DEVOTED TO YOU 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ VERY SPICY VERSION (A SONS OF ASH MC SAGA — BOOK 8- DOC X VAL)

DOC

The Pit was exactly the kind of place you’d hate if you were normal. Rusted signs. Cracked asphalt. A mechanical bull that hadn’t worked since the Reagan administration. The air swam with cigarette smoke, spilled whiskey, and the particular musk of leather that had weathered too many bar fights. For the Sons of Ash, it was sacred ground—neutral territory where they could drink, laugh, and pretend the world outside wasn’t trying to kill them.

Their table was a monstrosity of mismatched wood that seated fifteen comfortably and twenty when they dragged over extra chairs. Tonight, the full crew was out.

Axle sat at the head, Scarlett tucked under his arm like she’d been carved to fit there. Her dark curls spilled over the shoulders of a burgundy dress that made his eyes go black every time he looked at her. He’d barely touched his whiskey—he never drank much with her beside him, too fixed on the warmth of her body against his side.

“You’re staring again,” Scarlett murmured, not glancing up from her conversation with Rain.

“I’m always staring. Get used to it.”

“He’s been saying that for two years,” Grimm observed from across the table. Rain perched on his knee, her waist-length black hair loose and wild, dark eyes soft in the dim light. Grimm’s arm wrapped her waist with the casual possession of a man who’d killed for her and would do it again without blinking.

“And I’ll say it for fifty more,” Axle replied.

Hound was on his third beer and second plate of wings, sauce smeared across his knuckles. Tara sat beside him, amber eyes amused as she watched him demolish a drumstick with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who’d discovered barbecue.

“You have sauce on your forehead,” Tara said.

“Where?” He swiped the wrong spot.

She laughed, reaching up with a napkin. “You’re a disaster.”

“Your disaster,” he corrected, grinning.

“Unfortunately.”

Tank was a mountain of silence at the far end, Rose curled against him with his boy Alexander dozing on her chest. The boy was three years old—a miniature of his father, same dark eyes, same unnerving stillness. Luna was in Switzerland with Aleksandr, and the clubhouse had been quieter without her imperious commands.

“Did you see the spreadsheet Voss made for the diaper budget?” Rose asked Tara.

“It had pie charts.”

“Fordiapers.”

“Voss has pie charts for everything,” Cray announced, sliding into a seat with a plate of nachos. Her fire-engine red hair was fading to auburn at the roots, and she wore Voss’s sweater—an oversized grey monstrosity that swallowed her curves yet somehow made her look more obscene. “He has a pie chart for our sex life.”

“Cray,” Voss warned, ears already going pink.

“Position frequency. Duration. Decibel level of my screaming—”

"Cray."

“—with a subsection for ‘times the clubhouse heard us.’ That slice is very large.”

Sydney snorted beer out his nose. “That’s my favorite slice!”

Voss’s ears had gone crimson. “You are a chaos variable I failed to account for.”

“And yet you married me.” Cray kissed his cheek, leaving a nacho-cheese imprint. “Statistically speaking, you’re stuck with me.”

Raze and Rina were tucked into a corner, her enormous pregnant belly pressing against the table. Twins due in six weeks. Raze kept one hand on her stomach, tracing absent patterns, dark eyes distant in the way of a man who was already counting down days.

“They’re kicking,” Rina said.

“They’re always kicking.”

“They’re your children. Of course they’re violent.”

Raze almost smiled. Almost. “They get it from their mother.”

“Their mother is a biochemist.”

“Their mother nearly dismantled a pharmaceutical empire while eight months pregnant. Violence is a spectrum.”

Natasha sat beside Sydney, CEO armor shed for the evening—hair down, diamonds at her throat, a backless black dress that had made Sydney choke on his tongue when she’d emerged from their bedroom. Elijah was at a sleepover with Nancy, and Natasha drank her wine with the careful deliberation of a woman who rarely let herself relax.

“You’re thinking about work,” Sydney said.

“The merger.”

“You’re always thinking about the merger.”

“The merger is worth four hundred million dollars.”

“I’m worth at least five hundred million. And I’m right here.”

She laughed despite herself, leaning into him. “Fine. No more merger. What should I think about instead?”

“The fact that I love you. That Elijah called me ‘Dad’ yesterday without thinking about it. That I’m going to marry you so hard.”

“You’re already engaged to me.”

“I’m going to marry youharder.”

