The back door opened.
Kolton came through first, shoved forward from behind, boots scraping, irritation still written across his face like he hadn’t fully grasped where he was.
Lane followed.
Unreadable. Cold. Ready.
Kait’s heart slammed hard enough to steal her breath.
Lane didn’t look at her.
Didn’t look at anyone.
He hauled Kolton into the open space and, gripping the back of his neck, forced him down onto his knees.
Halo nodded once.
“Prince,” he said. “You broke the rule.”
“That fucker hurt my kid,” Kolton snapped.
Lane rested his hands on his shoulders and squeezed to shut him up.
Halo acknowledged it with a single dip of his head. “That’s been noted.”
No sympathy.
No debate.
“Doesn’t change where you did it.”
Silence pressed in from every side.
“Krait MC has accepted responsibility,” Don said. “And we will carry out the punishment since this wasn’t between MCs.”
His gaze shifted to Lane.
Lane’s eyes lifted to Don.
They held there for a beat.
Then Lane’s gaze shifted—past Don, past Klaus—finding Kait in the line of bodies behind them.
Just once.
Then he looked back to Don.
Don nodded once.
“Proceed,” Halo said, stepping aside.
Lane moved.
No warning.
The first punch snapped Kolton’s head sideways. Lane caught him before he fell—held him up just long enough to hit him again. And again.
No one else moved.
No boots. No pile-on. No chaos.
Because everyone in the room knew—
if anyone else touched Kolton, he wouldn’t leave breathing.
Lane controlled it.
Every strike deliberate. Measured. Enough to get the message across without breaking Kolton apart. Lane kept him on his feet until he couldn’t be.
When Kolton finally went down, Lane followed him to the floor and stayed there, keeping his weight centered, his movements measured. He finished it with a single elbow, placed with precision to split skin and draw blood—messy enough for the room to see, shallow enough to avoid real damage.
A bloody show to satisfy expectations.
Halo watched, calm and unmoved, as the sentence was carried out.
Chugs didn’t react. Never smiled. Never looked away.
When Lane stopped, he stayed where he was, chest heaving, hand fisted in Kolton’s kutte.
Halo raised one hand.
Lane held there, unmoving.
“That stands,” Halo said. “Krait has answered.”
He turned his attention to Don, who hadn’t moved the entire time.
“Chugs, this shit quashed?”
“Yep. It’ll do.”
Halo looked around the room. “Presidents satisfied?”
A thumb up from Alacrán, a shrug from Harvey, a nod from Don.
Halo nodded back. “Well… nice to see you all.”
Business concluded.
Lane let go.
Kait didn’t move as the room broke formation and started to empty. Ram and Blaze were already directing Buster and Cricket to clean the blood from the floor.
Kolton was laid out but still alive.
That was the point.
Lane didn’t linger.
The moment Halo stepped away and Don turned his back to check on Chugs, the sentence was over. Optics handled. Lines restored.
Lane dropped to one knee, checked Kolton’s breathing with two fingers at his throat, then pressed a hand hard against the worst of the bleeding. Blood slicked his knuckles immediately.
“That was for the coke. Now get the fuck up,” Lane said, grabbing Kolton by his kutte.
Kolton groaned, barely responsive.
Lane swore under his breath and pulled him to his feet, keeping an arm locked under Kolton’s shoulder, taking his weight without slowing.
“Gotta get him in the van,” Lane snapped.
The back door was already opening.
The ride back was quiet. At the Nest, Kait didn’t wait—she put distance between herself and everyone else and disappeared into the garage.
Klaus found her a few minutes later.
She was tucked into the far corner near the tool lockers, half-hidden by a bike and stack of tires, arms braced on her knees.
She was breathing too fast.
Short pulls of air that didn’t quite reach her lungs. Jaw tight. Shoulders locked. One foot bouncing, heel tapping the floor like she was trying to keep herself anchored.
Klaus stopped a few feet away and watched her for a moment.
Not judging.
Assessing.
“Hey,” he said calmly.
Kait flinched anyway.
She dragged in a breath, tried to slow it, failed.
“It’s done,” Klaus said, voice steady.
