Chapter 13: Breaking the Oath
The cold morning wind whipped across the gravel yard, carrying the acrid scent of exhaust and damp earth. Jax stood framed in the doorway of Eli’s workshop, his tall, scarred frame blocking the entrance entirely. He kept his hands loose at his sides, his dark eyes meeting Marcus’s cold, unblinking stare without a trace of hesitation.
“I’m done, Marcus,” Jax said, his voice level and steady, cutting through the chilling silence of the dawn.
Marcus let out a short, harsh laugh that sounded more like a bark. He uncrossed his arms, taking a slow step forward until he was standing just a few feet away from Jax. The other two club members shifted uneasily, their hands hovering near their heavy leather waistbands as they sensed the seismic shift in the air.
“You’re done?” Marcus repeated, venom coating every syllable. “You think you can just drop your patch, walk away from the brotherhood, and hide out in some rusted-out garage in the middle of nowhere? You belong to this club, Jax. We made you. We bled for you. There is no walking away.”
“I gave the club ten years of my life, Marcus,” Jax replied, every word deliberate and heavy with finality. “I did your dirty work, I took the beatings, and I kept my mouth shut. But my debt is paid in full. I’m walking.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He stepped even closer, his face inches from Jax’s. “It’s about a woman, isn’t it?” Marcus sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Always some weak-ass distraction trying to pull a good soldier down into the dirt. Where is she, Jax? Where’s your little runaway?”
Jax’s heart hammered against his ribs, but his outward expression remained carved in stone. He knew that the moment Marcus found out about Leo, the boy would become a hostage, a tool to force Jax back into the fold or eliminate him entirely. He had to keep Marcus’s attention focused squarely on himself, no matter the personal cost.
“She’s gone, Marcus,” Jax said quietly, the truth of Sarah’s passing giving his voice a hollow, devastating ring. “She’s not here. There’s nobody else.”
Marcus stared at him hard, searching Jax’s eyes for any sign of weakness or deception. For a tense, agonizing moment, the club president seemed to weigh whether to believe him or to order his men to kick the doors in and tear the workshop apart.
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Behind Jax, inside the dark, rusted bed of the red pickup truck beneath the faded blue tarp, Leo lay completely still, holding his breath as the muffled sound of the confrontation vibrated through the metal chassis.
“If I find out you’re lying to me, Jax,” Marcus whispered, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl that promised unspeakable violence, “I won’t just kick you out. I’ll make sure you never ride again. Hand over your cut.”
