North’s Claim

USA Today Bestselling Author

Saint’s Outlaw MC - Ravell’s Charter

Book 1

Adina D. Grey

Copyright © 2026 by Adina D. Grey

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Credits:

Cover: Sweet 15 Designs

Edits: Lily Luchesi from Partners in Crime

Formatting: Adina D. Grey

To everyone who has ever felt small, unseen, fragile, or not enough⁠—

I see you.

Now get on your fucking feet and rise like the phoenix you are.

No one gets to make you feel less.

Not anymore.

Love,

Adina xx

Chapter 1

North

Ifucking hate weddings.

They're loud and unnecessary. Full of soft people with softer hearts, pretending forever exists. But Rock’s getting married, and if your strongest ally, friend and President of the Black Panthers, marries, you show up, drink a beer, and smile like the world isn’t burning under your boots.

Newtok's nothing but trees and secrets tucked into the north Wisconsin backwoods. I ride to the wedding that same day. The road hums under my tires, long past the point of feeling anything. Tornado and Rook, my enforcer and prospect, flank me; silent, loyal, like a shadow and its echo.

The Black Panthers’ clubhouse is alive when we roll in: motorcycles, music, and the smell of meat and gasoline. Full swing chaos before the wedding takes place. Men shouting, women laughing and beers cracked open.

Tornado claps me on the shoulder, nodding toward the fire pit. “Think they’ll make it to the vows before someone drinks themselves stupid?”

“Not my fucking problem,” I mutter, swinging my leg off the bike.

Inside, it’s noise and smoke and bodies pressed too close. The kind of room that expects you to relax, let go, pretend you belong.

I never pretend.

Rock finds me before I find the bar. Arms wide, smile stretched. “North! About time you showed up. Thought you were gonna ghost me.”

“Would’ve sent flowers,” I grunt. “But Di said she’d punch me if I acted soft.”

“She would’ve framed 'em.” Rock laughs.

Denise appears out of nowhere, beer in hand. She's sharp-tongued, brutal, and probably the only woman in this state I respect. She gives me a nod. “You good, Prez?”

“Always.”

We share a look, quick and mutual. She knows I don’t do parties unless I owe someone.

I grab a beer and post near the back wall, Tornado beside me, Rook bouncing on his heels like a pup waiting for a command. Bullet from the Wolves throws me a two-finger salute. I nod back.

Back in ’32, a group of bikers came together with one goal: clean up their territory from the filth poisoning it. They’d seen their community suffer too long and were done sitting back. They wanted to protect their own and make a change.

That group splintered off from Black Panthers, Rock’s MC, and The Vipers—two clubs so greedy they didn’t care if they burned the whole place down as long as they held the ashes.

When Rock reached out about forming an alliance to kick those bastards out, I was skeptical. We already had our hands full dealing with some Iowa kids playing biker in borrowed cuts pretending to be an MC. But the Black Panthers backed us up, helped us wipe them off the map and that changed everything for me.

I still remember seeing Bullet at the table for the first sit-down. That moment set everything in motion. We agreed, then and there, no stepping into each other’s business. Respect, loyalty, and strength wasn’t just talk.

From that point on, we were untouchable. Hit one of us, and the others rain hell. Iowa new crews tried a few more times. We pushed back harder, took some of their border territory while we were at it.

Now, our safety triangle ain’t just about keeping each other safe, it’s a power structure, a brotherhood and business is booming because of it.

The Black Panthers run the north, Newtok’s theirs. We’ve got the Midwest and parts of Iowa, we handle the gun trafficking and some local businesses. The Wolves own strip clubs, towing, tattoo shops, all fronts. And when things get messy, they clean it up. Violently.

We don’t cross into each other’s turf. Don’t question how the others handle their end. That’s how it works. That’s why it works.

They said weddings bring people together. I call bullshit.

It’s too loud, too warm, too many damn smiles and way too many badges.

I lean back against the post near the edge of the outdoor setup, arms crossed over my cut, watching the guests shuffle and buzz like flies over open beer. The ceremony’s about to start. Sun’s burning through my sunglasses. Some soft string music’s playing, and the chairs creak under civilians trying to play polite in the presence of outlaws.

Torment sidles up next to me, fixing his collar like he gives a damn.

“You clean up well, Prez,” he mutters, grin sharp.

“You talk too much.” I grunt.

“That’s what keeps me young.”

“You’re thirty-five.”

“Exactly. Ancient in club years.” He bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “Try not to scowl the whole time. It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”

“Depends who you ask,” I murmur.

He laughs, low and dirty. But it works. Loosens my jaw a little. He always knows when I’m itching to leave.

Rock’s standing tall by the altar. Black cut cleaned and pressed over a dark shirt. Even his boots look polished, and I know for a fact the bastard spilled whiskey on them this morning. But he’s focused now, eyes locked ahead like the ceremony’s just another mission to execute. Efficient and solid. That’s Rock.

Ashley walks down the aisle, and for a breath, everything goes quiet. I see it in his stance, the way his shoulders shift forward like she’s the only one who exists in that moment.

She’s wearing her cut over white lace. Clean lines. Patch proud. She earned that leather. Bled for it. And stood her ground until both worlds bent enough for her to walk through. I can respect that. Doesn’t mean I want his father, the damn sheriff, and his men sniffing around like they belong.

Club weddings ain’t meant for lawmen. But this one... this one's different. I knew it would be.

Still hate it.

I spot the sheriff watching us from two rows back, stiff as a post, hand near his hip out of habit. We nod once. Mutual understanding: I won’t gut your friends today. Don’t give me a reason tomorrow.

The vows are short. Rock keeps it tight, only man I know who can say I do and sound like he’s giving a command. Ashley chokes up. Just a little. She says her promises like she means every one of them.

Torment leans in again. “Bet she will make her father arrest him the first time he forgets trash day.”

“She’ll just cuff him for fun.”

“Ah, kinky marriage. Solid choice.”

I shake my head once. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he shoots back, grinning.

The kiss ends it. Applause. Whistles. A few roars from the Black Panthers, louder than necessary. Pride, I guess. I stay back, nod once toward Rock when he glances over. That’s all he needs.

Then there’s photos. Cake. Dancing. All the bullshit that drags the day longer than it should. I let the club handle most of it. They drink, flirt, and laugh too hard. Torment makes it his mission to keep dragging me into shit I don’t want to do. Half of them succeed.

Still... the moment stretches into hours. And all I want is for the sun to go down so I can lay my head on a mattress that doesn’t belong to a hotel. Go the fuck to sleep, then wake up and ride home.

But I wait it out. For Rock, for the club and for Ashley, because as much as I hate that badge smell in the air, I see how she’s sewn herself into our world. And when someone earns their place, they deserve the respect of being seen. Even if I’d rather be anywhere else.

Outside, the barbecue’s on fire, literally. Panthers shout, Wolves laugh, someone nearly loses a brow, bottles clink, and music thrums. I light a blunt, lean back, eyes drifting toward the other end of the patio.

That’s when I feel it. A ripple.

There’s a small group crowding near the outdoor bar. Mostly prospects, half-buzzed and too cocky for their cuts. Something about the way they’re grouped, tight, interested, watching too intently, gets my attention.

I stroll over.

K, one of Rock’s prospects, glances at me, all nerves. “One of the Wolves is giving a show. Idiot doesn’t know the rules. Says she’s up for fun, but...”

He doesn’t finish, and I see why. Myka, Wolves’ prospect. Trash in a leather vest. Slouched like he owns the patio, legs spread, grin smug. His girl straddles his lap, hair down, face painted in thick makeup, hands limp like she’s enduring.

Myka’s got one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back like he’s showing off a prize. His other hand grips her hip, bouncing her on his lap like she’s some flashlight for hire.

And she’s not enjoying it.

Not one fucking bit.

I recognize her. The girl from Coldsmash, the Wolves’ charter. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. The one who watched me like she was trying to figure out if I was real.

Her face tilts, our eyes lock, and something ugly and ancient twists inside me. That flutter again. The one I don’t admit to. The one I kill the moment it moved the first time, the second and even now. I walk to the bar, slow, and grab another beer. Pretend nothing’s wrong. Pretend I’m not picturing what I’d do if it were one of mine degrading a woman like that.

“Prez,” Myka calls out, his grin widening. “You made it just in time. Want a turn?”

I don’t respond.

She doesn’t move. Just waits, rigid, like prey. Her shoulders are tight. Her soul’s hanging by a thread.

Myka chuckles. “I’m keeping her warm for you.”

I walk up to them without rushing, without warning, even as a storm gathers inside me. The fury is cold and surgical, the kind of rage that doesn’t explode but tightens, growing quieter the stronger it becomes.

Her knees are bruised, her lips swollen, her eyes empty.

I reach out and touch her leg and she flinches like I struck her.

Myka laughs. “Told you. Nyxa loves the attention.”

My hand moves slowly, sliding up her thigh. She’s soft and shaking. Her breath catches in her throat, held tight behind bitten lips. Still, she doesn’t stop me. She wants to speak but she doesn’t.

I press my palm flat against her inner thigh, warm skin, tensed muscle, and ease it higher. She parts for me without a word, shame staining her cheeks as her eyes flicker back to mine.

I see that crack in her armor before shutting her eyes closed.

The war behind her silence.

She’s not asking for pleasure. She’s asking to feel something other than pain.

My fingers brush her clit through the slick, soaked mess Myka left behind and her body jerks. Not from surprise, but from the betrayal of it. Even now, after what he did, she can still feel this. Want this. Need this.

My fingertips move in tight, slow circles. Nothing rushed or rough. She gasps quietly as her thighs tense and tremble.

Torment’s watching us from across the room. I can feel his grin like a punch between the ribs but he won’t say shit.

This isn’t about sex. Not for me or for her.

This is a reclamation of her body.

Of control and dignity buried in blood and bruises.

She parts her lips in a whisper I won’t let her say. I curl two fingers against her to ground her.

To remind her she’s still here. Still alive. Still hers.

She comes in silence. Quiet. Barely a gasp. Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed while a tear slips from the corner of her eye.

I wipe it with my thumb.

Then I pull my hand away and exhale through my nose, slow. Deliberate.

I’m hard.

“You’re still a kid.” I chuckle, voice low but cutting. “Too focused on your own finish to notice she ain’t got there first.”

The laughter hits like gunfire, sharp, brutal, and true.

That smug edge he always wears slips fast. He stands. Chair scrapes back hard enough to squeal and Nyxa jolts, thrown off balance by the sudden movement, her body teetering forward. She nearly crashes to the ground.

I’m already moving. My hand grips her waist before she hits the floor, steadying her, pulling her behind me in the same breath.

Myka’s eyes snap to mine, full of heat, but no control. He’s all bark. All nerves under that ego.

“You forget where you are?” I ask, calm as death.

Tornado’s suddenly at my back.

Solid. Still. Like a wall that can end a man before he breathes wrong. Rook’s on the other side, jaw is locked, arms crossed tight over his chest, waiting, watching.

No one speaks.

Myka’s chest heaves, lips twitching like he's biting back something stupid.

I tilt my head, just slightly. “Sit. Down.”

It’s not a suggestion.

Myka hesitates. Just long enough to feel the weight of every patched gaze on him.

“Problem?” Bullet’s voice cuts through the haze. He’s flanked by Brick and another Panther.

I meet Myka’s cold and hollow eyes. “Do we have a problem?”

Myka clenches his jaw. But his silence is drenched in shame. He storms off, snapping at Nyxa like she’s an afterthought.

She flinches and follows.

She always fucking follows, and that’s the part that gnaws at me.

I don’t move. Don’t let the heat twisting in my gut show. Not here. Not now.

“That went well,” Bullet mutters, stepping beside me with a glass of something expensive and unnecessarily fruity.

I snort. “Didn’t peg Rock for a pineapple whiskey kind of guy.”

“He ain’t. That’s Ashley’s doing. Swear she’s trying to civilize the whole damn alliance one drink at a time.”

Tornado chuckles behind us. “Next time she brings out mimosas, I’m leaving.”

“Speak for yourself,” Torment, his VP, grins, raising a glass. “I’ll take champagne if it comes with her sister’s number.”

“She doesn’t have a sister,” Rook deadpans.

Torment winks. “Then I’ll volunteer to be adopted.”

We gather near the fire pit just outside the reception tent, the night creeping in soft and warm. The high ranks from all three MCs drift closer, instinct pulling us together even without a call.

Rock raises his glass, hand wrapped around Ashley’s waist. She’s glowing. He’s trying not to show it, but I see the pride leaking through. Man’s made of iron and rules, but for her, he softens at the edges.

“To family,” he starts, loud enough to cut through the noise.

“To fire and steel,” Bullet follows, lifting his glass.

“To brothers who bleed but don’t break,” I say, raising mine last.

Glasses clink. No cheers. Just a quiet, weighty silence that means something when it’s earned.

Di slips between Rook and Tornado with a sly smirk. “Did I miss the heartfelt moment? Or are you all still trying to figure out how to toast without crying?”

“Watch it, sweetheart,” I murmur. “You’ll make Torment emotional. Then he starts hugging people.”

“That was once,” he grumbles. “And I was wasted.”

“You kissed Brick’s head and called him your soulmate.”

“You're still my soulmate, dumbass,” Brick yells from across the yard.

Everyone laughs.

Even me.

I glance toward the yard. Myka’s nowhere to be seen. So is she.

It settles heavy in my gut. Something about the way she looked at me. About the way she didn’t look back.

I down what’s left in my glass.

“Alright,” I say, low. “I’m done socializing.”

“You mean pretending to be human?” Bullet teases.

“Exactly.”

I nod once to Rock. He nods back. Then I walk. Past the fire. Past the crowd. And it’s then when I see her again.

Myka barks; someone wraps a hand around her wrist and she flinches.

I move fast. “You okay?”

“She’s fine. Right, baby?” Myka tries to puff up.

She doesn’t answer.

“Did he hit you?” I ask, stepping close. Voice low. Dangerous.

Her lips twitch and her eyes shine.

“Answer him.” Myka growls.

She doesn't. Her silence is the loudest scream I’ve ever heard.

Tornado steps in. “Not here, Prez.”

“Get Bullet. Now.”

Di slides up beside me. “Damn North, Rock will kick your ass.” She scans the party. “Follow me.”

More Panthers move closer while she leads us to a back room.

Since Myka doesn’t move I grab him by his vest and shove him through the door. He trips, crashing into a table. Furniture screams against the floor. Voices rise behind us.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls.

Bullet storms in, four men with him. Eyes wide, hands twitching near weapons. “What the hell, North?”

“You need to put a leash on your dog and teach him the rules.”

His gaze slides past me. “The fuck’d he do now?”

“Nothing, Prez.”

But my eyes are on Nyxa. She’s folding into herself, small, like she’s trying to disappear. Like if she closes her eyes hard enough, she just might.

I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “She claimed?”

“What?” Bullet snaps his head to me.

“Is she taken? Can anyone from your club say she’s theirs?”

Bullet looks to Myka.

Nothing.

Coward.

“No,” Bullet says. “Not that I know.”

“She was drugged. Paraded around. Fucked in front of everyone like some party favor, and he wanted others to have a turn. At Rock’s goddamn wedding.” I pause, letting it sink in. “She’s a candy, fine. But your guy broke every rule in the book. Made you look like a joke in front of every single prospect out there.”

“Fuck,” Bullet exhales. Fury simmering just under the surface. I’ve seen him snap over less. Kill for less. Then his eyes meet mine. “You want her?”

The fucking flutter hits again. I look at Nyxa. “You want to come with me?”