Her chest hitched again. She swallowed hard, eyes glassy but angry at the idea of crying. “Don didn’t even look at me.”
Klaus crouched so he was in her line of sight—close enough to ground her, not close enough to corner her.
“I don’t know where I stand now,” she said, the words rushing. “And I—”
Her breath stuttered. She pressed a fist to her chest like she could physically hold herself together.
“Look at me,” Klaus said.
She did.
“Breathe with me,” he continued. “Easy. Steady.”
He inhaled deliberately.
She matched it. Missed the first one. Caught the second.
Again.
The shaking eased just enough for her to stay upright.
“Am I getting voted out?”
Klaus snorted before he could stop himself. “No.”
Then, more serious, “You’re not in trouble. You’re just learning a lesson.”
Her brow furrowed. “That doesn’t feel better.”
“It’s not supposed to,” he said. “It’s supposed to keep you sharp.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I feel sick.”
“Good,” Klaus replied. “Means you understand what happened back there.”
She stared at the floor. “I should have been on that floor right next to Kolton. I wasn’t even mentioned.”
“There’s a reason for that,” he said. “And it was thoroughly discussed.”
She looked up sharply.
“It wasn’t about you, Dødsstraf,” Klaus continued. “You were involved, yes—but this is one hundred percent on Kolton. He knew better.”
Silence stretched between them. Heavy—but steadier now.
“There’s church tonight,” Klaus said.
“I should be punished too.”
“Nah, you don’t need punishment,” he said, nudging a tire beside him with his boot. “You just need to realign.”
She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, irritated at the moisture there. “I don’t want to walk in there like this.”
“You won’t,” Klaus said. “You’re going to wash your face. You’re going to sit where you belong, with your chin up. And you’re going to listen.”
He glanced toward the Nest.
“We’ll start as soon as Lane comes back.”
Kait nodded once and headed for her room.
about an hour later
Krait MC sat in place, silent, backs straight, eyes forward. No one spoke. No one moved. The weight of what had happened still hung in the room, unsettled.
Outside, an engine cut.
Then the Nope sputtered—coughed once, twice—before finally dying. No one laughed as the usually did when the prospect bike barely made it into the parking lot.
Doors opened. Closed. Metal on metal. Voices stayed low.
Kait felt it before she fully registered it—the sound traveling up through the floor, into her chest.
Footsteps crossed the lot.
The door opened.
Lane came in alone.
His hands were clean.
His clothes were not.
Blood darkened his sleeves, soaked into the front of his shirt, marked the knee of his jeans where he’d knelt next to Kolton. He didn’t bother to look at it. Didn’t need to explain.
He went straight to the table and took his place. Didn’t make eye contact with anyone.
The room stayed quiet.
Lane’s jaw was set hard, the muscle there ticking once, twice.
He was pissed.
Not wild. Not explosive. The kind of anger that sat deep and sharp, layered and unresolved.
Pissed that he’d had to beat his cousin—his brother in arms—into a bloody pulp.
Pissed that Kolton had been stupid enough to take it that far.
Pissed that he hadn’t been there earlier to stop any of it.
Pissed because he knew—knew—Kolton was using again when his nose started to bleed for no reason when they were talking earlier.
That part sat worst of all.
Lane exhaled through his nose and forced it down.
The only relief—the only thing keeping his hands steady now—was knowing he’d stopped the other presidents before they rallied demanding the unthinkable.
Because they’d wanted Kait.
They’d wanted symmetry, optics.
They’d wanted her to be punished too.
And Lane had shut that down.
Hard.
Because if it had gone that way, he would’ve been the one ordered to do it.
And that was never going to happen.
The room stayed silent.
He waited until Lane was settled, until the room adjusted around his presence.
Then—
“How’s Prince?” Don asked.
Lane’s answer came immediately. Flat. Controlled.
“Stitched up. Loaded up on painkillers. Nose may be broken. He’ll sleep it off.”
Don nodded once.
No follow-up.
He rested his hands on the table.
“What happened today,” Don said calmly, “was handled.”
No names. No qualifiers.
“A rule was broken. A punishment was required, and the punishment was delivered.”
The table stayed still.
