Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
The ink that tells my story so I don't have to speak it.
And then, the mood changes. A celebration swells around us like high tide. Music is softer now. Not the rage of last night’s claim.
The welcoming of a new woman is a softer affair.
I lead her to the center of the room. Savannah and I start pressed together, her hip against mine, my hand on the small of her back. We dance. We linger together. A team. We keep hold of each other as the hours pass.
But as the day deepens, as the evening draws near, we drift.
Not apart—just finding our orbits.
I lean against the wall, nursing a beer I've barely touched. My ribs throb with each breath, but pain's just background noise now. Always has been.
Savannah moves through the crowd like she was born to it. My brothers part for her, some with respect, some with hunger they know better than to act on. Her golden hair catches the dim light, a halo against the smoke and darkness. Strange how something so bright can belong in a place built from shadows.
I don't need to guard her every step anymore. She's claimed now. Protected. But my eyes follow her anyway, tracking her path through the bodies and bottles. It's instinct, like my fingers finding the outline of angels on my skin during those sleepless nights in The Pit.
"Your girl's a natural," Diesel says, appearing beside me. "Didn't expect that."
I nod, watching Savannah laugh at something Chains says. "She's adaptable."
"Eight votes against," Diesel mutters. "That's eight brothers waitin' for you to slip."
In prison, I read the Bible cover to cover three times. Not from faith—from boredom and the need for stories bigger than concrete walls. Mark 5:9 gave me my name, but it's what came after that haunts me now. The demons begged not to be sent away. They pleaded to remain among the living, among the familiar.
I understand their fear now. The terror of exile from what you love.
The Ashbys won't let this stand. I know that. They don't surrender daughters to men like me.
Across the room, Savannah catches my eye. Holds it. Something passes between us—not a smile, something deeper. A recognition. A choice being made again, in real time.
I wonder if Savannah and I are writing the same tale now—outcasts by choice, marked by what we've chosen to love despite the cost.
I stand in the corner watching my brothers celebrate what they don't understand. They think this is about pussy or power—something simple. Something they can name. But what's between Savannah and me isn't just blood, or bone, or breath.
It's older than that. Deeper.
The beer bottle sweats against my palm, cold glass against hot skin. I take small sips, letting the bitter taste linger like the memories of The Pit.
It's just solitary.
But it's so much more than solitary.
The Pit is a darkness, an emptiness, a sense of being hallowed out.
But I never did mind that feeling.
I like the darkness.
We are Legion. We are many.
"So…." Ledger appears at my elbow.
"So," I offer back.
"It wasn't personal."
I look Ledger in the eyes. Shrug a shoulder. "I know that. You don't have to explain."
"I only voted no because… well." He blows out a breath. "It just doesn't add up, Legion. It doesn't. And it never will. I hope I'm wrong, I really do. But I don't think I am. So I voted no."
I take another pull from my bottle. "I understand."
He claps me on the back. "She's real pretty though. Not gonna hear me complain about having to see her face for the rest of my days." Then he walks off before I can respond.
I've spent most of my life being the demon they named me. The monster under Drybone's collective bed. But monsters serve a purpose too. They keep the real predators at bay.
My eyes drift across the room, pulled by the high whine of a tattoo machine. The sound cuts through the music and laughter like a blade through skin.
Savannah sits in Chains' chair, wrist held in his hand. Her face is calm, almost serene, as the needle pierces her skin again and again. I walk over, wondering what the hell is going on.
But I'm truly, truly speechless when I look down and see what she's getting.
PROPERTY OF DEMON is spelled out letter by letter in stark black, just above the raw circle of newly-scabbed skin from the restraints that held her prisoner just 24 hours ago.
Demon.
I'd rather wish it said Legion, but I guess they are one and the same.
Chains finishes with a flourish, wiping excess ink from Savannah's wrist.
Pride fills my chest, a heat that burns hotter than the infected brand beneath my shirt. This claiming goes both ways now.
My mark on her, her choice made permanent.
"There," Chains says, applying ointment and clear wrap. "Keep it covered for two hours, then wash with unscented soap."