Nyxa lifts her head and then it happens.

She speaks.

“Yes.”

One word. Fragile. Defiant. Everything.

“Do you allow her to come?”

Bullet nods, as does his brothers. Majority decides, which means it’s done.

I take off my cut. Drape it over her shoulders. She flinches again. It gets on my nerves but if I lose my shit, I will have more than a problem.

Myka lunges. Desperate. Foolish. “You ain’t going anywhere.”

My hand’s already on my weapon but no one moves.

Because no one fucking cares if the fucker dies.

Bullet steps in and slams a punch square into his jaw. “Shut the fuck up.” The room stills. The tension is thick. “We’ll handle this at church, and you’ll be wishin’ he’d ended you when he had the chance. You so much as blink wrong today… and Rock’ll be the one puttin’ you in the ground.”

Myka stares, shaking, raging.

“She’s mine now,” I say to make sure he gets it. Not soft. Not tender.

Final.

And every man in this room knows, I don’t lose what I claim.

Chapter 2

Nyxa

The cut is heavy, warm, and rough on my shoulders. His scent clings to it, smoke, leather, that settles into my skin and makes me feel like, for the first time in years, I’m not prey.

I breathe in deep. My lungs stretch wider than they’ve dared to in months. It's not just air. It’s a certain kind of quiet. Like silence after a storm.

North didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He dropped his vest on me like a shield and stepped away like he hadn’t just made the whole damn room stop breathing.

Now, every eye is on us. On me.

My skin crawls under their stares. Myka taught me what happens when men stare too long. When they smile or whisper.

I keep my head low, steps soft behind him. North moves like a loaded gun, silent, coiled, dangerous. He doesn’t look back, but I know he feels me there. Knows I’m following.

But this time... it feels different.

His shoulders are tense. Hands curled at his sides. He’s walking like he’s holding back from tearing something apart. Or someone.

And that terrifies me.

What if I’m next?

Myka always blamed me when he was embarrassed. When he got shown up. Even if I hadn’t said a word. Especially when I hadn’t.

When North halts, I don’t stop in time. I bump into his back, and I catch my breath.

He exhales sharp through his nose.

I freeze.

Then he turns.

His eyes, cold, grey, unreadable, land on me like a brand. I brace for a blow that doesn’t come.

“Keep your head up,” he says. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Now go get your shit.”

The words hit harder than they should. Shame. He says I shouldn’t have it. But I’ve been drowning in it for years. It clings to me like Myka’s sweat.

I swallow and my hands start to shake.

He watches me too closely. Sees more than he should. Then his eyes flick to the side.

“Di,” he calls. “Walk with her.”

“Hey, sunshine. Let’s go get your things.” Denise’s voice cuts in, softer than I expected.

Sunshine. No one’s called me that before.

We walk in silence. My heels crunch against gravel. My legs feel hollow, like they’re made of glass. I’m not sure I can trust them.

“He doesn’t do that for just anyone,” Denise says as we near the bungalow. “North. He doesn’t… claim things he doesn’t mean to keep.”

“Probably just needed to make a point,” I murmur.

She tilts her head. “Maybe. But I think the point was for him.”

Inside the room I shared with Myka, it smells like sweat and stale beer. The walls feel too close. The bed makes my stomach twist.

I grab the only things that are mine: a bag of clothes, my toothbrush, and the little cash I kept hidden in the back of the drawer. Then I stop, look around the room, and leave everything there.

Denise stands near the doorway. Watching. “You might wanna change,” she says gently. “North’s taking you downtown. Riding in that skirt might get someone killed.”

I glance down. Right. Myka’s favorite. Tight, short, black.

I dig through the bag. Leggings and a worn, soft tee. My fingers fumble and the shakes are worse now. The drugs are fading. My mind is clearer than it’s been in days. Clear enough to remember.

How did he know I was high? That I’d been used. That Myka never… My face burns because I did. With North.

One touch. One small, almost cruel gesture. And I came so hard it knocked the air from my lungs. I shouldn’t think about that. It was about power. Not pleasure. Right?

Denise hands me a folded piece of paper. “My private number. Use it if you need to.”

My fingers tremble as I take it. I haven’t had a phone in so long, I forget what freedom feels like.

“Thanks,” I whisper. It’s all I can give.

She nods. “You’re not alone, Nyxa. Even if it feels like it.”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t believe her. I’m worth nothing and my life is just a cruel joke.

A knock makes me freeze. Everything inside me tenses. My breath stops. Shit, if Myka gets in here it’d end so bad for me.

“That’ll be him,” Denise says quietly. “I’ll wait outside.”

I change fast. Braid my hair. Grab my toothbrush. The only thing that’s just mine.

I reach for North’s cut, hesitate, then press it to my face and breathe in. Safety shouldn’t smell like this. But it does. I drape it over my arm, not my shoulders. It’s not where it belongs. It’s not mine.

I step out and slam into him.

Again.

North exhales through his nose. The same way Myka did before he hit me.

“Sorry,” I whisper, head down. I hold out the cut. “Here.”

He doesn’t move. Not until I lift my eyes. His gaze is molten. Quiet rage. Not at me, I hope. He takes the cut, then places it right back over my shoulders. “You got everything you need?” he asks.

I lift my toothbrush.

He huffs something that might be a laugh. “Let’s go.” He grabs my hand. His skin is warm. Rough. I follow. Like always. But this time, I don’t feel like I’m walking into hell.

The bikes wait. Tornado and Rook are already on theirs. North straddles his and hands me a helmet.

I hesitate.

Myka hated when I touched him. Told me I didn’t deserve to be seen on his bike. That I made him look weak.

North doesn’t say a word. He waits.

I climb on. Careful and distant. I don’t wrap my arms around him. I wouldn’t dare.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

The engine growls to life. The vibration climbs through my thighs, into my ribs, up my spine. He rides fast. Like something’s chasing us. Maybe it is.

The hotel we stop at is quiet, clean and normal. I don’t trust it. He gets the room key without fuss. Leads me upstairs and opens the door.

One bed.

I freeze.

“I need to make a call,” he says, already stepping out. “Make yourself at home. We leave in the morning.”

The door shuts.

And I dash to the bathroom right to the sink before vomiting my soul out. Everything spills out, acid and fear and memories.

I cry. Silently. On my knees. Until my ribs hurt. Until the only thing left is shaking. Then, I get in the shower. Let the water burn me clean. Tears mix with steam. I scrub hard like I can erase the past. Like I can start over. But I’m not a fool.

When I step out, a t-shirt waits on the counter.

His.

I pull it on. It hangs low on my thighs. Smells like him. And god it calms me.

I slowly walk out.

North’s there, sitting on the bed. Hands tight in front of him like he’s holding back a war. He looks up, meets my eyes and I shrink.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

He blinks. “For what?”

I gesture to the shirt. “For using this.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “I gave it to you. Didn’t want that fucker’s scent anywhere near me.”

He stands, paces once, then stops. Just before leaving, he throws over his shoulder, “I need to hear your voice.”

Chapter 3

North

She shuts the door like she’s afraid it might bite her.

And I just stand there.

Room’s quiet except for the faint hum of traffic outside. I hear the water running. Heavy. Relentless.

She’s in there, washing something off.

Him, maybe. The shame. Or whatever it is she thinks she still carries.

I rub both hands down my face, then I hear it, retching. Violent.

She’s puking.

I freeze.

Every instinct tells me to go in there, but I force myself to stay rooted. If I touch that door, if I even knock, I’ll cross a line.

So I move.

March out to the balcony. The air out here bites colder than I expect, like even the night’s pissed off.

I pull out my phone and call Cutter.

He picks up after the first ring. “You finally let someone bleed out?”

“Need a read on something,” I growl. “Got a girl. Been used, maybe drugged. Don’t know what the fuck they gave her.”

Cutter sighs, all sharp and dry. “I’m not psychic, North. If you don’t know what the bastard pumped into her, I sure as shit can’t guess.”

“You’ve got more tools than I do, Doc. Give me something.”

“She’s shaking? Throwing up? Paranoid?”

“Yeah, all.”

“Could be meth. Could be laced something. Could be fear.”

I grit my teeth. The urge to punch through the railing builds by the second. “Would charcoal help?”

“Yeah, activated charcoal won’t hurt. It’s not a miracle fix, but better than nothing. Get her tested when you bring her in.”

“We’ll be at the hood tomorrow. Be ready.”

I hang up before he can say more. My pulse is a steady, thrumming drumbeat of rage.

I shoot a message to my tech team. Need a full background check on Nyxa. Birth records. Last known address. Arrests. The works. I don’t care how deep they dig, I want to know who she is, who she was, and every bastard who’s touched her. I know she’s not underage, Bullet wouldn’t allow that shit.

She looks early twenties at least, but without an ID? No wallet, no phone, no clothes, only a damn toothbrush. No one lives like that unless they’re running or hiding something worse. The thought makes my gut twist. I want to storm out, drive straight to Zane’s, and beat Myka into the asphalt until he’s unrecognizable.

Instead I march back inside. The water’s still running. Through the frosted glass, I see her. Back turned. Her frame looks even smaller under the stream. Bruises line her skin like ghosts. I can barely breathe. I set the shirt on the counter and turn to leave. That’s when I hear a sob. It’s muffled by the water but sharp enough to cut through bone. I stop just for a breath. The flutter in my chest punches me dead center. But I move. I fucking move. Because if I stay, I’ll break something, and it won’t be the wall.

I sit on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched so hard it aches, and grab my phone and shoot a text to Rook:

Bring me activated charcoal. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Hairbrush. T-shirt, leggings. Water. Crackers and Gatorade. First aid. Now.

He replies instantly:

On it, Prez.

I toss the phone down, my jaw tight. She doesn’t need another man with fists. She needs someone who listens, and god help me—I don’t know how to be that man.

She steps out. Damp. Pale. Barefoot in my shirt and stops when she sees me. “Sorry,” she whispers.

“For what?”

She fingers the hem of the shirt. “For using this.”

My jaw tightens. “I gave it to you. Didn’t want that fucker’s scent anywhere near me.”

She blinks like she doesn’t understand why I’d care.

I stand. Move past her. Right before I reach the door, I throw over my shoulder, “I need to hear your voice.” Then I step into the bathroom, shut the door, and finally let myself breathe. Try to clear my head. But it’s fucking useless.

The water keeps running; so do the thoughts.

Who the hell is she? What did Myka do to her? How long has this been going on? Why didn’t anyone stop him?

Why didn’t I stop him the first time I saw her?

My dick aches under my jeans. I’m still hard. Still wired from that moment, when she came on my fingers like she’d never felt it before. I can’t stop seeing her face.

I fist myself, hard and fast. Angry. Frustrated. Trying to drain it out of me before it turns into something I can’t leash. The tingling comes faster than I thought, and I come with a growl. My heart’s pounding, my brain gets foggy and quiet for once. Until reality crashes on me. What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s in my room. Wearing my shirt. Hiding from a man who nearly broke her.

When I walk back into the room, she's not in bed. She’s in the goddamn chair, curled up like the world’s on fire and she’s waiting for it to eat her next. Knees to her chest, face turned toward the window, eyes vacant like she’s already halfway out of this place.

My jaw clenches so tight it aches.

I swallow the curse building in my throat and just watch her shoulders rise and fall, shaky, uneven. She could be in the bed. She should be in the fucking bed. But instead, she picked the hardest, coldest corner of the room like she didn’t deserve anything softer.

Rage flares behind my ribs, thick and hot. I clear my throat to keep it from spilling out. “Did you eat anything?”

She jolts like I just fired a gun beside her head. Jumps up so fast the chair shrieks across the floor.

The way she flinches from my voice makes my stomach twist. Because I’ve seen that exact reaction before. In dogs left too long in chains.

I pull out my phone, thumbs stabbing the screen.

Add food to that list. Now.

Few minutes later, there’s a knock. Rook stands there, smug as hell like he just watched a damn soap opera through the door.

I rip the bags from his hand and slam the door shut.

Inside, I drop a bag on the table and the other one on the chair, pull out two bottles of water, two Gatorades, and a bunch of wrapped food. But I don’t touch the food yet.

I grab the glass with the black sludge and set it in front of her.

“Drink it. Now.”

She looks at the glass like it’s death in a cup. Then up at me. Eyes wide. Red.

“It’ll flush that shit out before it settles in your blood,” I say, tone clipped.

She doesn’t argue or speak. Just nods once, jerky.

She takes the glass in both hands and tips it back. The moment it hits her tongue, her face twists. She chokes it down more than half.

Her breathing stutters. Then spikes. I can see she tries to resist.

One second she’s still, the next she bolts for the bathroom. This time I follow. She hits the toilet just in time, retching charcoal and bile like her body’s trying to purge every bad choice she’s ever made. I kneel behind her. Pull her hair back. My hand trembles, but I keep it steady. She shakes. Fuck, she’s ice cold. I flush the toilet, press a palm gently to her spine. Her breath hitches.

“You’re okay,” I murmur. “Just breathe.”

She tries. Inhales too fast, then slower. I help her up but her knees wobble. The second she’s standing, she tenses all over like I’m going to hit her for being weak. I back away and give her space.

“Come on,” I say, quieter. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

She nods, hollow. We shuffle back into the room. I grab a bottle of water, twist the cap, and hand it to her.

She takes it with both hands like it might break. “Thank you,” she whispers. Her voice is fragile but it cuts deeper than any scream ever could. And I hate how fucking much it wrecks me.

I grab one of the wrapped sandwiches, turkey or chicken or some other shit I didn’t care enough to check, and rip it open. I toss the other toward her side of the bed. She flinches again. Like I just threw a damn brick at her. I swallow the growl climbing my throat. Sit down in the chair across from her.

“Eat,” I order. “All of it.”

She hesitates, fingers trembling as they unwrap the sandwich. She glances up at me like she’s waiting for permission, or a slap. Maybe both. I force my voice to soften. Barely.

“You don’t get to starve. Not in my fucking care.”

She brings it to her mouth slowly, takes a bite. It’s small. Careful. Like she’s trying not to wake something feral inside herself. I watch her chew. Swallow. She closes her eyes like she’s trying not to cry.

I look away. Give her the privacy of silence for a moment but my hands curl into fists on my knees. Because watching her eat like she’s scared I’ll punish her for it makes something in my chest coil tight. I lean forward, elbows to thighs, and rake my fingers through my hair. “No one should’ve ever made you scared to eat.”

She doesn’t respond. Just keeps chewing slowly, eyes focused on the corner of the room.

I take a breath. Try to keep my rage where it belongs.

Chapter 4

Nyxa

Waking up is a pain.

My throat burns, my head throbs like someone cracked it open and stitched it wrong, and my chest feels like it’s caving in. Every single muscle screams at me. Too tight and stiff. Like I ran from demons in my sleep.

But worse than the pain is the clarity. I’m not in the bungalow. Not even on that thin, stained mattress with Myka's weight holding me down. I’m in a bed with soft sheets, pillows and I’m not alone.

I sit up fast, heart launching into my throat, only to see him.

North is stretched out beside me, over the covers. His arms crossed, boots still on. His chest rising slow and deep like nothing in the world could shake him.

That’s when it comes rushing back.

Last night, Myka’s grip and the way North stepped in, cool, composed, terrifying. Then the hotel, the chair, and the drink. The vomiting. Him holding my hair back like I wasn’t filth. Him watching me eat like it mattered. Like I mattered. No one’s ever done that. Not without wanting something in return. But this… This feels different.