“One member carried the full weight of it.”
A pause.
“But there was more than one Krait involved.”
Kait felt the words land like a knife in her chest.
Don continued, eyes forward, voice even. “Sometimes punishment is obvious. Sometimes it’s earned loudly. Sometimes it’s clean.”
Another pause.
“And sometimes,” he went on, “what’s required isn’t blood.”
He shifted his gaze slightly—not toward Kait, but toward the table as a whole.
“Sometimes what’s required is understanding exactly how close you came to earning it.”
Silence pressed down harder now.
“A club doesn’t survive by swinging at every mistake,” Don said. “It survives by deciding when restraint costs more than violence.”
Lane didn’t move.
Klaus stayed still.
No one looked at Kait.
“This,” Don said, “is not about what was done.”
He leaned back slightly.
“This is about what’s learned.”
The table absorbed that.
“This isn’t a pass,” Don continued. “It’s a warning.”
Another pause. Deliberate.
“A lesson.”
Don folded his hands.
“Never, to happen again.”
He finally looked at Kait.
She nodded.
“That’s it.”
No dismissal.
No comfort.
Just the weight of being seen without being named.
Church broke without ceremony.
Men stood. Boots moved. Kuttes shifted as the room loosened. No one rushed. Business had been handled.
Don rose last.
Kait stayed where she was for half a second longer than she should’ve.
“Did I get spared because I’m a girl?” she said as Don passed by her side.
Don stopped.
Turned this time. Fully.
“No,” he said.
One word. Immediate.
She held his gaze. “It seemed like—”
Don cut her off.
“You got spared because you didn’t know,” he said. “That excuse expires exactly after one use.”
Her stomach tightened.
“You pulled a gun on neutral ground,” Don continued. “That’s not small. That’s not nothing.”
He stepped closer—not threatening, just final.
“The only reason you’re standing here is because we decided you’d learn faster by observing.”
A pause.
“But if it happens again,” he said, “You will be the one in the middle of that floor.”
She nodded, once.
Don straightened.
“Anything else you want to ask?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Now let this day end. Put it to rest. Tomorrow, is business as usual.”
later that night
The water was already running cold when Lane realized it was time to get out.
Steam clung to the ceiling, curling around the light like smoke that didn’t know where to go. He stood there a second longer than necessary, hands braced against the tile, replaying the rhythm of the beating in his head without meaning to.
The way Kolton went down.
The way his body folded.
The sound—wet, dull, wrong.
Lane looked at his knuckles and put his hands down as if embarrassed to look at them.
He clenched his jaw and shook the feeling off.
But it was done.
He shut off the water and stepped out. He toweled off hard, pulled on clean clothes, the familiar weight of them settling him. The smell of blood fading. He looked around his room and everything was where it belonged. Boots lined up. Gear stacked. Bed made tight.
Order.
He exhaled slowly and felt some of the noise drain out of him.
Kolton was okay because of him.
Stitched.
Drugged.
Alive.
That was the point.
Lane sat on the edge of the bed long enough to lace his boots, then stood again. He didn’t want to think anymore. Didn’t want to replay the tribunal, or Reyes, or Chrome Union, or Chugs and Halo standing there like gravity made flesh. Didn’t want to hear Alacrán pointing out that he was stepping up for her again, the same way he had during the Loyola Beach turf war.
Didn’t want to think about how close it came, and how it could’ve been her blood he washed off too.
That last thought pulled tight in his chest—the familiar pressure that came every time things went sideways.
He knew exactly how to wind down.
Judge chores.
Simple. Repetitive. Quiet. He’d missed that motherfucker.
Lane stepped out in the walkway and looked back to check if there was light coming from Kait’s room. There wasn’t, so he headed to the chapel.
Lane stopped just inside the doorway.
For a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Like he’d walked into a room that should’ve been empty and found it occupied by something he wasn’t ready to face.
She stood at the Judge’s table, slightly off to the side same way he did, enclosure open, heat lamp already adjusted. Feeding tongs laid out. Latch secured. Every step done clean and in order, like she’d memorized the routine instead of improvising it.
She glanced back when she heard him.