Doc sat slightly apart from the chaos, nursing a club soda with lime. Quieter than usual—hazel eyes distant, boyish face shadowed by the perpetual exhaustion that never quite left him. He was thinking about the clinic. About patients he couldn’t save. About the license he’d lost and the reasons he’d lost it.

“Stop brooding,” Scarlett said, nudging him with her foot.

“I’m not brooding.”

“You’re staring into your club soda like it holds the secrets of the universe.”

“Maybe it does. Maybe the secrets of the universe are carbonated.”

Knuckles sat at a smaller two-top near the bar with a woman named Marissa. Twenty-two. Pretty in a synthetic way—blonde from a bottle, lashes from a box, lips injected with something that wasn’t quite collagen. He’d been seeing her on and off for a few weeks, and even he couldn’t have explained why. She laughed too loud. Touched his arm too often. Looked at his kutte with an avarice that made him uncomfortable.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” Marissa said, fingers tracing his forearm. “What are you thinking about?”

“The club. Run coming up.”

“Ugh, always the club. What about me?”

“You’re here.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The prospects—Jax, Milo, and a new kid named Theo, still terrified of everyone—clustered near the bar, pretending they weren’t watching the main table. They were always watching. Learning. Waiting for someone to need a beer or a door opened or a body disposed of.

“She’s been staring at her wine for ten minutes,” Jax whispered, nodding toward Natasha.

“She’s thinking,” Milo said. “CEOs think.”

“She’s thinking about murder. That’s the murder face.”

“You don’t know the murder face.”

“I know it. Tank has it. Natasha has it. Scarlett definitely has it.”

“Scarlett has the ‘I will destroy you legally’ face. Different thing.”

Theo didn’t speak. He was too busy trying not to drop his beer.

Then the door opened.

She walked in like she owned the place and had already calculated the cost of burning it down.

The riding leathers came first—a catsuit of worn but expensive black hide that clung to every lethal curve like it had been painted on. The zipper was pulled low enough to bare the swell of her breasts, the hollow of her throat, the glint of a silver chain. Her hair was straw-brown, dirty-hay colored, windswept and wild around a face that stopped every conversation in the room.

Her eyes were gray. Not silver, not blue-gray, not the soft gray of morning fog—gray like a blade. Gray like the sky before a tornado. Gray like something that had seen too much and forgotten how to flinch.

Her lips were red. The kind of red that belonged on vintage movie stars and femme fatales. The kind of red that saidI know exactly what I’m doing.

The men in the bar—bikers, dockworkers, the usual collection of outlaws and misfits—went rigid. It wasn’t lust. Lust was a woman in a short skirt. This was the instinctive, primal recognition of a predator entering the room.

The Sons of Ash went still.

Axle’s hand tightened on Scarlett’s shoulder. Grimm’s pale eyes tracked the woman’s movement with a sniper’s cold precision. Tank shifted his weight, his massive frame coiling. Hound stopped chewing. That alone was a sign of the apocalypse.

“She’s not here for a drink,” Grimm murmured.

“No shit,” Axle replied.

She passed the bar, the pool tables, the dead mechanical bull. She didn’t look at the men who stared. Didn’t look at the women whispering behind their hands. She walked directly to Knuckles’s table and stopped.

“Marissa Brown?”

Her voice was dark honey. Smoke and sin. The kind of voice that crawled down your spine and settled in your gut.

Marissa looked up. Her expression shifted from confusion to annoyance to something that might have been fear, if she’d been smart enough to recognize it. “Yes? Do I know you?”

The woman smiled. It was not a nice smile. “No. But you know Caleb.”

The name hit like a grenade. Marissa’s face went pale, then red, then something in between. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The woman pulled out a phone smeared with something dark and wet—blood, Knuckles registered,that was blood—and opened a chat with the ease of someone who’d done this before. The screen showed a face. Marissa’s face. Beneath it, a topless selfie. Beneath that, a message:Come over. I miss you baby.

The bar fell silent.

Knuckles looked at the phone. Looked at Marissa. Looked back at the phone. His jaw tightened.

“Knuckles,” Hound said quietly, “back up. Don’t get in the middle of this.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Back. Up.”

Knuckles slid out of his chair, hands raised, eyes still on Marissa. The woman didn’t acknowledge him. Her attention remained fixed on the blonde now sputtering like a drowned engine.

“You fucked my sister’s husband,” the woman said. Her voice stayed calm. Honeyed. Terrifying.

“I DID NOT—”

Smack.

The slap started somewhere in her hips, traveled through her shoulder, and exploded across Marissa’s face with the force of a gunshot. Marissa flew out of her chair—flew, her body describing a brief, ungainly arc before it hit the floor.