Still, I can’t let myself believe it. Can’t believe he cared. He probably just didn’t want the hassle. Didn’t want me causing a scene on the ride back to his place. I’m sure that’s all it was.

Still…

The way he looked at me. The way his voice softened just enough to land, not bruise. Something stirs in my chest. Hope, maybe. Stupid. Dangerous. I shake my head like I can toss it out and glance at him again.

His chest is broad. Solid. His arms rest by his sides, ink snaking up thick muscle and disappearing into the sleeves of his tee. There’s a scar by his collarbone: old, faded, but still brutal.

I stare longer than I should. Wonder what that scar cost him. What part of his soul it took. I shouldn't care, but I do. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all. I lean forward, slow and careful, and gently drape the blanket over him.

Click.

The cold sound of metal and death.

I stumble back, heart in my throat.

North jerks up, one hand gripping the gun he must’ve had tucked near his ribs. His eyes blaze as they lock on me, wild and hard. “Don’t get sneaky around a biker, sweetheart,” he growls, voice like gravel and warning. “We don’t think twice before we shoot. You should know that.”

I nod too fast, backing into the dresser. My hands are shaking, knees weak. “I—I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—I was just…”

He curses again, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to calm himself but the damage is already done.

My breath gets shallow, heart pounding too fast. I should be used to this. Having a weapon pointed at me isn’t new. Myka used to do it all the time. He used to press the barrel to my temple, push me up against the wall, and fuck me like I was nothing. Sometimes I hoped he’d just pull the trigger. End it. Let me go. Other times he’d use it to fuck me, just another toy to control me.

I can’t breathe; my lungs won’t open. My chest tightens and the room blurs. My legs give out. The rustling in the room grows louder but distant, like it’s underwater. Then I feel arms, strong, steady, scoop me up before I hit the floor.

North’s voice cuts through the noise sharp and stern. “Breathe. Come on.”

I try. I really do. But everything inside me is crashing.

“Open your eyes. That’s it.”

Something in me listens. I blink, slow and heavy. His face comes into focus. Faint sunlight slices through the curtains behind him, cutting across his jaw.

This closeness doesn’t bother me. Doesn’t scare me. So I let go. Just for a second.

He mutters another curse and moves. Still holding me, he walks and then splashes cold water on my face.

The shock of it stuns me. I inhale hard and the oxygen burns.

“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “Back with me.”

I nod, but it’s weak. Shame clings to my skin like sweat.

“What happened?” he asks.

I shake my head.

He doesn’t push. Just sighs like he knows I’m lying.

North helps me stand again, steadies me, and this time I hold on. Only for a second.

When we go back into the room, I notice the tray on the side table. There’s coffee, juice, more food than I can name. He’s already munching on the sandwich I left untouched last night.

The guilt curls in my stomach like poison. He shouldn’t be taking care of me. Not like this, but he is. I glance down. I’m still in his shirt. I should feel dirty. Like I owe him something, but he hasn’t asked for anything. Not a touch or a smile. That scares me more than anything. Because men like North aren’t supposed to care. Not about girls like me.

Once we check out, the weight returns. It presses down on my shoulders the second I step into the morning sun.

He’s already at the bike.

Leather, chrome, black steel. It looks as unforgiving as the man straddling it. North turns, spots me, and jerks his chin. I walk to him, my legs slower than I want them to be. They don’t listen to me anymore. Not fully. He reaches for my hand and pulls me closer.

“I need to know you’re conscious and with me,” he says, rough but steady. “Keep your hands on me. Always.”

I nod, swallowing. “Okay.”

He watches my eyes for a moment longer, then swings a leg over the seat and waits.

I climb on behind him. Hesitate. Then wrap my arms around his waist. His body is solid. Heat radiates through my palms where they rest on his stomach.

The engine roars to life, and the vibration rolls through me. I tense for a second, instinct flaring, but North doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. So I breathe.

We ride and the wind whips against my cheeks, my hair pulling free from its braid. I watch the road blur beneath us, mile after mile, like we’re leaving pieces of hell behind with every turn of the tires.

“Can we stop?” About an hour later, I ask, my voice barely above the wind.

He hears it and pulls into a gas station parking lot without a word.

“Can I…”

He lowers his sunglasses daring me to continue. I get the message, and rush to the bathroom. My bladder thanks me. After washing my hands I head out. Rook is standing by the door and I almost shout. He grins and shakes his head while I walk back to North’s bike. He’s not there. I peer around and see him coming back with another bottle of Gatorade.

“Here. Drink.”

I stare at the bottle like it’s punishment. I hate the taste. Hate the way it clings to my tongue, but I drink. Because he asked. Because I don’t want to be a problem. Because something in me needs to prove I’m not broken beyond repair.

When we ride again, something shifts. I settle closer. My arms tighten around him and this time, I rest my cheek against his back. Just under his shoulder blades. He smells like leather, smoke, and salt. I breathe it in and let the rhythm of the road lull me into a strange kind of peace. It’s not safety, but it’s the closest I’ve ever felt.

Chapter 5

North

The sun’s dipping low when we hit the edge of the property.

Nyxa’s head rests against my back, light and steady, but the second the private gate buzzes open without us stopping, she lifts it, and I feel her shift.

Her first time seeing the compound.

The road is long, flanked by pines and silence. Then the clubhouse comes into view: garage to the right, Cutter’s place tucked just behind the main building, and the flag flying high on the pole: Saint’s MC.

We roll through slowly. Heads turn. A few of the guys peer from the porch. Some nudge each other. Curious, interested but I ignore them. I’m too fucking tired for questions. Even though we stopped a few times to get her hydrated and keep her upright, I feel the weight of every mile in my bones.

I pull straight to Cutter’s door and kill the engine.

The second the bike dies, the front door swings open.

Cutter steps out, beer in hand, wearing that lazy-ass grin he always has when he’s off-duty. “Look who finally dragged his ass home.”

I swing my leg off and stretch my back. “Didn’t miss you.”

He nods to Nyxa as she carefully dismounts. “She yours?”

“Cutter,” I warn. “This is Nyxa. She needs you to run the works. Now.”

Nyxa blinks, unsure. I turn to her, voice a touch lower. “He’s our doc. Don’t let the beer fool you. He knows what he’s doing.”

She goes pale but nods.

Cutter tips his bottle toward her. “I’m the guy who pokes and prods. Nothing you can’t handle. Promise.”

She swallows hard and glances at me.

“You’ll be fine,” I say. “Just let him check you out.”

Cutter arches a brow. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day you brought a woman to my door.”

I glare at him. “Mind your fucking business.”

He laughs, stepping back to let her in. “Alright, alright. Come on, sweetheart. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

She follows him with hesitation in every step and I watch her go, jaw tight. I should walk away but I don’t, I follow her in.

Cutter gestures to the cot inside the exam room. “Sit. I’ll make it quick.”

Nyxa lowers herself slowly, her hands folded tight in her lap.

He runs through vitals first, blood pressure, pulse, light in her eyes. Her skin’s clammy. Color’s off. Still dehydrated.

Then the blood draw.

She flinches but doesn’t complain. Just watches the vial fill with red.

Cutter loads it into the testing machine behind him, the one we had installed last year when I enforced monthly checkups. Everyone—members and club girls. I’m not risking the club’s health because one dumbass couldn’t wrap it up.

Just as Cutter’s adjusting the settings, the door nudges open.

Boot trots in. Her tail sways like she owns the place. Nyxa startles when the dog walks right up to her, sniffs her leggings, and then rests her head gently on her knee.

Nyxa’s hand moves slowly, tentatively. But she pets her and fuck me if that isn’t the first real smile I’ve seen on her.

Cutter watches, something easing in his shoulders. “She’s got good taste.” Then he starts asking questions. “When’s the last time you were tested?”

Nyxa hesitates. “I… I don’t know. Maybe… a year? Myka said I didn’t need to. I was only with him. And a few… others. From Wolves.”

She goes quiet.

Cutter looks at me.

I give him a single nod.

He knows. We both know what that means. They didn’t protect her. Not physically or medically.

Cutter doesn’t push. “Alright. We’ll have answers soon.”

I don’t move. Just lean against the wall with my arms crossed and eyes locked on her. She notices and lowers her gaze again.

Boot nudges her leg, and she strokes her fur absently.

Cutter flips a switch and the machine starts humming. “You’ll have results in twenty. In the meantime, let her sit.”

“She needs a meal,” I mutter.

“And a week of sleep,” Cutter replies, cracking open another beer.

I say nothing, but my jaw tics because he’s right and it pisses me off that I can’t fix it with a gun.

The door creaks open again, and Iron and Soul step in. Iron barely has both boots inside when Nyxa jolts like someone stuck a live wire in her. Her eyes dart toward the exit. The kind of look you give when you don’t know whether to run or drop to your knees.

The fuck is happening? It’s known bikers are loud as hell, and they didn’t even slam the door.

She looks shaken. Pale again. And that twitch in her hands doesn’t go unnoticed. My men see it too.

Soul swaggers in with a smirk, raising his brow at the tension thick in the air. He eyes me, then her.

“Boss,” Iron murmurs first. “Ran the name Nyxa like you asked. Nothing.”

My jaw locks. I stare at Nyxa, now seated beside Cutter, her hand stiff on Boot’s head.

“Nyxa.” She flinches, then stands. Snaps upright like she was trained to. I take a step closer, voice even. “What’s your full name?”

She hesitates. Her lips part. “Elizabeth Nyxa Monterall.”

Soul’s already pulling out his phone, punching in a message to our tech team.

I raise a brow, still not satisfied. “Louder.”

She swallows. “Elizabeth Nyxa Monterall,” she repeats, voice shaking.

And then, like clockwork, Cutter curses from the other side of the room. “Fuck.”

I whip my head toward him. “What now?”

He doesn’t look up, just glares at the monitor. “She was dosed with a cocktail. GHB, probably laced with ketamine. A real special mix to keep someone pliant. It’s a smart blend for control. Dangerous as fuck in the wrong hands.”

My blood goes cold, then hot, and I step forward clenching my fists. “What the fuck do we do now?”

Cutter finally meets my eyes. “She’s not overdosing, but her system’s worn down. We’ll flush it out. Hydration and vitamins. Mostly she needs rest, clean food, and time.”

I look at her. She looks at the floor.

“How long’s he been doing this to you?” Cutter asks her.

Her lips part, then close again. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

I don’t buy it, but I don’t press.

Her silence says enough.

Chapter 6

Nyxa

Idon't belong here.

The thought won’t stop repeating as North pulls up the long private driveway that winds toward his place inside the compound. Everything feels too still. Too clean. Too his.

The bike slows to a crawl, tires crunching on gravel. My arms are still wrapped around his waist, but my body’s gone stiff again.

Beyond the fence is a beautiful yard, grass that’s actually green, trimmed hedges, a wide patio that looks like it belongs in one of those lifestyle magazines I used to flip through in waiting rooms. There’s even a garage. A real garage. And a sleek black car parked in front of it that looks more expensive than anything I’ve ever touched.

My stomach twists.

He cuts the engine, and I ease off the bike, legs wobbly from the ride and the nerves crawling under my skin.

“This way,” he says, already striding to the door.

I follow.

He unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping inside like he owns the world.

The scent hits me first. His: leather, and cedar. It clings to the air and sinks into the walls. Makes the whole place feel like an extension of him. We step into a small hallway that opens up into the living room, and I catch my breath.

The space is open, warm. Lived in, but spotless.

A massive sectional couch dominates the living room, placed perfectly in front of a fireplace with a wide flat-screen mounted above it. The mantle is bare, save for a lighter and a small bowl of keys. Across from it, a kitchen gleams with polished counters and untouched appliances. Stainless steel, matte black. Everything is sharp and clean. It looks barely used. Like he never stays long enough to cook. Maybe he doesn’t. I’ve never even seen a stove that fancy in real life.

“Don’t stop there,” he says without turning around. “Come on.”

I follow quietly as he walks through the house, motioning at rooms like it’s nothing.

“Bathroom,” he grunts, pointing left. “Spare room. Another room—don’t open that door. Master’s down here. Laundry’s off the kitchen. Pantry next to it.”

It’s more space than I’ve ever seen in one place. More than I ever imagined having. Myka’s apartment was one room. A mattress, a half-broken fridge, a sink that never worked right. The walls were thin, the neighbors worse. I was lucky to have clean clothes, let alone a bed that didn’t stink of mold.

Here, every surface shines. The air smells fresh. Not a single thing is out of place. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t deserve to be here. My fingers curl tighter around the strap of the small bag they gave me. North’s jacket is still draped over my shoulders, the only thing that makes me feel tethered to anything.

He stops in the hallway and glances over his shoulder. “You’ll stay here until I figure out what’s next.”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He stares for a second longer, then keeps walking.

I’m frozen in the middle of his hallway, drowning in the silence he left behind. I’ve never felt more like a ghost in my life and somehow, this house, this beautiful, perfect house, makes it worse. Because for the first time in forever, I feel what I’ve missed.

What I’ve never had, and it hurts so damn bad.

His voice snaps through the silence. “You hungry?”

I blink, startled out of my spiraling thoughts. My gut clenches, not from hunger, but shame.

“No,” I murmur, shaking my head.

The low growl that rumbles from his chest makes my breath catch. My back instinctively presses to the nearest wall, a reflex I can’t kill.

He notices and turns slowly, gaze cold but unreadable. “Rule one: you don’t lie to me. Ever.”

My cheeks burn, but I keep my eyes low.

“Rule two: speak up. I’m not a fuckin’ mind reader. If you’re hurting, sick, tired, I want to hear it. Got it?”

I nod.

“Say it.”

“Got it,” I whisper.

His jaw ticks. “Louder.”

“Got it,” I say again, stronger this time.

“Rule three: get used to me barking. I talk loud, I move fast. But I won’t lay a hand on you. Ever. You flinch at me again, and I’ll start yelling just to prove the point.”

My heart thuds. I want to believe him but Myka shoving me through a wall was a routine.

“Around here,” North continues, stepping closer but not enough to touch, “women are part of the family. All of them.”

My mouth goes dry. I know what Myka told me. The women they love might be safe, but candies? Candies are free game.

“You take care of yourself here: eat, speak, move. The house is yours as much as mine. You want music? Play it. You want to clean, fine. You want to sleep? Do it. But you don’t hide in corners. Not in my home.”

I feel smaller by the second. Like a kid being handed a gift she doesn't understand.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can walk anywhere around the block, the clubhouse, whatever. But don’t leave the hood. Not without a patched member. Ravell’s safe, but I’m not gonna hunt for you through alleys because you got turned around.”

Fear slices down my spine. Even now, even here, I’m not safe to walk alone but something in his tone, it’s not about locking me in. It’s about keeping me in one piece.

His phone buzzes. He checks the screen, face tightens, and without another word, he walks out the door.

And I’m alone again, only this time, the silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels like the beginning of something.

Chapter 7

North

The moment the door clicks behind me, I storm across the lot and march straight into the office.

Tornado, Iron, and Colt are already inside. Cutter’s just behind me, Soul steps in last, shutting the door.

They know I’m not in the mood for bullshit.

“She settled?” Tornado asks.

I don’t answer. I just glare.

“Right,” he mutters. “Soul ran the tech sweep. Cutter pulled what he could from medical. Here's what we got.”

Soul steps forward, scrolling his phone. “Name she gave us—Elizabeth Nyxa Monterall. Turns out that part’s legit. She was born in Indiana, 22 years. School records check out. Smart as hell. Straight-A student. Dance school, awards, top of her class.” He lifts a brow. “Girl was destined for some kind of stage.”

