Chapter 5: Claimed by the Crown
The world snapped back into focus with the violent shudder of the door hitting the wall. The overhead bulb swung, casting crazy shadows that leapt across Reaper’s face, making the scars along his jawline look like deep crevices in a storm-wracked cliff. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, and the air in the room instantly thickened, turning cold and heavy with his fury.
“Enough.” The word was a low growl, no louder than the creak of the door, but it carried a finality that froze the very dust motes in the air.
Chaos didn’t startle. He simply went still, his hands dropping from Clara’s thighs as if they’d been burned. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, a smirk trying to reassemble itself on his face, but it was a weak, shaky thing under the weight of Reaper’s glare. “Prez. Just showing our guest around.”
“Like hell you were.” Havoc’s voice came from behind Reaper, laced with a cold anger Clara hadn’t heard from him before. He stepped into the room, his usually cheerful eyes narrowed to slits, his gaze flicking from Chaos’s defiant posture to Clara, who was still pressed against the crates, her breath trapped in her lungs. The friendly Irish charm was gone, replaced by a sharp, possessive edge that was somehow more terrifying.
Reaper took a step forward, and Chaos instinctively took a step back, the bravado evaporating. “You touch her again,” Reaper said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more threatening than any shout, “and I’ll break both your hands. You understand me, Cal? Not a warning. A promise.”
The use of his real name seemed to hit Chaos harder than any threat. The mischievous glint in his eyes died, replaced by a flash of raw, startling fear. He gave a curt, jerky nod. “Yeah. Understood.”
“Get out,” Reaper commanded, not taking his eyes off the younger man. “Go help Bull unload the truck. Now.”
Chaos shuffled past, careful not to make contact with either man, and disappeared into the hallway. The silence he left behind was profound, broken only by the frantic pounding of Clara’s heart. She slid down the crates slightly, her legs finally giving way, but she caught herself, gripping the rough wood for support.
Havoc was at her side in an instant. “Easy there, mo chroí.” His hand was gentle on her elbow, a stark contrast to the violence in the air moments before. “You alright? Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head, unable to form words. Her throat was tight, and she realized she was trembling all over. She focused on the warmth of Havoc’s hand, a small anchor in the storm.
Reaper turned his attention to her. The fury had not left his eyes, but it had banked, smoldering like coals. He looked her over, his gaze intense, missing nothing—the way her sweater was rumpled, the wild fear in her eyes, the tremor in her hands. He didn’t move closer, but his presence seemed to envelop the room.
“He’s dealt with,” Reaper said, his voice still gruff, but the edge had softened marginally. It wasn’t an apology. It was a statement of fact.
“Dealt with?” Clara finally found her voice, and it came out as a shaky whisper. “He locked me in here. He had me pinned…” The memory rushed back, and a sob threatened to choke her. She swallowed it down, hard.
“I know.” Reaper’s blue eyes held hers. “It won’t happen again.”
Havoc rubbed her arm, his touch soothing. “Chaos is a loose cannon, Clare. Always has been. But he’s not stupid. He crosses Reaper, he’s out. Or worse.” He said it so casually, as if discussing the weather, and the casualness of the threat made her shiver.
“Come on,” Havoc said, his tone lightening by a degree, trying to coax her. “Let’s get you out of this cupboard. You need a proper drink. Something that hasn’t been aged in a crate.”
She allowed him to guide her toward the door. As they passed Reaper, Clara dared to look up at him. He was staring at the spot where Chaos had held her, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked. He seemed, for a moment, miles away, lost in some dark thought. Then his eyes shifted to her, and the intensity of his focus returned, making her breath catch.
“‘Vok,” Reaper said, his voice a low rumble. “Get her settled. I need to have a word with Bull about keeping a tighter leash.”
Havoc nodded. “Right behind you, Dec.”
Reaper gave Clara one last, unreadable look—a mixture of fury, possession, and something else, something softer that she couldn’t name—before he turned and strode down the hall, his bootsteps echoing with finality.
Havoc led her back into the main bar, which was now mostly empty save for a few hardcore members clustered at the far end. He guided her to a stool at the bar itself, not the isolated corner booth. “Sit,” he instructed, then vaulted over the bar with an easy grace that belied the tension of the last few minutes. He grabbed a clean glass and a bottle of amber liquid. “Proper Irish. None of that gasoline we sell to the locals.”
He poured a generous measure and pushed it toward her. Her hands were still shaking so badly she had to use both to lift the glass. The whiskey burned a path down her throat, warming the cold pit inside her. She coughed, but it felt good. Real.
Havoc leaned on the bar opposite her, watching her. The playful glint was slowly returning to his eyes. “See? Told you you’d need a drink after meeting the family.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her chest. “You call that a family dispute?”
“Aye. The dysfunctional kind.” He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Seriously, though. You’re under the club’s protection now. What Chaos did… that was a breach. Reaper doesn’t tolerate breaches.”
“Protection?” she whispered, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. “Is that what this is?”
His smile faded. He reached out and curled a loose strand of her curly brown hair around his finger, his touch surprisingly delicate. “It is when I say it is. And when he says it is.” He nodded subtly in the direction Reaper had gone. “So you’re safe, Clare. From everyone except maybe yourself after a few more of those.” He tapped her glass.
She took another sip, the alcohol beginning to dull the sharp edges of her fear. But as she looked around the bar, at the grim faces and the patched vests, she knew one thing for certain. Safe was a relative term. And in the world of Devil’s Reign, it likely meant something entirely different.