The Sons of Ash stood. Every single one of them. Chairs scraped back. Hands went to weapons. Axle was already moving, Scarlett pressed behind him.

The woman didn’t notice. She circled the table and kicked Marissa in the ribs—a sharp, precise strike that sent the blonde skidding into the wall. The impact sounded like a wet sack of meat hitting concrete.

Marissa crumpled. Gasped. Tried to crawl.

The woman crouched beside her. Her voice dropped to something almost gentle. “I lied. He isn’t my sister’s. He’s my cousin’s. She has four kids. Four. You come between her and her family again—” She let the silence stretch. “—and I will kill you. And before I kill you, I will let the whore network know where he puts his dick besides his wife. And then—” That terrible, beautiful smile returned. “—I will peel your skin with a vegetable peeler. Hang it. Dry it. Make it into jerky. And feed it to dogs.”

Marissa made a sound that was not quite a word.

“Do you understand me?”

Marissa nodded, head jerking like a broken doll.

“Good.”

The woman stood. Straightened her riding leathers. Turned to leave.

Then Natasha spoke.

“Why kick her? Why not punish him?”

Sydney grabbed her forearm. “Tasha, don’t—”

But the woman was already turning. Very slowly. Very deliberately. Her gray eyes fixed on Natasha with an intensity that made Sydney step in front of his fiancée, body a shield.

The woman didn’t notice him. Didn’t care. She reached into her jacket and withdrew a ziplock bag. Inside was something pink and wet and freshly severed.

A tongue.

“I did,” she said. “He doesn’t need a mouth. He needs his fingers to work and provide for his children. I considered the tongue a vestigial organ.”

She smiled again—that ghostly, terrible, beautiful smile.

“Does that answer your question?”

Sydney’s voice came out strangled. “It does. It absolutely does.”

Natasha didn’t flinch, but her face was pale, and her hand gripped Sydney’s arm hard enough to bruise.

The woman surveyed the table. Her gaze swept the brothers, the old ladies, the prospects—and stopped on Doc.

He was the only one who hadn’t stood. The only one whose hand hadn’t gone to a weapon. The only one looking at her not with fear or anger or horror, but with something else entirely.

Assessment. Curiosity. Recognition.

“Your kuttes,” she said. “Sons of Ash. I’ve heard of you.”

She walked toward their table, hips swaying, boots clicking on scarred wood. She stopped a few feet from Doc, leaned on a chair, tilted her head.

“And who is this distinguished gentleman?”

The room held its breath.

Doc didn’t flinch. Didn’t stand. Didn’t reach for anything. He just looked at her with tired hazel eyes—the eyes of a man who’d seen too much suffering and still cared.

“I’m Doc. I help when the brothers bleed.”

“So your profession and your road name are identical.” Her gray eyes flickered with something that might have been amusement. “Efficient.”

Doc shrugged. “Isn’t that right.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

“Well, Doc,” she said, “enjoy your evening. Hope you enjoyed the show.”

“Six out of ten.”

The room froze again.

She stared at him. Then—slowly, like sun breaking through storm clouds—she grinned. A different smile than before. Less terrible. More real. It made her look younger. It made her look dangerous in an entirely different way.

“You must have a lot of experience with breaking things,” she said.

“Comes with the territory. Occupational hazard.” He took a sip of club soda. “I’ve sliced up and stitched more people than you’ve probably killed.”

Something dark and hungry flashed in her gray eyes. Something that looked almost like hope. “Hm. I like you, Doc. Have a good evening.”

She winked—actually winked—and walked out of the bar.

The door swung shut behind her. The motorcycle outside roared to life and faded into the night.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

“What the fuck just happened?” Hound demanded.

No one had an answer.

Marissa was still heaving on the floor, sobbing, her perfect blonde hair matted with blood. Doc sighed, pushed back his chair, and walked over without another word. He knelt, checked her pulse, examined her pupils. “Dislocated shoulder. Possibly cracked ribs. She’ll need an X-ray.”

“I don’t give a fuck about her X-ray,” Knuckles said, voice strange and tight. “I was seeing her. I was literally seeing her.”

“And now you’re not,” Grimm said.

“She had a tongue in her pocket! A human tongue!”

“Ziplock bag,” Sydney corrected. “Technically not in her pocket.”

“That’s not better!”

Doc finished his exam and stood. “Someone call an ambulance. She needs a hospital.”

“I’ll do it,” Tara said, already reaching for her phone.

Axle was still staring at the door. “Grimm.”