Cutter speaks next. “Her dad passed away when she was fifteen. After that, grades dropped. ER records show a broken forearm at sixteen, some cracked ribs. Couple stitches. Appendectomy a year later. After that? Nothing. No medical, no credit, no trace until a coma admission showed up in Chicago.”

I narrow my eyes. “The coma. When did it happen?”

“Eleven months, give or take a few days. No follow-up, no physical rehab. She checked herself out and vanished again.”

That means she’s been with the Wolves long enough to be worn down. Long enough for the shit to dig in deep.

“She’s not in withdrawal,” I mutter.

Cutter nods. “Which means she either didn’t get the heavy dose daily, or she purged. You said she puked before and after the charcoal? She might’ve done that every time it hit her system. Might’ve been instinct, might’ve been her way of fighting it.”

My fists curl. “Get her a cell phone,” I order. “All her documents. ID, driver’s license, everything. I want her on paper and protected. You hear me?”

Soul and Tornado nod, both stone-faced now.

“And a cut,” I add. “She wears my colors. No one fucks with her.”

That gets a reaction.

“You making her your ol’ lady, Prez?” Iron snorts.

“Shit, I didn’t even know you dated.” Colt grins.

“Shut it,” I snap. “She’s not my ol’ lady. She’s under my roof. That’s all.”

Cutter grins. “Under your roof. On your bike. Wearing your jacket. You sure, brother?”

I shoot him a glare so sharp he actually steps back.

“Anyone else wanna make jokes?” I ask.

No one does.

Good.

My phone rings and my eyes land to the caller ID.

I sigh and answer. “Yeah?”

“You boys’ ride smooth?” Bullet asks. I can hear a beer cracking open on the other end.

“She’s fine.”

“You sure about that?”

I glance toward the window. “She’s not going back.”

Bullet chuckles. “Never saw you look at a woman like that.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m not. I’m just sayin’… she yours now, and I don’t mean property.”

“She’s under protection,” I correct. “Mine. Saints'’.”

“You ever plan on giving her back?”

I pause. “No.”

Bullet laughs hard. “Didn’t think so. She’s got fire. Didn’t see it at first, but I see it now.”

The line goes quiet for a minute.

“Keep her safe, brother.”

“I will.”

I end the call, shove the phone in my pocket, and look up.

Every man in the room is watching me but no one says a word because they know the truth I won’t admit. She’s not mine but I’ll burn the fucking world down before I let anyone else touch her.

By the time I get home, it’s past midnight. Everything’s still. Quiet. My boots echo through the house as I drag my ass toward the fridge. I pop a beer, down half in one go, and peer around.

It’s spotless. Not a damn thing out of place. That woman must’ve cleaned everything with her bare hands.

Then I hear it. A voice. Sharp, panicked. Broken.

My gut knots, and I bolt for the bedroom. She’s curled up in the armchair, the one I use to toss my cut and gear, twisting in her sleep. Breathing ragged, fists clenched, legs trembling like she’s fighting ghosts. Fucking nightmares.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, finish the rest of the beer, and leave the empty bottle in the sink. Then I strip down and head for the shower. Need to clear my head before I do something I regret.

Later, stretched out on the couch, I find I can’t sleep. There’s no silence in this house anymore. I can hear her breathing across the house: slow, shallow. Then it speeds. Then stops and starts again. It’s like my brain synced with hers, waiting for the next breath to fall.

Footsteps echo, soft and bare. She whispers my name, and I pretend not to hear.

Then her hand lands on my arm, feather light. “North?”

My jaw ticks. I keep my eyes closed.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?” she asks.

I crack an eye. “You weren’t in the bed either.”

She flinches at my tone. I didn’t mean it harshly. I just… don’t know how to speak softly sometimes.

“I thought—” she starts.

“You thought what?”

“That you didn’t want to share space with me in here.”

I stay silent.

“Please go to bed, I’ll take the couch.”

That’s when I close my eyes tight, trying to kill the fury that bubbles up again. I hear her shifting. Quiet as hell. I’m about to leave out a breath when I feel her move.

My eyes snap open. The fuck? She’s lying on the damn carpet.

“What the hell are you doing?” I bark.

“Since you don’t want to share a room with me, I’ll sleep here.” Her voice is small.

I sit up and rub my face. Jesus fucking Christ.

“It doesn’t bother me to share a room or a bed with you,” I grit out. “What bothers me is you sleeping on a fucking armchair or the goddamn floor.”

She blinks at me, like she’s still trying to process the fact that I’m not screaming, or swinging, or shoving her back into silence.

“Get up,” I growl. “Let’s go.”

She scrambles up, following me without a word.

We get to the bedroom, and I jerk my chin toward the left side of the bed. “You ain’t staying near the window.”

She crosses her arms, voice low but firm. “I’m not gonna escape.”

I arch a brow. “Didn’t say you would.”

Her jaw clenches. “Then why can’t I sleep there?”

“Because,” I snap, “if someone breaks into the hood, they aim for the windows first. It’s not about you running, it's about keeping your head from being the first thing blown off.”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it again with a frown.

“I’ve been sleeping near a door that didn’t lock for a year,” she mutters. “Windows don’t scare me.”

I step closer. “They should.”

She huffs. “You’re bossy as hell, you know that?”

“Yup.” I walk to the other side of the bed. “Get used to it.”

She grumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like asshole.

I smirk, not even hiding it. “That sass gonna keep you warm tonight?”

She flops onto the bed, tugging the blanket over herself. “Warmer than the damn floor.”

I shake my head, crawling under the covers. “You’re stubborn.”

“Not stubborn. Just not used to someone barking orders without swinging a fist after.”

That sobers me.

For a second, we’re both quiet.

Chapter 8

Nyxa

Iwake up alone.

The quiet is unreal. Not just the lack of yelling or heavy boots or a door slamming shut, but actual, pure silence. The kind that makes your breath feel too loud.

I sit up slowly, like I’m afraid to break the moment.

The sheets still smell like him. Padding into the kitchen barefoot, I pause when I see a note on the counter. My name isn’t on it, but I know it’s for me.

Vero will come up around 10 a.m. and she’ll take you out. Rook and DJ will come with. Go shopping for whatever you need.

That’s your card, pin code 4609.

You have my number saved in your cell phone.

I’ll be out all day. If you need me, call.

—N

Next to it is a mauve wallet, soft leather, delicate stitching. So pretty and feminine. I run my fingers across it like it might vanish.

Myka would’ve laughed at something like this. Called it useless. Weak.

I glance around the room, half-expecting someone to jump out and say it’s a joke but it’s not. I open the wallet. My ID stares back at me. So does my driver’s license and three hundred bucks in cash. I drop it like it burned me.

How?

Myka burned my documents. I watched him do it. Drunk, slurring, saying I didn’t need a past if I was gonna be with him forever.

There’s a folder next to the wallet. I open it with shaking hands. Birth certificate, school transcripts, dance awards and medical records.

My life.

Everything he could find, he brought back to me.

Tears sting my eyes. They fall before I can stop them. No one’s ever given me anything without expecting something in return. I swipe the phone. His number is saved under just N. I don’t know what to say. So I type the simplest thing I can manage.

Thank you.

I wear my leggings and steal another shirt from his drawer. It hangs off my shoulders, swallowing me whole, but it smells like him and feels safe.

At 10:01, there’s a knock on the door.

I open it and find a woman with long auburn hair, bright eyes, and a no-bullshit smile. She’s pretty, confident and the kind of woman I’ll never be.

“You must be Nyxa,” she says.

I nod, suddenly unsure of everything.

“I’m Vero. North asked me to take you shopping.”

Behind her stand two bikers, Rook, who grins like the devil himself, and DJ, who nods but says nothing.

“Let’s roll, hun,” Vero says, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

The store overwhelms me, not because it’s busy but because I’m allowed to choose, to touch and try things on.

I grab a pair of jeans. Some leggings. Underwear. A few plain shirts. Socks and a pair of pajamas.

“That's it?” Vero asks, frowning.

“I don’t need much,” I mumble.

She rolls her eyes and throws in two more outfits, a zip-up hoodie, and a pair of joggers.

“You need comfort. You need backups. You need shit you don’t even realize you need yet.”

I smile a little. “I have sneakers. I’m good.”

“You planning on living in one pair of shoes forever?” she teases.

“I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

She stops, her gaze softening. “You don’t have to stay stuck either, y’know.”

I look down, throat tight. “One step at a time.”

She nods. “Alright. First step—getting you stuff that actually fits.”

She makes it feel normal. Like this is something women just… do. Not something I was punished for asking for. For the first time in a year, I feel like I’m allowed to exist, not just survive.

Exist.

Maybe even live.

I still feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But today? It didn’t. And that alone feels like a miracle.

Once we’re back at the hood, Vero offers to introduce me to the others, but I tell her I’m tired.

I am. Every part of me aches.

Back at North’s house, I clean. Cook. Do the laundry. Fold his shirts like they deserve respect. Leave the receipts for what I bought on the counter along with my wallet and phone.

I down more water and Gatorade like Cutter told me. Then I crash onto the couch, tug a blanket around my body, and let my eyes close for just a second. The door creaks open and I shoot up, forgetting the blanket. I tumble off the couch, hitting the ground with a loud thud, then a low chuckle follows.

North walks over, grinning. “You fall for me already?”

I groan, grabbing the blanket. “Not funny.” I bite my tongue because I shouldn’t talk back.

He helps me up, that grin still lingering. “You good?”

I nod, cheeks burning.

He heads toward the hallway but stops at the counter. Two bags. The receipts. His brows knit together.

“That all you got?” he asks.

I don’t look at him. “I don’t need more.”

He mutters something, grabs the phone, and barks into it. “Yeah. When I told you everything a woman needs, I mean it. Get everything she might like. I don’t care what it costs. Bring it by tomorrow.”

Panic tightens my chest. I dart forward, gently touch his arm. “Please. What I brought is more than enough.”

He looks down at me. Like he’s weighing the truth in my voice.

“Tomorrow morning. First thing, Vero.” He hangs up.

“You need to forget whatever the fuck that bastard did to you,” he mutters. “This ain’t that place. You’re not that girl anymore.”

I want to believe it, but I don’t know how.

He heads to the bathroom.

By the time he’s out, dinner is ready. I sit at the table, unsure if I should start. He drops into his seat, takes a bite and pauses.

Then eats like he hasn’t all day.

I watch the way his eyes close after the first few bites. The way his shoulders drop. It’s a tiny win, but I hold onto it like it’s everything, because in my world, tiny wins are what you survive on.

After dinner, he doesn’t say much. I gather the plates, clean everything up, dry my hands on a towel, and hover for a moment in the quiet. I’m not used to this. Not used to a night that ends without fists, commands or punishment.

I move toward the bedroom and pause.

He’s already on the bed, a book in hand, shirtless, tattoos dancing along his chest under the soft light.

I clear my throat. “Um… do you want me to sleep on the couch?”

He doesn’t look up. “Do I look like I want to hear you fall on your ass again?”

I frown. “You laughed.”

He glances at me then. “And I will again. But you ain’t sleeping on the floor, or the couch. Or that deathtrap you call an armchair.”

Chapter 9

North

It’s been a week since I brought Nyxa to Ravell.

Seven days.

Feels like fucking forever and a blink at the same time.

She hasn’t left the house unless I told her to. Shopping once, and that’s it. No walks, no porch, no fresh air. And it’s starting to crawl under my skin like a goddamn infection.

It bothers me more than it should. Not because I want her gone but because I don’t want her to think she’s still trapped. I thought the clothes, the food, the clean sheets, the silence would help.

It didn’t.

She still flinches. Every now and then I can see the spitfire show up but it’s only for a second. Still stays quiet around me for most of the time like I’m gonna bark an order or raise a fist. She folds laundry like it’s a peace offering and eats like she doesn’t want to be seen doing it. Still hasn’t told me a damn thing about herself.

So I called in Maeve, an old friend and therapist. One of the only women who can handle the broken things in this world and still look them in the eye. She came over five days ago, talked to Nyxa on daily basis, and then nothing.

Not a word.

I sent Torment out to cover the warehouse delivery today because if I stayed cooped up here one more hour without answers, I’d break something.

When the knock comes, I’m halfway through a beer and one more phone call away from pulling Maeve’s head off her damn shoulders.

I yank the door open. “Took you long enough.”

Maeve arches a brow. “You look like shit, Vince.”

“Cut the crap. Sit down.”

She walks in like she owns the place, drops her purse and crosses her arms. “I can’t tell you everything. You know that.”

“You can if I’m the one paying you.”

“That’s not how therapy works.”

I grit my teeth. “Then give me something.”

She sighs. It’s deep. Tired. “She’s been through hell, North.”

“Be more specific.”

Maeve sits, leans forward, hands clasped. “Her trust in people is zero. Not low or damaged. Zero. She’s been abused for years. The kind of long-haul trauma that rewires how you think, breathe, exist. She talked about her dad—until he died. After that, her mother brought a new man home.”

I nod slowly. I’ve seen the ER records. The broken ribs. The fractured wrist. The fucking coma. “Her mom didn’t protect her?”

“Didn’t even try.” Maeve’s jaw tightens. “She made it through high school, then ran. Started working random jobs. Tried to build a life for herself.”

“And failed?”

“She got caught in a bad circle. Said she worked for someone she only referred to as ‘B.’ Wouldn’t give a name.”

“What kind of work?”

“Pole dancing at first. Then B tried pushing more.”

I narrow my eyes. “More?”

“Prostitution.”

I slam my fist on the desk and the bottle rattles but doesn’t fall, but Maeve doesn’t flinch.

“Where?”

“She wouldn’t say. Maybe doesn’t even know. Said she tried to run, and B beat her within an inch of her life. She woke up in a hospital and left before they could discharge her. Moved to a new state, got a job at a diner. That’s where she met Myka.”

I lean against the wall. My head drops. “That’s it?”

“It took everything in her to tell me even that. You could ask her, you know. She’s not stupid. She knows you care.”

“Then why do I still get the vibe she’s waiting for me to flip a switch?”

Maeve’s voice drops. “Because she grew up thinking kindness has a price. A cost. A motive. She doesn’t believe in free care, North. She’s never seen it.”

My knuckles crack from clenching my fists.

“She told me that when she zones out… It's because she’s bracing for something. Myka trained her like a damn animal. Conditioned her to respond to everything—food, drugs, sex—with fear.”

I step forward. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Maeve stands too. “It means if she drops a glass, she’s scared someone’s gonna slap her. If she enjoys a bite of food, she thinks she’ll pay for it later. If someone touches her, she doesn’t know if she’ll be used or punished.”

I don’t even realize I’m shaking until she grabs my wrist.

“You want to help her?”

I nod once.

“Then stop trying to fix her like she’s broken. She’s not. She’s wounded. There’s a difference.”

My throat tightens. “She said anything about me?”

Maeve smiles, soft and sad. “Only that she sleeps better here than anywhere else she’s ever been.”

My heart punches against my chest. “Then why does it still feel like she’s waiting for me to hurt her?”

“Because healing’s not a straight line, Vince. It’s a battlefield.” She grabs her bag and walks to the door. “And right now, she’s still checking the exits. Give her a reason to believe she doesn’t need one.”

And then she’s gone. Leaving me in the middle of his office, rage simmering, hands fisted, heart full of fire I don’t know how to fucking put out. And it’s driving me fucking insane. I can’t focus or sit still.

Tonight, I crack open a beer just to taste something bitter. It does nothing. I chuck it across the room. Glass shatters like my goddamn patience.

Storming out the door, I don’t say a word. My VP nods, a few brothers glance my way, but no one dares ask.