“Oh—” she said, then straightened a little. “Sorry. I took over taking care of the Judge while you were gone.” A pause. “Want to finish up?”
Her voice wasn’t defensive. It was exhausted. Flattened by the day.
Something tightened in Lane’s chest.
“No,” he said, sharper than he meant.
She nodded once, like she’d already prepared for that answer. “I should’ve left it for you. I just… wasn’t thinking.”
Lane crossed his arms without realizing it. “That seems to be the theme today.”
She looked at him then—really looked. Her eyes were rimmed red, the kind of tired that didn’t go away with sleep.
He stepped closer, control slipping before he noticed it. “You can close that now,” he said.
She hesitated, then reached for the lid and secured it. Her eyes dropped briefly—to his hands. His knuckles were raw, split skin already swelling.
Lane moved without thinking, starting to put the equipment away. Too fast. Too rough. Like motion alone could keep his mouth shut.
“I’m sorry you had to come home for this,” Kait said quietly.
He stopped.
She leaned back against the Judge’s table, finally facing him. Lane stood directly in front of her now, too close, the space between them tight with everything neither of them wanted to say.
“Yeah?” he scoffed.
“It must’ve been hard,” she continued. “Doing what you did.”
His jaw tightened. “Yeah. It was hard beating the shit out of my own blood—my brother—for something you both did.”
Kait blinked. “Chugs had a shotgun pointed at Kolton’s head, I was only trying to protect him.”
“No, you needed to stop him but instead you enabled him.”
“That asshole hurt Kyle.”
“And we would have dealt with him the way we always do, but here we are.”
“I was expecting to be punished too,” she said. “I don’t know why I wasn’t.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, you don’t know?” His eyes hardened.
She shook her head erratically.
“Must be nice to fuck up and walk away unscathed because you’re just a girl who ‘doesn’t know better.’”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Her shoulders drew tight. She swallowed.
“I—” she tried to say something but nothing came out.
All she could do was get out of there as fast as she could.
The road to Loyola Beach was empty.
Kait rode fast—not reckless. Just fast enough that the wind pressed hard against her chest and kept her from thinking too clearly. The bike hummed beneath her, steady and familiar. Territory markers passed without meaning. This stretch belonged to Krait now. She knew she’d be safe here alone.
She cut the engine at the edge of the sand and let the silence rush in all at once.
The ocean was dark, restless, throwing white against the shore like it couldn’t settle either. The air smelled sharp—salt, cold, metal. She didn’t take her helmet off right away.
When she did, she set it down carefully.
Three steps onto the sand was all she managed before it hit.
“Fuck you!” she shouted into the open night.
The word tore out of her raw and violent, aimed at one person only.
“Fuck you, you piece of shit!”
Her voice cracked. Her knees buckled. She went down hard, breath stuttering, chest caving as everything she’d been holding finally broke loose.
“You were right, Rokkstar,” she said hoarsely, turning toward the black water. “You said Dryden was a different game.”
Her throat tightened.
“You said the bite here was stronger. Meaner.”
A short, broken laugh tore out of her. “And it is… it fucking is.”
She covered her face.
“Why did you leave when I still had so much to fucking learn?” she shouted. “Why didn’t you let me take over?”
Her hands dug into the sand, fingers curling like she could anchor herself to something solid.
“I hate it here.”
The words came out wrecked.
“You didn’t take me seriously enough,” she whispered. “And now you’re gone, and I’m here alone trying to prove I belong in a world you never thought I could handle.”
The ocean answered with another crash.
“Well you couldn’t handle it either… A fucking heart attack? Really Rokkstar?”
She folded forward, sobbing—hard, ugly, uncontained. No control. No witnesses. Just grief finally allowed to exist.
When it passed, it left her hollow and shaking.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sat there breathing until the shaking eased.
Then, quietly, to herself—
“I’ll prove you all wrong. Fuck Lane and fuck you.”
She pushed herself to her feet, legs unsteady but locked beneath her.
Don’s words ringing in her head.
Now let this day end. Put it to rest. Tomorrow, is business as usual.
“Business as usual,” she said.
Find out how the decision was made. Read what was said at the Tribunal.