“Yeah.”

“Find out who she is.”

“Already on it.” Grimm had his phone out, thumbs flying. “Voss, I need everything you’ve got.”

“Five minutes,” Voss said. His ears were still faintly pink, but his voice was all business.

Scarlett pressed closer to Axle. “She’s terrifying. But she’s not... random. She went after a woman who slept with a married man. She took that man’s tongue. She has a code.”

“A code that involves vegetable peelers and jerky.”

“I didn’t say it was a good code.”

Rain was trembling slightly, Grimm’s arm tight around her. “She reminded me of someone. Before. Someone I used to know. Before Grimm found me. Before I learned to be something other than afraid.”

Raze looked at Rina, hand still on her stomach. “You’re not going anywhere alone for a while.”

“I’m pregnant with twins. I can barely go to the bathroom alone.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Tank hadn’t spoken. He was still standing, his massive body a shield between Rose and the door, Alexander cradled against his chest. Rose touched his arm. “She’s gone.”

“I know.”

“Then sit down.”

He sat. But his eyes stayed on the door.

Cray was grinning. “I like her.”

“You would,” Voss muttered.

“She’s efficient! She brought evidence! She had a whole presentation!”

“She had a severed tongue.”

“Visual aids, Voss. Visual aids.”

The prospects huddled near the bar, eyes wide. Theo looked like he might be sick. Jax looked like he might ask for an autograph. Milo was somewhere in between.

“That was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen,” Theo whispered.

“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” Jax countered.

“Same thing,” Milo said.

The ride back to the clubhouse was silent. Not the comfortable silence of brothers who’d spent decades together—the tense silence of men who’d witnessed something they couldn’t quite process.

Marissa had been loaded into an ambulance, still sobbing, still apologizing to no one. Knuckles had watched her go with an expression half relief and half existential crisis.

Now they sat scattered around the common room. The old ladies were clustered on the couches. The brothers occupied various states of tension.

Rina kept stirring her tea. She’d been stirring it for ten minutes. Raze’s hand rested on her shoulder, thumb tracing circles, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I keep thinking about the tongue,” she said. “The precision. You’d need surgical knowledge to remove a tongue cleanly. Vascular structures, nerve bundles—it’s not a simple amputation.”

“I love that that’s what you’re thinking about,” Raze said.

“It’s what I do. I’m a biochemist.”

“You’re terrifying.”

“I’m pregnant with your twins. You don’t get to call me terrifying.”

Knuckles leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, face unreadable. “I broke up with Marissa,” he announced.

“I mean, that’s one word for it,” Sydney said. “When she was broken up quite literally.”

Hound snorted into his beer.

“Not the time, Sydney.” Scarlett’s voice was sharp.

“It’s always the time.”

Voss had set up his laptop on the coffee table, fingers flying across the keyboard. Cray was beside him, her usual chaos subdued, dark eyes focused in the way that meant she was taking this seriously.

“Got it,” Voss said.

Everyone leaned in.

“Valeria Russo. Known in certain circles as the Valkyrie. Enforcer for the Morozov Bratva since she was fifteen. Trained personally under Dmitri Morozov. They control territories in the Iron District, the railways, the freight yards—no overlap with our operations, which is why we’ve never encountered her before.”

“Why did she come to The Pit?” Axle asked.

“She came for Marissa. Specifically. The Bratva have no beef with us. This was personal.”

“What else?”

Voss hesitated. “Combat specialist. Trained in espionage, wetwork, and what the files euphemistically call ‘honey trapping.’ She’s fast—faster than anyone in this room except possibly Grimm. She has a no-mercy policy. Anyone who wrongs her or anyone under her protection—she eliminates them. The files label her a psychopath.”

“Is she?” Rain asked quietly.

“The files don’t know everything.”

“What about her family?” Rose asked. She was holding Alexander, his tiny fist wrapped around her finger, dark eyes blinking sleepily. Luna was still in Switzerland—three weeks now, learning whatever Aleksandr was teaching her—and Rose missed her with a ferocity that surprised her.

Voss scrolled. “She killed them. At fifteen. Stepfather, two stepbrothers, mother. All hanged. The Morozov Bratva found her standing over the bodies. They took her in instead of executing her.”

“Why?” Scarlett asked. “Why take in a fifteen-year-old who just murdered her entire family?”

“We don’t know. The file doesn’t say.”

“Can you find out?”

“Eventually. But someone buried the details deep. This isn’t standard Bratva obfuscation. This is personal.”

Grimm leaned forward. “What else?”