I jump on my bike. Fire it up like I’m waking the dead. Tires screech as I tear out of the compound and fly down the highway.

I ride.

Hard.

Faster than I should.

Wind screaming in my ears. Asphalt blurring beneath me, my pulse hammering like war drums. The Mississippi River is where I land. Towering cliffs stretch like jagged teeth against the horizon. Deep forests rise thick and wild. The backwater sloughs shimmer under the moonlight. I kill the engine and silence crashes in.

My chest heaves. I suck in breath after breath, but it’s not enough. The cold air tastes like pine and rot and mud. It burns. Feels good.

The bike ticks as it cools. My boots hit the dirt and I stalk toward the edge of the overlook. She’s in my head. Still. And now I know why.

I press my hands to the railing; she’s survived more than most men I know, and somehow she still looks at the world like it might give her something other than pain.

But she doesn’t trust me. Still flinches when I move too fast. Still looks like she’s waiting for a punch that never comes, and it fucking guts me because I’d rather carve my own heart out than ever see her bleed again.

And the worst part is I don’t know how to fix it.

Chapter 10

North

By the time I ride back into the compound, the sun's dying over the horizon and the dust from my tires hasn’t even settled yet.

My head’s clearer. The cliffs helped. The roar of the engine, the silence of the trees, the weight of it all… it gave me space to breathe. Space to think. Space to try and find a way not to fuck this up.

I walk through the door and find her folding the laundry again. That same damn quiet hums in the house. No TV. No music. No sign of life except the rise and fall of her chest as she folds a t-shirt like it’s glass.

I stand in the doorway for a second, watching her. She doesn’t even look up. Her eyes stay pinned to her hands, her shoulders curled in like she’s afraid I’ll snap at any second. It fucking kills me. She walks like the floor is landmined. Always glancing down. Never at me.

She still doesn’t trust me, maybe she never will. Not that I can blame her but silence is not an option anymore. Not for either of us.

“We’re going out tonight.”

She freezes mid-fold. Her fingers twitch like she’s trying to pretend she didn’t hear me. Then she looks up, panic already pooling in her eyes. That look makes something in me snap again. I want to punch the wall. Shatter something. I settle for clenching my fists until my knuckles scream.

“It’s just a walk,” I add, softer this time. “Nothing more.”

She hesitates, then nods. Barely.

Orange bleeds into blue, and Ravell’s quiet but alive.

A few members nod our way. One waves. Nyxa lifts her hand in response, but it’s hesitant, unsure.

I stop and turn to face her. Her gaze drops to the ground again.

“Nyxa, look at me.”

She doesn’t.

I step in front of her, gently take her chin and lift it until her eyes meet mine. “I know shit ain’t easy,” I sigh, “but here? You’re safe. Do you understand?”

She gives me a tiny nod.

“Can’t hear you.”

Her voice is barely there. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

I take a step back and spread my arms. “I want you to fight for your life. For your freedom. For yourself.”

Her eyes widen. She looks around like something’s gonna leap out of the shadows and drag her back to hell.

“I don’t know how to fight,” she whispers.

I huff, trying to hold back the rage curling in my gut. “You fought when you chose to come with me,” I tell her. “That was your first swing. You’re not a prisoner anymore. This—” I motion to the neighborhood, the clubhouse in the distance, the open road beyond. “—this can be home. If you want it.”

“Can it?” she asks, voice tight. “Like a candy?”

The growl that rips from my chest shocks even me.

“Never as a candy, Nyxa.” My voice is low. “That should’ve been your choice. Not what someone drilled into your head.”

She stares at me, more confused than ever.

“I don’t know how to do this shit, Nyxa. I’m rough. I yell. I’m not soft. But I’m trying,” I admit, raking a hand down my face. “I need a little help here, because I’m so fucking mad you have no idea.”

Her breath catches. “What… what did I do?”

“You don’t fight for your freedom!” I snap. “You act like you still belong to someone. Like you don’t get to choose anymore. And that kills me.”

Her eyes fill. She blinks fast, but a tear still slips down her cheek.

And fuck it, I pull her in. Her cheek lands on my chest, and she trembles there. “I think everything I say makes it worse,” I mutter.

She lets out a small, broken laugh. “Maybe just a little.”

“I’ll work on it.” I smile. Can’t help it.

Progress. Painful, brutal, but real. One step at a time and for her? I’ll take every damn one.

A sudden honk snaps us both out of it. Tornado rides by, makes a heart with his hands.

I flip him off.

“Come on,” I sigh. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To introduce you to the family.”

Her head jerks. “Me?”

I roll my eyes and swipe away a stray tear. “Yeah, you.”

We start walking again. I gesture to a long building behind iron gates. “Nursery and kindergarten. Our own. Staffed and safe.”

She nods slowly, taking it in.

We move down the street. “Playgrounds. Mini-market. Bakery. Pharmacy. If you ever need something, it’s here.”

She clutches the hem of her hoodie, eyes flicking around. Finally, we stop at the corner of a street that buzzes with the sound of bikes.

The Blacktope Blood.

It’s packed. Inside, it’s alive—music, laughter, the scent of grilled food, smoke, oil. Heads turn when we walk in. Everyone watches.

I nod at a few. Grab a beer.

I claim a stool and sit, watching her shift on her feet.

“Nyxa, this is Iron, my VP.” Iron nods, tall and broad, with eyes that see too much.

“Tornado—Enforcer.”

He winks. “Good to meet you, darlin’.”

“Colt—Road Captain.”

“Hey,” Colt says with a tip of his chin.

“Soul—Sergeant of Arms.”

Soul, dark-eyed and serious, gives her a once over. “We’re glad you’re here.”

“And these…” I gesture behind them. “Are the candies.”

Eva, Jess, Kayla, Andrea, each with their prospects, each different but solid. They smile at her, genuine and welcoming.

Nyxa relaxes—just barely.

And I let myself breathe.

It’s a start.

I glance down at her. “Want your own beer?”

She grabs mine instead, takes a long pull, and hands it back.

My brows shoot up. “Well, shit.”

She shrugs. “You offered.”

I chuckle, dragging her closer. Her back leans into my chest as I sip what’s left of my beer. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she settles on my lap.

I almost choke. “What the hell are you doing?” I rasp.

She peers up at me, smirking. “Sitting.”

I shake my head, without holding a grin. “Go mingle. Have fun.”

She hesitates, glancing toward the other girls.

I raise an eyebrow. “What are you wearing?”

She looks down at herself, cheeks pink. “Your shirt.”

“And what does it say?”

Her blush deepens. “President’s Property.”

“Exactly,” I murmur. “Which means no one will dare touch you—unless they wanna die choking on their last breath.”

She shivers, but a tiny smile tugs at her lips.

Then she walks off toward the women.

Iron whistles low. “You’re screwed, Prez.”

“Totally whipped.” Tornado snorts.

Soul chuckles. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

I raise my beer and toast them. “Shut the fuck up.”

And for the first time in a long time, I laugh with them.

Chapter 11

Nyxa

Ithought every brotherhood was run the same.

Loud men. Loud bikes. Loud rules.

But apparently, that’s not the case.

Saints' MC is nothing like the Wolves. Not even close.

At first, I thought it was a show meant to fool me because I’m the new girl and I showed up with North. Because everyone knew what I was. What I used to be.

But time passes. And no one pushes. No one corners me. No one asks me to do anything I don’t want to do.

North’s rules are set in stone. It’s not just the men who respect them, it’s everyone. Every prospect, every patched member, every woman and kid around this place. The neighborhood breathes his law. And somehow, it works.

The fear that clung to me like a second skin when I first arrived it’s not gone but it doesn’t suffocate me anymore.

I still flinch when a door slams too hard. I still pause when someone yells down the street. I still sleep with one foot curled beneath me, like I’m ready to bolt.

But I breathe easier here.

The women here don’t look like victims. They laugh loud, unafraid. They touch their men like they want them, not like they’re afraid not to. They look at me like they see a person, not a threat. Not a broken thing.

It messes with my head.

I spend mornings cleaning, folding, sometimes cooking if I feel like I have the energy. I still don’t talk much, not even with North.

But I’m watching, listening, and learning.

After getting some bread from the bakery, I walk back home. Eve is playing with some kids in the garden, her laugh carrying in the breeze. She waves at me from afar. I do the same, still not used to how casual everything feels.

It was weird to find out candies here are not exactly what I always thought. Back with the Wolves, candies were… tools. Playthings. They had no voice. No space. But here they’re more than women ready to please some biker on a whim. They have their own house. They share a huge bungalow, have jobs and responsibilities. A life. They’re friends with the ol’ ladies. Real friendships. No jealousy or manipulation. I didn’t believe it at first. Hell, I still struggle with it but I’ve watched it. Quietly. Closely.

Kayla works part-time at the mini market and handles inventory like she owns the place. Andrea teaches music at the kids’ studio. Jess helps with events and parties and runs a book club on Fridays.

And no one looks down on them. No one makes them feel like less. They’re… respected.

Wanted.

Safe.

It messes with my head. Twists everything I thought I knew.

As I keep walking, I spot a prospect kissing one of the ladies near the corner of the bakery. The way his hand curves around her hip, the way she smiles against his lips, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, makes me drop my gaze fast.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been touched like that. Like something good and wanted.

A strange ache blooms in my chest. Not lust or even longing. Just… emptiness. A reminder of all the nights I lay cold and still, hoping to feel nothing.

I thought North would touch me—especially after the night he hugged me. Held me like I wasn’t made of broken glass. Like I wouldn’t shatter. But nothing happened. And I don’t know if I should be relieved or disappointed. He’s busy. I know that. Club business, phone calls, people showing up to pass him off, but he still slows down for me. Still asks if I’ve eaten, makes sure there’s juice in the fridge and blankets on the couch. It’s stupid, I know it is, but lately I’ve been dreaming of him.

Of that night he claimed me. The way his voice dropped. The way his fingers traced my skin with more care than I’d ever known. I wake up flushed, my chest tight, my body aching for something I don’t understand. Something I shouldn’t want but when you’ve lived in the dark so long… even a flicker of warmth feels like salvation.

After changing into something comfier, leggings and one of North’s shirts, because his scent feels like the closest thing to peace, I wander into the backyard.

The garden’s a mess of overgrown flowerbeds and a dying bush I think he forgot he has. It’s not much, but it’s something. North never gives me a list of things to do. He’s never asked me to clean or cook or even keep busy.

And today, cleaning and cooking isn’t enough anymore. I want to feel useful. I want to do something that leaves a mark.

I dig my fingers into the soil, pulling weeds, trimming the mess, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist. My legs are sore. My back aches. But for once, it feels good.

When I’m done with one patch, I grab my phone without thinking and type out the text to North.

Am I allowed to find a job?

I know he’s out of town. He mentioned something about a meeting. As soon as I send the text, regret slams into me. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t have bothered him. Who the hell do I think I am? Still, I don’t delete it. I let it sit there, blue ticks and all, and set the phone down.

The sky darkens sometime later, clouds rolling in slowly like a warning. Then, the first drop hits my cheek. And another. Then another. Until the heavens open and the rain pours down but I don’t run. Instead, I let it soak me. My hair clings to my scalp. My clothes stick to my skin and for some insane reason—I laugh.

I sit there, in the middle of the yard, head tilted back, letting the rain wash me clean. And I remember being six. Barefoot. Racing down the block with puddles splashing under my heels and no care in the world. My dad chasing behind me with a towel and my mom yelling from the porch not to track mud in the house.

Back then, life was still innocent. I still believed in forever.

I rise to my feet and spin in slow circles. I dance. Under the rain. Under the weight of a thousand ghosts and I laugh again. One that bubbles up and breaks out with tears chasing it.

I cry and laugh all at once because for the first time in years I feel alive. I can’t let my past destroy what I have left to live. Maeve was right. We all get one life. Just one, and we’re the only ones who get to write our path. We can stumble, can fall but we get back up. We live, fight for our peace, and for the first time I think I want to.

Shivering, I drag myself inside. A cold is the last thing I need. My skin’s cold to the touch, and my fingers are trembling. I take a long, hot shower. The steam wraps around me like a blanket. I scrub my skin until the warmth sinks into my bones.

After I towel off, I walk into North’s room, open his drawer, and pull out another one of his shirts. It's soft, worn, and smells like him. It falls just under my knees and clings to my still-damp skin.

It’s like he’s hugging me.

He hasn’t, not since that day he held me when I broke down. And even then, it wasn’t about romance. It was comfort and safety.

Still, I think about it. About what it would feel like if he did it again.

We share a bed now. Ever since he found me curled up on the armchair and lost his shit. I don’t know if it was worry or rage, or both, but he asked me to sleep in his bed and started sleeping next to me. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even crowd me but knowing he’s there… it helps.

I smile as I make a sandwich. I don’t bother cooking when he’s not home. It doesn’t feel worth it. A sandwich and some fruit will do.

After dinner, I curl up on the couch, watch some mindless TV, and sip tea. The rain’s still tapping gently on the windows, soothing and soft. Before bed, I check all the doors and windows twice. Then a third time, just in case.

Habit.

I slip under the covers, on his side of the bed, and press my face into his pillow.

My hand drifts between my thighs, and I catch my breath. My heart pounds. It’s stupid, so stupid, but in the darkness, I let myself pretend.

Pretend that his arms are around me.

That I’m not broken.

That maybe I’m allowed to want more.

Even if I’ll never have it.

Chapter 12

North

I’m fucking exhausted.

My whole body aches. Every cell screams for a bed. For silence and peace.

The gate closes behind me as I kill the engine. Lights are off, and the house’s quiet. Not a sound but the tick of the engine cooling down. I shove open the door and slip inside, trying not to wake her. My boots hit the floor soft, careful. Until I stop.

A sound, no, a moan. Soft and breathless. It’s barely a whisper but it shreds through me like a bullet. My whole body stills. I know that sound, and it ain’t pain. It’s fucking pleasure.

I stalk down the hallway, rage already coiling. If someone touched her, if anyone got in this house, if someone laid a finger on her, I’ll paint the goddamn walls red.

But when I reach the bedroom and see her framed by the soft silver light of the full moon slipping through the curtains I freeze. She’s alone. Her back arches. Her legs parted. One hand buried between her thighs, the other gripping the sheets like she’s drowning in the feel of her own touch. My heart stops. She’s riding her fingers in slow, trembling strokes, her breath catching, her lips parted, and then she moans again. My name.

Fucking hell.

I grip the doorframe, hard enough my knuckles go white. My cock’s hard in an instant, throbbing. She says it again, a breathless whisper that nearly brings me to my knees. She’s never said my name before.

Not like that.

And every part of me wants to charge in. Replace her fingers with mine. With my mouth. My dick. Brand her until she knows who she belongs to.

But I don’t.

I watch. She’s beautiful, fragile and burning. Her chest heaves. Her brows draw together. Her lips tremble. She’s close. And when she comes, her whole body shakes with soft gasps, and toes curling. I swallow the growl that rips through my throat and bite down the smirk curling at the edge of my lips. Because damn... She just gave me the hottest goddamn show of my life and she doesn’t even know it.

“That’s my side of the bed,” I mutter in a low voice as I step into the doorway.

She hums, like she’s dreaming. Soft, sweet and innocent. Like she doesn’t know she just fucking wrecked me.

Then her eyes open, and the second they lock on mine, she bolts upright.

“Shit,” she squeaks, dragging the blanket over her legs like I haven’t already seen everything. “When did you get home?”

