STIGMA

Sloane POV:

Fresh off winning a bloody turf war, Beau Tucker publicly announced in front of the cheering club crowd that Farrah Hicks was now his one-and-only official Old Lady.

As for me? I was to be stripped of my title and downgraded to his personal Sweetbutt—a mere plaything.

"Look at her," one of the Sweetbutts sitting in the corner booth whispered loudly to her friends, snickering behind her manicured nails. "Thought she was the untouchable biker princess. Now she's just Tucker's free maid. Pathetic."

My fingers curled so tightly around the neck of a Lone Star beer bottle that my knuckles turned bone-white. The surrounding cheers seemed to be instantly sucked away; my mind went completely blank, leaving only a deafening ringing in my ears.

I shoved past the crowd blocking my way, walking step by step to the wooden bar counter, my eyes locked dead on the man I had loved for nine years.

"Beau, what kind of joke are you playing?" I spoke, my voice trembling uncontrollably, carrying a pathetic sense of disbelief even to my own ears. "Nine years ago, you swore an oath on your Cut. You said I was your only..."

"Shut up, Sloane." Beau's triumphant smile vanished. He furrowed his brows, a flash of impatience crossing his pale blue eyes. "Don't kill the buzz in front of my brothers."

He exhaled a breath heavy with cheap whiskey, looking down at me with condescension. "I just secured the northern highway for this club. It was Farrah who fought side by side with me on the road. We have a bond that a woman like you, who only belongs in a kitchen, couldn't possibly understand. I'm allowing you to stay by my side, and you should be on your knees thanking me."

"Thanking you?" A sour, burning ache swelled in my eyes, and my heart felt like it was being brutally crushed by an invisible hand.

I fought hard against the choke in my voice, staring him down. "For spending my dead father's money to boost your ego? Or for making me work like a mule day and night to serve your sick mother, while you were out 'fighting side by side' with another woman?!"

Those words accurately pierced Beau's fragile and insecure nerves. His face flushed instantly, twisted by pure, vicious fury. He grabbed my arm and yanked me close, dropping his voice into a cruel, venomous hiss meant to tear my soul apart.

"You think you're still some high-and-mighty biker princess?" he sneered, his words dripping with poison. "Wake up, Sloane! Your father and brothers died in a highway shootout long ago. And your mother, your sister-in-law, even your ten-year-old nephew—they were butchered without mercy by the Vultures in that safe house! You're the only one left! You're a cursed orphan with a dead bloodline. Letting you stay as my plaything is the greatest mercy you'll ever get!"

The words hit me like a shotgun blast at point-blank range, right in the chest.

The memories of that blood-soaked floor, of my young nephew's blood-soaked bed, ripped through my mind in a frantic, agonizing tear. This was the deepest, most devastating wound in my soul.

And now, the man I once loved unconditionally was ruthlessly ripping it open in front of a cheering crowd, pouring coarse salt on it just to protect his pathetic ego.

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that I tasted the heavy metallic tang of blood.

But in that very second, the heart-shredding agony suddenly stopped. Looking at Beau's face, which had become hideous from sheer malice, all the illusions I had of him shattered to dust in my mind.

I finally realized that the man standing before me wasn't worth a single drop of my tears. Nine years of my youth had been fed to a cold-blooded beast.

"Beau's right, honey," Farrah drawled, swaying her hips as she strolled over. She linked her arm possessively through Beau's. "He needs a real woman by his side, but I'm not a jealous bitch. I'm totally fine with you staying to warm his bed when I'm tired, as long as you recognize your place. We can coexist."

"Sloane Keller, watch your attitude!" Beau's mother, Judith Tucker, marched over, her face twisted in a severe scowl. "Farrah is a heroine. With her around, my heart condition feels so much better! You should be grateful we didn't throw you out to the wolves!"

A wave of pure, absurd mockery washed over me, burning away the last ounce of weakness in my heart.

Heroine? Heart condition? Just last month, when Judith was dying of a severe heart spasm, it was me who begged the underground doctor, paying him with my secretly saved cash just to keep her breathing.

I looked down at the unopened beer bottle in my hand. Then, I raised my arm and, with violent, resolute force, slammed the glass bottle hard onto the wooden bar counter.

The sharp, heavy thud cut through the noise like a gunshot, sending glass shards and alcohol flying everywhere, instantly plunging the room near the bar into a dead silence.

"Coexist?" I looked up, sweeping my gaze past Farrah's shocked face before landing coldly on Beau.

My voice no longer trembled; instead, it was laced with a deadly, freezing calm, stripped of all warmth. "I'd rather swallow glass."

Beau froze, seemingly completely unprepared for me to snap out of my breakdown so instantly.

"Let's get this straight. I'm done being your free maid, and I'm done letting you bleed my father's legacy dry," I said, staring straight into his eyes, enunciating every word and looking at him like a piece of trash. "Our vows are dead. We are done, Beau. Don't ever expect me to look back."

I didn't wait for their reaction. I turned on my heel, pushed the heavy timber doors open, and stormed out into the biting desert night. The night wind dried the very last tear I had shed out of pure stupidity.

Suddenly, I slammed hard into a solid wall of muscle and leather.

A pair of massive, steady hands gripped my shoulders, keeping me from falling. A sharp, overwhelming scent of dark tobacco, gun oil, and something distinctly unique washed over me.

"Watch your step," a deep, gravelly voice rumbled above my head, the vibration traveling right through my chest.

I was so drained by that absolute severing of ties that I couldn't care less. I didn't look up to see his face, nor did I look at the patch on his Cut.

I just gently pulled away from his grip, muttered a low "Thank you," and walked straight to Beau's spare Sportster.

I kicked the starter, tearing out into the black night.