“Her birth name was Valeria Russo. She doesn’t use it anymore. She goes by Val—or the Valkyrie. No known associates outside the Morozov organization. No known romantic partners. No known weaknesses.”

“Everyone has weaknesses,” Tank rumbled.

“Not according to this file.”

The room went quiet.

Aleksandr’s voice came through on speakerphone. Voss had called him halfway through the search—the old man knew everyone, had connections stretching across continents and decades. “The Valkyrie,” Aleksandr said, his accent thick, voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. “I’ve heard of her. Dmitri Morozov is my cousin—distant, but blood. He took her in when she was a child. Trained her himself. Made her his protégé.”

“Why?” Axle asked.

“Because she reminded him of himself. Because she was broken in a way he recognized. Because she was fifteen years old and had already learned the only person who would protect her was herself.” A pause. “I once saw her work. She doesn’t fight men like me or Tank—she knows better. She’s smart. Destabilizes before attacking. But if you sparred with her, she would either crush you or give you the best fight of your life. Hard to tell which.”

“She carries severed tongues in ziplock bags.”

“She carries justice in whatever form it requires. The tongue was a message. The message was received. What more do you want?”

“I want to know if she’s a threat to my family.”

“She’s only a threat if you wrong her. Don’t wrong her. It’s very simple.”

The call ended.

“Your family is insane,” Sydney said to Cray.

“My family is efficient,” Cray corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Scarlett stood, pacing. “She talked to Doc. Specifically Doc. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Doc said. He’d been quiet since they’d returned, sitting in the corner with his club soda, face unreadable.

“She said she liked you.”

“She said a lot of things.”

“She winked at you.”

“I noticed.”

“She looked at you like—” Scarlett paused, searching. “Like she was seeing something she didn’t expect. Something she wanted.”

Doc didn’t answer.

Grimm watched him with pale, knowing eyes. “You felt it too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. The pull. The recognition. You looked at her and didn’t see a monster. You saw a wound.”

“Grimm—”

“She’s like Rain. Like Rose. Like all the women who came to us broken and sharpened and terrified of being soft. She’s one of us. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

Doc set down his club soda. His hands were steady. His voice was steady. His eyes were not. “She’s killed more people than I’ve operated on. She carries severed body parts in her pocket. She threatened to turn a woman into dog treats.”

“And yet,” Grimm said, “you gave her a six out of ten.”

The corner of Doc’s mouth twitched. “She was sloppy with the kick. Too much wind-up. I’ve seen better.”

“That’s not why you said it.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Why did you say it?”

Doc looked at the door—the door she’d walked out of, the door that still seemed to hold the ghost of her presence. “Because she was waiting for someone to treat her like a person instead of a threat. Because everyone in that bar looked at her like she was a monster. I wanted to see what would happen if I didn’t.”

“And what happened?”

“She grinned. Said she liked me. Winked.” He paused. “It worked.”

“Are you insane?” Hound demanded. “She could have killed you!”

“She didn’t.”

“Shecouldhave!”

“But she didn’t. She looked at me like—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Like I was the first person who’d ever really seen her. And I think... I think maybe I was.”

The room went silent.

Knuckles pushed off the doorframe. “If you’re going to pursue her—”

“I’m not pursuing anything.”

“If you’re going to pursue her,” Knuckles repeated, “just be careful. I dated a woman who slept with her cousin’s husband. That woman is in the hospital. I’m single. Don’t let that happen to you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing. You’re attracted to a woman who solves problems with violence. I was attracted to a woman who created problems with infidelity. We both have terrible taste.”

“Marissa was a mistake,” Sydney said. “Val is... something else.”

“Something terrifying.”

“Something interesting,” Doc corrected.

The brothers exchanged glances.

“Doc,” Axle said, his voice carrying the weight of command, “if you want to find her, we’ll support you. But be careful. She’s not like the others. She’s not a survivor who needs saving. She’s a weapon who needs a reason to stop being one.”

“I know,” Doc said. “I’m not trying to save her.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

Doc thought about the way she’d grinned at him. The way her gray eyes had flickered with something dark and hungry. The way she’d saidI like you, Doclike it was a confession.

“I’m trying to understand her,” he said. “And maybe—” He paused. “—maybe give her a reason to come back.”

Scarlett smiled. It was a knowing smile—the smile of a woman who’d been where Doc was and recognized the terrain. “She will. They always come back.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you looked at her like a person. And from what I saw—” She glanced at the door. “—I don’t think anyone’s done that in a very long time.”