I smirk, not bothering to hide it. “Now.”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours. Her cheeks flush, and she scoots fast to the other side of the bed like I might bite. Which is ironic considering what she was just doing with those fingers. And damn if I don’t feel the ghost of it, her moans still rattling in my skull.

I close the distance slowly. Her eyes dart, body tense. Ready to bolt or disappear and yet, she stays.

I reach out and grab her wrist.

She freezes.

I bring her hand to my mouth, and taste. Her flavor hits my tongue like sin and salvation in one breath.

Fuck.

She gasps. But I’m the one who growls, deep, involuntary. That sound that rips out when something sacred brushes your teeth and dares to whisper mine.

Her lashes flutter like she’s ashamed, and she tries to tug her hand away, but I don’t let her.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” I murmur.

She shakes her head, stammering, “I didn’t know… I mean, I thought you⁠—”

“What?” I cut her off. “That I didn’t want you?”

She doesn’t answer but her silence screams everything she’s ever been taught about being wanted.

I breathe hard through my nose, chest rising like a war drum. My ribs fucking ache, my head’s pounding, and still, I can’t stop looking at her.

At the way she’s trying to shrink herself again.

At the way she can’t meet my eyes.

“Nyxa,” my voice edges in steel. “Don’t ever be ashamed of needing something good, of wanting to feel good.”

Her lips part, like she wants to argue, but I lean closer. Not touching. Just breathing the same air.

“I should’ve knocked,” I murmur with a smirk.

“You should’ve,” she whispers back.

In my fucking home. Funny, ain’t it?

Silence stretches between us like a wire pulled too tight.

Then I do the only thing that feels right. I let go of her hand. Step back. Run a palm down my face to shake off the fire crawling up my skin and climb in beside her.

No touching. No pressing. Just heat.

She keeps her hands to herself. I keep my thoughts locked down tight. But every nerve I’ve got is alive and burning.

I close my eyes and swear to every god that’s ever existed. One day, when she’s ready…

I’ll have her moaning my name for real, and this time, I won’t be standing at the damn door watching.

“I—” she starts to say something.

“Shh.” I pull her closer without thinking. My body sighs when she settles against me, but I wince as her hand presses into my chest. My cut’s still on and of course she feels it.

She sits up suddenly, switches on the light. Her eyes go wide.

“What the hell happened?” she gasps, taking in the mess I am.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” I mutter.

She lowers her eyes. Just like that.

It’s been days since I’ve seen her do that. And fuck if it doesn’t slice me open. “Hey,” I breathe out, rubbing a hand down my face. “There was an accident. Nothing serious. I’m okay.”

She doesn’t speak. Just hops off the bed and helps me kick off my boots.

I sit up and she reaches for my cut.

“Careful,” I mutter.

“I know.” She folds it like it’s made of gold and places it on the armchair.

Next comes the T-shirt. I help her peel it off. When the bandage around my ribs is exposed, she visibly shakes.

I pull her in. “This happens sometimes. I’m fine, and I’m home.”

She blinks away tears, nods, and starts working on my jeans. Her fingers go for the buckle.

“I can handle it,” I say, voice a little too rough.

She raises an eyebrow, deadpan. “I won’t take advantage of you, big boy.”

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, and fuck, that hurts. I help her with the rest, gritting my teeth. She doesn’t look until the very last second, and then her eyes stop on my bulge.

I clear my throat, breaking the spell. “Come back to bed. We both need sleep.” I switch off the light and lean down biting down a curse.

She hesitates, but when she moves closer, her hand brushes against my hard-on and my whole body locks up.

“You can do whatever you want,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them. “But you don’t have to work.”

She holds her breath. “Why have you never touched me?” Her voice is so small I almost don’t catch it. But the question lands like a fucking brick to the chest. “It’s because of what I am, isn’t it?”

I try to move, but the pain lances through my side. Fuck. The painkillers haven’t kicked in yet. “Don’t say bullshit like that.”

She swallows. “Then why? Because I’m not slim?”

My head snaps toward her. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“I just thought maybe…”

“I like my women with curves,” I growl. “I want to suffocate when they ride my face.”

Her mouth parts, then she whispers, “Then why?”

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to be honest.

“Love is not something I can give you,” I say in a voice low and coarse. “Protection, mark it done. Make you come like no one else in their fucking life has done? You can bet your sweet ass, Firefly. But love is not something in my book.”

“Love is overrated, North. I don’t even know if that exists.” She shifts, gaze unreadable. “Why Firefly?”

Because you’re petite but lights up my whole fucking world. “Dunno. It’s the first thing that came out.”

I watch her, jaw tight. The space between us feels heavy.

“Why do you want to work?” I ask, changing the topic before I lose whatever control I have left.

“Because I can’t live on your money. I want to be useful. I don’t care what chore you want me to handle here, I can do it. Or, if you allow me, I can find a job somewhere else.”

I chuckle under my breath. The woman’s stubborn. “I’ll think about what I need in the hood,” I say. “But what would you like to do?”

She looks away for a beat. Then back at me. “Something that makes me feel like I belong.”

That…hits.

I nod slowly and I fix my eyes on her again. “We need to talk, Nyxa. I want to know what happened in your life to make you end up with that fucker and why you allowed him to take over your life.”

She freezes. Her hands bunch the sheet. “Now?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” I say, softer this time. “But I need to know, Nyxa. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

She sits and takes a deep breath.

“The night before I met him, I scrubbed the floors until my knees bled in the diner after I turned the owner off. Myka was a customer at the time; came in twice a day, sometimes more. Seemed like a good guy. He punched the owner when he realized what was happening. Two days later he was high, calling me 'baby' between rants about loyalty and how I should be grateful he gave me a place to sleep. I nodded, smiled, bit my tongue until I tasted blood. That’s what being invisible tastes like: copper and shame. He took my wallet with all my documents and burned it.”

I clench my jaw, and curl my fists without even realizing it.

She stares ahead, voice thin. “I used to think the world owed me something. A soft place to land. A family that didn’t trade bruises for bedtime. A stage, a song, a spotlight that felt warm instead of searing. Then I just hoped no one would touch me.” Her voice breaks and my throat tightens. “Myka’s hands were all grab and take. Slurred words. Promises that were actually threats. Like I was a dog on a leash. And maybe I was trained well, kept high just enough to stay. At the beginning it was for fun, he said. But when it ran out, I needed more. And of course, he was the only one who had it.”

My stomach turns.

“Why do you flinch? Did he ever hit you?” I know he did. But I need her to say it.

She nods. “For fun, or when he was bored. I couldn’t sleep in his bed, not always. I used to sleep on the floor or a chair.”

My hands shake. I don’t turn on the light. She needs to speak without feeling like she’s under a spotlight.

“He always said I was too chubby and needed to lose weight.”

“That why you skip meals?”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m not a kid, Nyxa. I saw the difference between our portions.”

“That’s why you always make me go grab another beer so you can fill my plate?”

I can’t help but chuckle. She noticed.

“If I was good, he’d give me food. If I behaved, or if he didn’t feel like it, he’d cut my rations.” She sighs. “It wasn’t that bad once I got used to it. But when he gave me the pills, it got worse.”

“Fucking bastard.”

Her voice shudders. “You saved me, North. No one ever cared. I think no one even knew what he was doing.”

My voice drops to a growl. “No. Bullet had no idea. But he will eventually.” And when he does, there won’t be a hole deep enough for Myka to crawl into.

Her voice trembles. Her words cut. And I just listen. I let every fucking piece of her pain settle in my bones like shrapnel. I hold it all, because someone should have long before I came along, and when she finishes, her body starts to curl into itself like she’s waiting for rejection. Instead, I reach for her. She inches closer, heart in her throat, I can feel it in the tremble of her limbs, in the way her breath halts halfway up her chest. She’s nervous. I should stop. I should give her the space to breathe, to pull away but when her eyes meet mine, there’s no fear. Just fire and want.

I thread my fingers through the back of her hair and pull her in, crashing my mouth to hers like I’ve been starving for her because I have. This isn’t a kiss. It’s a fucking reckoning. A claim carved in hunger and need, in every sleepless night I’ve spent trying to hold myself back.

And she gives in like I’m the first breath after drowning.

Her lips part, soft and gasping. Her hands cling to my shoulders like I’m the only steady thing left in the world. Every sound she makes rips right through me. I take it all, her moans, her sighs, the way her thighs tremble as I pull her onto my lap.

Then I feel her: bare, hot, and slick.

No fucking barrier.

My cock throbs so hard I nearly lose it right here. She bites her lip, blushing and bold all at once. I roll my hips once, slow, dragging the thick ridge of my cock against her soaked heat. Her body jolts, a gasp hitching in her throat, and it feeds the monster inside me.

“This,” I growl, cupping the back of her neck, “is your doing. All of it.” I drag my mouth over hers. “And you’re fucking perfect, Nyxa. Don’t let anyone, or yourself, say otherwise.”

A tear slips down her cheek and hits my skin like fire. She leans back, never breaking eye contact, and slowly peels my shirt off her frame. One inch at a time.

My breath stalls in my lungs.

Fuck, Firefly.

Her skin glows in the moonlight. Soft curves, a body shaped by scars and survival. She’s fucking art, and she has no idea.

I sit up, ignoring the pain screaming through my torso, and press my mouth to her sternum. Then her ribs. Then each faint scar that’s ever told a story no one listened to.

She shivers.

“North…” she breathes, and her voice breaks on my name.

I grip her hips, lining myself at her entrance, and pause because this moment is more than just want. It’s trust and power. It’s hers to give.

And when she nods, small, brave, trembling, I press inside her.

Slow.

Deep.

Her breath catches and her nails dig into my shoulders as her body stretches around me, taking me inch by inch until I’m fully seated inside her.

Her head falls forward against mine, clutches me like I’m her anchor but I’m the one fucking drowning.

I hold still, trembling with restraint.

“Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers back, tears still wet on her lashes. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

So I move.

And we find each other in the rhythm, her breath syncing with mine, her body arching, matching, meeting every thrust like she’s meant to be here. With me.

We don’t fuck.

We heal.

We burn down every lie that told us we were broken.

And as her body tightens around me, her moans spilling like confessions, my heart threatens to tear wide open.

Because for the first time in my life… I want everything.

Her. This. Us.

And when we fall, together, shaking, clinging, undone, it isn’t just her that comes apart.

I do too.

Right into her hands.

Chapter 13

Nyxa

Iwake up first.

The room is still bathed in shadows, the early light creeping through the curtains like it’s afraid to disturb us. North lies beside me, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in that calm, heavy rhythm of deep sleep. Even bruised and bandaged, he looks like something untouchable, mine for now, though I know better than to believe in forever.

But god, last night...

A slow smile curls across my lips as I slide out of bed, biting back a gasp at the delicious ache between my thighs. Every step is a reminder of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him moving inside me, like he had all the time in the world to put me back together.

And he did.

He kept his promise.

Made me come like no one else ever had, not even close.

It wasn’t just sex, it was something else. Something real and mine.

I pad into the kitchen, North’s shirt still clinging to my skin, stretched across my hips and smelling faintly of cedar and smoke. I feel soft. Open. Like I’ve been peeled back and there’s nothing to hide.

I lean against the counter and close my eyes for a moment.

Breathe.

Savor.

Because for the first time in what feels like years… I feel good.

Not just safe or touched but wanted.

Desired in a way that didn’t feel transactional or twisted. He didn’t just take. He gave every look, every touch, every breath. And the way he watched me, spoke to me, worshipped me with that wicked mouth and that damn piercing…

My cheeks are on fire just remembering.

I had questions, sure. A lot of them. But he answered every one of them with his body. Patient. Unapologetic. Showing me just how good it could feel when someone took their time. When it wasn’t about power or punishment or control, but about want.

About us.

I press my palm to the counter to steady myself, laughter bubbling up in my throat.

Because somehow he, with all his rough edges, his growls and glares and his impossible strength, made me feel soft again.

Like a woman.

Like maybe I could be more than what they all tried to break me into.

Last night might’ve just been a moment to him.

But to me felt like something I didn’t think I’d ever get to have.

A beginning.

My fingers brush the base of my neck where his hand held me steady, firm and careful all at once. I can still feel the imprint of his voice, his heat, the way he said my name.

Like I mattered.

And whether it lasts or not, I’ll carry that with me.

I open the fridge and gather the ingredients, moving quietly. Whisking the pancake batter feels almost sacred in the silence. Like a small gift I’m offering to this new version of myself, the one who feels worthy of making breakfast in someone else’s kitchen. In his kitchen.

The sound of bare feet shuffling in breaks the stillness. Arms slide around my waist.

I freeze.

But only for a second.

His scent, the warmth of his body, the safety of his hold... it sinks into me. I melt into him. “You’re up early,” he rumbles into my neck.

“So are you,” I murmur.

He presses a kiss to the side of my head, then scoops me up with a grunt.

“North!”

He grins through the pain and sets me down on the counter. I barely have a second to protest before his hands are on my knees, gently parting my legs.

Heat rushes to my cheeks and lower.

I look down at him. The bruises on his chest, arm, and thigh make me ache for him, but he’s already smirking.

“Pancakes can wait,” he says.

I swallow. “Why?”

His grin deepens as he drops to his knees in front of me. “Because I want my breakfast first.”

I hold my breath as he leans in, trailing kisses along the inside of my thigh.

“North...” I whisper, trembling.

He glances up, that wicked glint in his eyes. “Don’t worry, Firefly. I know exactly what you need.”

His mouth is on me before I can breathe another word. Slow at first. Teasing. Then deeper. Rougher. Possessed.

My hands fist in his hair. I cry out, loud and shameless, when he sucks just right. When his tongue circles that spot like he was born to ruin me.

And ruin me, he does.

My thighs clamp around his head as the orgasm crashes over me, wild and raw. I scream his name but he doesn’t stop. Not until I’m shaking, squirting against his mouth, my body wrung out like a storm just passed through me.

He stands slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He then presses a kiss to my forehead. “That’s what a good morning looks like.”

I can barely catch my breath, let alone speak. Still floating, I manage a weak, “So... about those pancakes?”

North smirks. “We’re all having breakfast at the BB today.”

I blink. “Wait, all of us?”

He nods, stepping toward the coffee machine like he didn’t just wreck me on the counter.

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Can I bring the pancake batter and make them there?”

He gives me that look. The one that’s half amusement, half growl. “You’re home, Nyxa. If you want to bake, cook, grill steaks or flip pancakes for the whole damn hood, do it. You wanna stay and just watch, that’s okay too.”

And just like that, something warm and real blooms in my chest.

Like maybe I really am home. Still breathless, I stare at him in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

I blink back the sting of tears, smiling like a fool. “Thank you.”

He growls, eyes flicking to the tent in his boxers. “And now I’m fucking hard again.” He stalks off down the hallway toward the shower.

“Need help with that?” I call.

He flashes me a look over his shoulder that damn near buckles my knees. “You’re the one who caused it. But if you join me, we might stay in all day. And we can’t.”

With a dramatic sigh, he disappears around the corner.

Still giddy, I toss in a few more eggs and double the batter. After wiping down the kitchen, I carry the laundry to the bedroom and start straightening up.

I pause at the dresser. My fingers brush the soft cotton of a floral sundress I haven’t dared wear since… well, Vero bought it.

It’s pretty. Maybe too pretty. I hesitate, suddenly unsure.

Would he like it? Or would he laugh? I leave it on the bed and tiptoe down the hallway.

I knock lightly, then open the door.

The sight steals my breath.

North stands in the shower, one hand wrapped around his cock, head tipped back, muscles taut. He’s jerking off, and fuck, it’s a sight.

I don’t move. Just lean against the counter like he did last night. Letting my gaze roam. Shit, I have to clench my thighs. I’m a mess.

He notices me the second he steps out of the shower. Our eyes meet, and he grabs a towel, wrapping it low on his hips, water still glistening on his skin.

“Well, well…” he says, voice low and teasing. “Enjoying the view?”

“I figured fair’s fair,” I reply, biting back a grin.

His smile spreads, slow and dangerous. “You’ll kill me, Firefly.”

I pick up the gauze and antiseptic from the counter. “Let me help with that bandage.”

He nods and we move in the bedroom, watching me closely. I clean the area carefully, biting my lip to keep from staring too long at the V of his hips.

“What’s the dress for?” he asks, nodding to it.

“I thought maybe… for breakfast?”

“You worried I won’t like it?”

I shrug. “You’re more of a jeans-and-tee kind of guy.”

He grunts. “You’re mine. That’s all that matters.”

I grin and tilt my head. “Jeans or dress?”

He groans. “Woman, you’re making this hard. Don’t need the fucking hood to give me shit about my hard-on.”

“Dress then.” I kiss his cheek and head off to change, heart so full it might explode.

Whatever this is, it’s starting to feel like home.

And damn if that doesn’t scare me, but it also makes me want to hold on tighter.

Later, we ride to the BB. Everyone’s still half-asleep, groggy, and silent. I stifle a giggle as I carry the pancake mix into the kitchen. The ladies beam at me the moment they see my dress.

“Damn, Nyxa! You look like sunshine,” Jess says.

“North’s gonna need CPR,” Andrea teases.

I roll my eyes and laugh, letting myself sink into the warmth of their company. We laugh, trade jokes, and for a while, I forget the past. It’s easy with them. Natural.

When Eva pulls out a sponge cake and starts cutting it into perfect slices, I lean in curiously watching all the ingredients displayed on the table.

“Whose birthday is it?”

Everything freezes. They all stare like I’ve grown a second head.

Shit. My heart does a weird flip. “Tell me you’re joking,” I murmur, eyes still scanning the crowded room.

Eva shakes her head slowly, almost smiling like she’s watching a movie unfold. “Prez hates birthdays. Never celebrates. We usually bake a cake, cut it, drink like hell, and pretend it’s just another excuse to party. But this is the first time he brought someone with him.”

My throat tightens. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Because he’s North.” Kayla shrugs. “You’ll learn fast, he doesn’t want attention unless it’s for his club.”

“But he deserves it,” I whisper.

“Then tell him,” Eva nudges. “He won’t admit it, but... it means something, Nyxa. You mean something.”

I whirl around, searching the crowded room until my eyes lock on his.

Even mid-conversation, surrounded by his brothers, he’s already looking at me and just like that, my heart catches fire.

Chapter 14

North

Laughter’s already bouncing off the walls of the Blacktope Blood when I settle into my usual spot near the back. Colt’s halfway through a story about a coyote chasing him down a dirt road when he was stoned off his ass on gummies.

“Swear to God,” he grins, slapping the table, “I thought it was the Grim Reaper.”

Soul snorts into his beer. “You’re scared of a mutt with mange, but not of a cartel shootout. That’s some impressive logic.”

Colt points his bottle at him. “Cartel dudes don’t froth at the mouth.”

“Neither do coyotes,” Tornado chimes in. “Unless they’re high on your stash.”

Everyone cracks up.

The room’s warm, alive with noise and scent, leather, grease, hops, and smoke. My brothers are loud, unruly, and occasionally one step from feral, but right now, they’re exactly what this place should feel like.

Family.

My eyes drift to the kitchen, to her. Standing there in that flowery blue dress, and a nervous smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The girls are huddled around her, making pancakes and teasing each other like sisters. But she’s fidgeting. That smile’s plastered on like war paint. I tilt my head slightly.

She catches my eye. Hesitates then smiles back, tight, thin.

Yeah, fake.

With two fingers, I motion her over.

She shakes her head, quick and small, like she thinks I’ll miss it.

Wrong move, Firefly.

I cock a brow, slow and smug.

Her lips part, caught.

Win.

I don’t push it. Not yet. I break eye contact, leaning back as Iron pulls out a cigar and waves it dramatically like he’s a fucking magician. “Anyone seen Rook?” He asks. “He left the garage early and hasn’t answered his damn phone.”

“He’s probably buried under that ’69 rebuild,” Colt mutters. “Told him it was cursed. Bet the transmission’s eaten him alive.”

“Should we light a candle?” Tornado deadpans. “Hold a vigil?”

“Shut up,” I grunt, smirking. “He’s probably balls deep in grease. Or someone.”

Iron huffs. “We got that arms drop Tuesday. I want him briefed before we go.”

“Speaking of which…” Soul shifts, more serious now. “We tightening routes after last month’s tail?”

I nod. “Yeah. We’ll add two more spots to throw off heat. Ghost will trail behind with another truck. If they’re dumb enough to follow, we’ll know.”

“Sounds good,” Iron says, tapping ash into a tray. “What about the Iowa pricks?”

“Handled,” I say flatly.

Colt whistles low. “That kind of handled or North-handled?”

I shoot him a look. “That we-don’t-speak-of-it-again handled.”

He grins. “Got it. Classic murder-vibes only.”

I shrug. “You want a different kind of party, go join the Chamber of Commerce.”

More laughter. Tornado tips his beer toward me. “Happy birthday, Prez.”

I shake my head. “Don’t start.”

“Fuck you.” He laughs. “You didn’t think you’d get away with it this year, did you?”

“Every year, I hope.”

Iron raises his glass too. “To the man who built this place better than anyone could have. Even if he’s a moody bastard.”

I roll my eyes but clink the bottle anyway.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Nyxa’s finally coming out of the kitchen, Eva giving her a nudge that’s probably got her halfway to blushing. I don’t look at her again but I feel her.

The sun’s climbing higher, casting a lazy golden hue across the yard. It smells like smoke, meat, motor oil, and summer, all things that settle in my bones like home.

“Come on, Prez,” Rook says, tipping his bottle toward me. “You’re what now—thirty-three?”

I take a swig of my beer, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Forty.”

The table goes dead silent.

Then Soul barks out a laugh and nearly chokes on his burger. “Shut the fuck up, you are not.”

“No way,” Colt mutters. “Forty?! You’re older than my damn uncle.”

Iron squints. “He’s lying. Look at him: no gray, no gut, and he still moves like he’s got a score to settle every damn day.”

“What’s your secret, Prez?” Rook asks, chin propped on his knuckles. “Kale smoothies? Goji berries?”

I lean back in the chair, stretching my legs out with a satisfied grunt. “Eating pussy for breakfast.”

The table explodes with howling laughter.

Colt drops his fork. “Fucking knew it!”

Soul whistles. “Damn, that’s the breakfast of champions right there.”

“And that’s why his skin’s still tight,” Iron adds with a smirk. “Collagen replenishment, baby.”

I shake my head, but my lips twitch. Can’t help it.

I glance at Nyxa out of the corner of my eye, cheeks redder than the coals in the barbecue. She’s got a death grip on her fork and looks like she wants to either melt into the chair or stab me with it.

Cute.

She’s sitting beside me, tucked into the curve of my arm like always, plate barely touched. Her smile’s there, but it’s thinner now. Eyes downcast.

“Something wrong?” I murmur against her temple, low enough that the others don’t hear.

She blinks fast. “No. Just a bit tired.”

Lie.

But she leans up, presses a soft kiss to my cheek, and slips from the bench before I can call her out on it.

I watch her disappear toward the tables.

“She kissed you like she was saying goodbye,” Soul drawls from across the picnic table.

I arch a brow. “The fuck does that mean?”

He sips his beer with a grin. “Means you’re in trouble, Prez.”

I grunt but don’t argue. Doesn’t feel like a fight, feels more like something’s simmering under her skin. Something she doesn’t know how to say.

Not yet.

Around midday the girls are over by the barbecue, seasoning steaks like a damn army unit. Tornado’s already on his third beer, shirt half unbuttoned, sunglasses on like he’s at the beach. Prospects are tripping over themselves trying to help, and one takes a nosedive over a bench, sending a plate of hotdog buns flying.

Colt doubles over laughing. “That’s it, someone cut his patch out of a cereal box.”

I shake my head, grinning, and finish my drink. The weight in my chest’s been there for so long I almost don’t notice when it’s gone. For once, my mind’s not spinning with numbers, shipments, safety protocols, enemies in the dark.

For once, I feel… peaceful.

The grill sizzles when I toss on a few ribeyes. Smoke curls up, blending with the music pumping low from the speakers, some gritty old rock track that vibrates down to the boots, and then I hear it. The laughter. Soft and pure and wrapped in something I haven’t heard from her before.

Joy.

I glance up and there she is. Barefoot on the grass, spinning slowly with two toddlers holding each of her hands, letting them lead her in a clumsy little dance to the music. Her flowery dress billows around her knees, and the way her head tips back when she laughs.

Fuck me.

I don’t think she even knows what she looks like right now. No fear or hesitation, just light. Like something cracked open and let the sun pour out of her.

And that’s when it hits me. A truth I’ve been dodging since the second I saw her wrapped in that damn towel back at the hotel. She doesn’t belong behind locked doors. She belongs on a stage. In a studio, spinning, moving, free.

I blink, and my heart gives one heavy, unfamiliar beat.

“North?” Iron calls out, throwing a pack of sausages toward me.

I catch it without taking my eyes off her.

And I can’t help but think that maybe it’s time I give her more than safety. Maybe it’s time I give her back to herself.

I flip the steaks one last time and smirk to myself, satisfied.

Then I spot Iron, leaned against the railing with a smug-ass grin plastered on his face, the kind that makes me want to bury him in the pit instead of the burgers.

“What?” I bark without looking at him, already knowing he’s up to no good.

He strolls over, eyes dancing with amusement. “She wants to work?”

“She told you?” I arch a brow.

“Nope. You just did.” He grins like a fucking Cheshire cat. “In the hood or out?”

I grunt, flipping a burger and ignoring the question.

“You trust her enough to let her out alone?” he presses.

The meat sizzles but the question lands harder than I expect.

Do I?

Not just because she’s mine, not in a romantic hearts-and-roses kind of way, but because she’s under my roof, my protection. My responsibility.

Fuck.

“I don’t know,” I admit through my teeth.

Iron lets out a low whistle, claps me on the shoulder. “Man... you're in so much trouble.”

“For what?” I snap, already annoyed.

But the bastard just walks away, laughing like he knows something I don’t.

I shake my head, going back to the grill when I hear soft steps behind me. Vera. Holding a lemonade and looking like she’s been chewing on something for too long.

“Spit it out,” I mutter.

“You talk to her?” she asks, almost careful.

“About?”

She exhales like I’m the dumbest man alive. “About it being your birthday.”

I frown. “What about it?”

“She didn’t know, North.” Her voice is soft but sure. “She found out from us. You have any idea what that feels like? Finding out from someone else that your man’s birthday is today?”

I open my mouth. Then shut it.

Shit.

The realization hits like a crowbar to the gut. “I’m not her man, Eva.”

“Yeah, sure.” She scoffs. “That’s why you don’t look for us to cook, clean, do laundry, not that we’re complaining about it, nor to put up a show for you.” She grins at me. “I bet you haven’t touched any other woman either.”

“Eva…”

“I know, you’re right, but that possessive look, Prez, tells more than you want to admit.” She moves away leaving me alone with her fucking words.

I wipe my hands on a towel, toss it on the table, and stride across the lawn, cutting through the chatter and laughter until I spot her.

Sitting under the gazebo, sipping iced tea, smiling too sweetly. Too fake.

“Come with me,” I say, voice low but firm.

She follows me a few steps away from the crowd, arms crossed.

“You mad at me?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Why should I be?”

Bullshit.

“Firefly…” I growl.

“Rule one,” she murmurs. “Don’t lie. I know.”

She lowers her eyes and it guts me.

I rub my jaw. “Look, Nyxa. I forgot. I don’t make a thing out of this day. Never have. Everyone else knows because it spread years ago. I didn’t tell you… not ’cause I didn’t want to. I just…forgot.” It sounds lame even to my ears. She scoffs, turns her face away like that’ll hide how tight her jaw is. “I’ve gotten used to having you around, alright? Part of the family. Didn’t even think about it.”

“Am I?” she asks, voice soft but steady. “Part of the family?”

I don’t hesitate. “You can bet your sweet ass you are, Firefly.”

And fuck me, that’s the truth.

Her shoulders ease a little, and she looks back up at me. “I didn’t get you a gift.”

“Who fucking cares?” I bark out a laugh and drape my arm around her shoulder, pulling her into my side. “You’re here. That’s more than enough.”

She laughs. Head tossed back, eyes lit up like I’ve handed her the world and damn it if the sound doesn’t punch a hole straight through my chest.

I glance down at her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Am I still in trouble?”

She smirks. “Only a little.”

That laugh again, rich, unfiltered, real.

And I don’t say it out loud, but right then? It feels like the best fucking birthday gift I’ve ever had.

Chapter 15

Nyxa

There’s something freeing about knowing no one expects you to crumble anymore.

Morning finds me tangled in the sheets, my body still heavy with the memory of him. Last night lingers in the quiet places and for once, the memories don’t make me want to disappear. They make me feel real.

I don’t know if that means anything to him. But it meant something to me.

It’s not love. He made that clear. But it’s something, and right now, something is more than I’ve ever had.

The days start to fall into rhythm.

I help the Candies with errands and even get pulled into the clubhouse’s book club by Eve and Maeve. They’re loud, nosy, and full of stories I didn’t ask for, but I like it. I crave it.

Belonging.

Sometimes, I catch myself laughing. Like I used to before the world stole all the air from my lungs.

New prospects came in, young, eager, and cocky. One of them tries to flirt with me while I’m helping Soul carry some inventory into storage.

“Need help with that, sweetheart?” one says, throwing on a smile that’s all teeth and no substance.

Before I can answer, Soul chimes in from the other end of the hallway. “Careful, Prospect. That one bites.”

The prospect just laughs. “She can bite me anytime.”

I shoot Soul a look. He’s grinning like a damn fool.

“I’m Prez’s property,” I say, loud enough that it echoes.

Dead silence. The prospect stiffens, color draining from his face. Soul lets out a bark of laughter.

“Oof. Rookie mistake. You’ll learn.”

The poor guy stammers out an apology, fumbling to back away like I just turned into a grenade with the pin pulled.

Saying those words out loud hits different. Because I didn’t say it to get them off my back. I said it because part of me wants it to be true.

I want to be his.

Even if he doesn’t believe in love, even if he won’t say it back, I’d wear his name like armor.

Later, while folding laundry in the room, I find myself holding one of his shirts again. The one that says President’s Property across the back in bold white letters.

It’s soft and worn and smells like him.

Maybe it’s time to wear it again. So no one else tries to claim what isn’t theirs and maybe to remind him I already know where I belong.

My phone buzzes and I smile before I even answer. “Hey, trouble.”

Her laugh crackles through the line. “Look who’s suddenly all sunshine and sass. What’d they spike your coffee with over there?”

“Maybe just a little peace of mind.”

“Ohhh,” she draws out dramatically. “Someone finally got laid.”

“Di!” I choke, laughing.

“What? Don’t act innocent. Your voice has a whole new octave of ‘I’ve seen heaven.’ Spill.”

“I’m not spilling anything,” I say, tugging a dishrag off the counter. “Besides, North would kill me.”

“Oh, so it’s North now. Not Prez. Not ‘the intimidating asshole who doesn’t do love’?”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “He’s still all of that.”

“And you’re still avoiding the question.”

“I’m fine. We’re… fine.”

“That’s vague. Suspiciously vague. I want juicy details. Is he romantic in the sheets or all growl and grunt?”

I laugh again. “I plead the fifth.”

“That means yes. God, I knew it. I knew he had a tongue that could write poetry.”

“Denise!” My cheeks are on fire.

She snorts. “Girl, please. I’ve seen the man. If he isn’t writing symphonies between your thighs, I’m starting a riot.”

“Okay, you need to hang up and go touch some grass.”

“Touch North, you mean.”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “I’m not giving you any more details. You know I don’t talk about that stuff.”

She softens. “Yeah, I know. Just had to try.”

There’s a pause, one of those comfortable silences that only comes when someone’s known you too long.

“You happy?” she asks finally.

I don’t answer right away. I glance at the shirts I’m folding. “Yeah,” I breathe, “for the first time in a long time… I think I might be.”

“Good,” she says. “You deserve it. Just remember, if he ever hurts you, I know people.”

“You are people.”

“Exactly.”

We both laugh.

“I’ll call next week.”

“You better. And give North a pat on the back for me. Or a slap on the ass. Whichever feels more appropriate.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“You adore me.”

I smile. “Always.”

When I hang up, the smile lingers. For the first time in years, someone is asking about me just because they care, and I’m not hiding anymore.

The knock on the door makes my stomach twist. I glance at the time and curse. I got so wrapped up in the call and the morning chores I didn’t realize the hour.

The therapy sessions have been helpful, more than I ever want to admit. Maeve has this way of asking questions that don’t just peel back layers… they expose wounds I didn’t even know I was hiding.

I let her in, and we settle into the living room. It’s warm, safe, and home.

“You seem brighter,” Maeve starts, watching me like she always does, calm, curious, never judging.

I nod. “I think I am. I laugh now, don’t flinch as much as I used to and I sleep.”

She waits. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just gives me space.

“I even… trust him,” I admit.

Her smile is soft. “North?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how, but I do. I shouldn’t. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know what kind of world this is. What kind of man he is.”

“But?”

I shrug, staring down at my hands. “He doesn’t look at me like I’m weak. Or like I’m broken. He… sees me.”

Maeve leans in slightly. “And how does that make you feel?”

“It terrifies me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m starting to feel like I belong here. Like… like I want to stay.”

She’s quiet again. Then leans back in the armchair. “Would that be so bad?”

“I never planned to.” Especially since North told me he’s not someone who does relationships. “I thought this was temporary. A stop between disasters.”

“But now?”

“I don’t know. It feels like more, and I hate that it does.”

“Because it gives someone power over you.”

“Exactly.”

Maeve studies me carefully. “Nyxa, do you think you love him?”

“I don’t believe in love,” I answer too fast.

She raises a brow. “That sounds like fear, not certainty.”

I blink, and my chest tightens.

“Have you talked to him about staying?”

“No.” What if he says no? What if he’s just waiting to set me free when he thinks I’m okay?

Maeve frowns. “Do you want to leave?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Then tell him that.”

I snap my eyes up at her. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because this… all of this… it’s the first time I’ve had something good, and I’m scared that the moment I say I want it, it’ll be taken away.”

The tears well without warning, and I wipe them away fast.

“Nyxa,” Maeve says gently, “you’ve been surviving for so long you forgot what it feels like to live. But that’s what this is: living, wanting, hoping. Even when it’s messy.”

I don’t respond. I can’t.

I’m not afraid of North walking away.

I’m terrified he won’t ask me to stay.

I try to play it cool. Smile like nothing’s wrong. Move through the kitchen like Maeve didn’t just crack something open inside me and leave it bleeding on the damn floor.

“What would your future look like… if you decided to leave?”

That’s what she asks like it's a simple exercise. Like she isn’t detonating something deep inside my chest.

I laugh it off at first. “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. Like I believe it.

But Maeve’s silence says otherwise.

Now, the house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that crawls under your skin and picks at old wounds.

What if North tells me I’m free?

The thought slams into me like a freight train, and I freeze, fingers tightening around the mug I haven’t even sipped from. My hands shake. I lie to myself, say it’s low blood sugar. But I know better.

The fear is there, loud and sharp and choking.

He’s never promised me forever. He’s never promised me anything. And I’ve been so damn happy pretending this was enough that I didn’t realize I was banking everything on a man who’s said more than once that love isn’t something in his book.

My pulse thunders in my ears. The kitchen tilts sideways and I set the mug down before I drop it. I grip the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Maeve didn’t mean it like that. She was trying to help. Trying to make me think of my own future. She said it was healthy.

But it doesn’t feel healthy. It feels like betrayal.

To him. To me. To everything we’ve built between these walls.

I can’t imagine a future without him in it. I don’t want to.

But what if he does?

What if he looks me in the eye and says it’s time to go?

The thought is so vicious I lose my breath. My knees buckle, and I drop. My palms slap the cold floor and I curl forward, pressing my arms around my stomach, trying to hold myself together.

My chest heaves. I can’t catch my breath.

It’s like breathing through a straw, sharp, shallow, useless.

If he lets me go… where would I go? I have no home. No savings. No job. No plan.

Just him. Just this life he’s let me have for a little while. A borrowed existence. One I was stupid enough to believe might be permanent.

A sob breaks through and I gasp, trying to silence it, but it’s too late. My whole body trembles as the tears pour out, hot and endless. My vision blurs and the coffee I spilled earlier spreads like a stain, just inches from my hands.

I don’t even clean it.

I just stay there, knees on the tile, heart in my throat, mind spinning so fast I can’t keep up. Can’t breathe. Can’t stop imagining a door closing behind me.

Maeve said I should build something for myself. Find a path. Learn to stand on my own. But I don’t want to stand alone. And the fear of being told I have to guts me.

I press my forehead to the floor, trying to ride it out, the way she taught me.

In through the nose.

Out through the mouth.

But it’s no use. I’m already drowning in the idea of being forgotten. Of being… nothing.

The first time I walk into the training gym for self-defense classes, I feel like an impostor. Not because I don’t belong but because this isn’t the version of me I’m used to.

This version isn’t caged. She’s not afraid of taking up space. She’s curious. A little shaky. But she showed up. I showed up.

“North’s orders,” Julie, one of the candies, smirks as she ties her laces next to me. “Mandatory for all the girls. Even if we never have to use it, we learn. A few minutes can make the difference.”

I nod, absorbing her words. They echo with weight I understand all too well.

Pain, I know. It’s carved into my memory, but this might be the first time my body learns something else. Strength.

New prospects come in. Each candy gets paired up, trained and flirty, throwing their weight around. Some girls tease, others stay chill. I get paired with a man named Jude.

He’s lean, but solid. Looks more quiet than cocky, but still grins like trouble. “You look like you could break someone,” he says as we square off.

“Only if they deserve it,” I shoot back.

“Good answer.”

We warm up. I’m shaky at first, trying to remember how to stand, how to hold my weight. But Jude’s patient. Not soft, not condescending. Just solid.

“Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. Hands up like this—see?” He adjusts my wrist. “Fist loose. Thumb outside. Don’t break your own damn fingers.”

I nod.

We practice strikes: elbow to jaw, palm to nose, heel to groin. My muscles scream, but I keep going.

“Again,” Jude says. “Harder.”

I think of Myka: his laugh, touch, the pills, the leash.

I scream inside. And I hit.

The sound of flesh on padding echoes loud. My whole arm burns.

Jude steps back and whistles. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

“Too late,” I mutter.

By the time class ends, I’m drenched in sweat, breathing hard. But something inside me clicks into place.

I didn’t freeze.

I fought.

And when I walk out, North’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching me like he sees every bit of that fire I’m just starting to see in myself.

“Hit anyone?”

“Jude.”

“He still breathing?”

“Regretfully.”

He smirks and pulls me into his side. “Good.”

His hand lingers a little longer. His eyes burn a little deeper.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like prey. I feel like a fucking storm.

Chapter 16

North

The new prospects are giving me a fucking headache. Especially when rumor has it, one of them tried to hit up on Nyxa. Soul told me how proud she was of saying she’s my property. I know why it happened. They don’t see us much together and it’s my fault.

Those kiddos are rookies with loud mouths, twitchy hands, and too much testosterone for their own good. I’ve been drilling rules into them for days, and it still feels like trying to tattoo discipline onto wet concrete. One of them called Maeve a ‘sweet piece’ yesterday when she came for the last update on the sessions with Nyxa. By the time I was done, he couldn’t sit straight. The message was clear: in this club, you respect women, or you bleed.

Between that and the usual shit, the shipments, the security upgrades, the Wolves' latest drama, I’ve barely seen Nyxa.

And yeah, it eats at me, but the hood comes first.

She knows that. She’s seen it. Still, the guilt clings like smoke.

By the time I finally drag my ass back home, it’s past dinner time.

I climb the stairs and unlock the door, expecting silence. She’s usually lost in some book. Instead, I find her on the couch.

The glow from the TV paints her in soft gold. Her knees are tucked to her chest, a blanket draped over her legs. Her eyes are glued to the monitor.

I don’t move.

I just watch.

On the screen, a woman glides across an ice rink, elegant and fierce. She’s spinning, arms slicing the air like a warrior in silk. The announcer says her name: Ashley. Rock’s wife.

Nyxa’s lip trembles.

And something inside me splinters.

I clear my throat, stepping closer. Her head jerks toward me, surprise flashing in her expression before she wipes her cheeks and reaches for the remote, and her eyes—fuck. Red-rimmed. Wet.

“Didn’t know you were home,” she says, voice small.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She shrugs, trying for casual, but she can’t quite hide it. That ache. That longing.

I nod toward the screen. “She’s good.”

“She’s incredible,” Nyxa whispers, and her voice breaks around it.

I sit down beside her, not touching, but close enough she knows I’m there. “You ever think about it?” I ask.

“About what?”

“Opening your own dance school.”

She laughs, but there’s no joy in it but disbelief. “I don’t have qualifications. No training. Just a box of old trophies I barely remember winning that; I’m sure my mother threw away.”

I watch her face, the way she tries to shut it down before it opens too wide. “Bullshit,” I say. “You danced with those toddlers like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

She blinks.

“You were glowing, Firefly.”

Silence stretches between us.

“I don’t have the money,” she finally says. “And I’m not asking for yours.”

I don’t answer that. Not yet. Because it’s not about money. It’s about her finally wanting something for herself and me realizing how fucking much I want to give it to her.

She pulls the blanket tighter, like it can shield her from this conversation. “I sent out some applications,” she says quietly, eyes still locked on the now-muted screen. “A bakery in town. And a dance school downtown. The bakery turned me down, said I didn’t have experience. The dance school didn’t even bother replying.”

My jaw ticks. She never told me. Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t even want me to know.

I stare at her a moment longer, weighing every word. I know the bakeries in town. Know the owners. They’ve been under our protection since before I patched in. One call, one fucking visit, and she’d have had that job in a heartbeat.

But that’s not what this is about. It’s not rejection that’s eating her, it’s what she believes that rejection means.

“That pisses me off.”

She tenses, her shoulders pulling up. “You think I shouldn’t have applied or should’ve asked you to come with me?”

“No,” I reply. “I think it pisses me off that you didn’t think you could.”

She turns her head toward me, face unreadable. “It’s not about that. I didn’t want anyone giving me a job because I’m under the Saints'’ roof.”

Under me, I almost say. My cut, my name, my protection.

Instead, I nod once. “So it’s about independence.”

She hesitates, then nods.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I’ve seen the change, Nyxa. You’ve been… brighter. Stronger. And I thought that was just you healing, but now I wonder if this place is starting to feel too tight for you.”

Her lips part, but she says nothing. The scared look on her face says she didn’t get what I'm trying to make her understand.

I don’t press.

Instead, I breathe out slow. “Then go get what you need.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not taking your money.”

Fuck.

I clench my jaw, stare at the blank TV. “I’m not offering a handout, Firefly. I’m giving you a fucking greenlight. You want the qualifications? Go get ’em. Want a job? Fine. I’ll stay out of it. But don’t think for a second I’m not gonna push you when I see you giving up before you’ve even tried.”

“I’m not giving up…”

“You are,” I interrupt. “You’re letting what you don’t have outweigh what you do. That’s not you. Not anymore.”

She swallows hard. I catch the way her fingers twist into the blanket.

“Why does it matter so much to you?” she whispers.

If I say it, if I even touch the truth of what she’s becoming to me, it’ll change everything.

And I’m not ready for that.

Not yet.

“Because I’ve watched you claw your way out of hell, Nyxa. If you’re reaching for something better, I’ll be damned if I let anyone, or anything, keep you from it.”

Her eyes shine again, but this time not with sorrow. With fire. With that fight I saw the first time she looked me in the eye and didn’t flinch.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll look into the courses. But I’m paying for them. You got that?”

I smirk. “You’re stubborn.”

“You like that.”

I don’t deny it.

I reach over and brush her hair behind her ear, watching the stubborn set of her jaw. And even though I don’t say a word more—she knows. Because if she jumps, I’ll be the one making sure she lands.

“Get ready, we head to the BB in ten.”

“Okay, Prez.” She shoots me a grin over the shoulder.

Once we get there, Nyxa slips off to chat with Soul’s sister near the bar while I head toward the back. Music thrums low, the vibe easy and slow. It’s one of those nights where the weight of the patch doesn’t press so hard on my shoulders.

That’s when an idea hits. Let’s see where her insecurities stand. I text Eva but she looks puzzled at my request.

Eva: Too much booze, Prez?

Beatrice is leaning against the bar, sipping from a bottle of cider like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She’s one of the newer candies. Pretty, all legs and thick lashes, but not even a flicker of interest stirs in me.

I motion her over.

She grins and walks up, slow and sweet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Eva behind the bar. She sees Beatrice approaching and immediately starts shaking her head like she’s about to witness a crime scene. My phone buzzes a second later.

Eva: You’re on your own. I like breathing.

I smirk.

Yeah, Nyxa's claws are sharp, if she ever decides to use them, but Eva’s exaggerating.

Mostly.

“Prez,” Beatrice purrs, eyes bright. “You called?”

I pat my thigh. “Sit.”

She does. One leg crosses over the other, one arm drapes over my shoulder. Nails painted deep red, perfume sharp enough to burn the air. Her fingertips brush my chest like she’s testing how far she can go without getting slapped down.

I feel nothing. Not a damn thing moves below my belt. Because it’s not her.

“How’s the hood treating you?” I ask, voice flat.

Her smile is slow. “Better now.” She taps my cut with a finger, lingering near my patch. “Feels… safer with you around.”

I keep my gaze steady on hers. “You need anything, you speak up. That clear?”

“Mm.” She tilts her head, nails tracing down my sternum like she’s sketching something there. “Not sure there’s anything I need that isn’t already right here.”

I glance toward the far end of the bar, and there she is. Her smile dies the second she clocks Beatrice on my lap. Her steps don’t speed up, but her eyes are fucking fire. My firefly’s fuse is burning, and I don’t move Bea. I want to see how far Nyxa’s gonna let this go before she makes her claim loud enough for the whole damn place to hear.

She stalks over, cool and deadly, her voice slicing through the air. “Move your ass off his lap, Bea.” There’s no room for negotiation in her tone. Heads spin toward us.

Beatrice practically levitates off me, scrambling away like she just realized she sat on a fucking landmine.

Nyxa steps in, eyes still locked on Beatrice’s back. She hops up on the counter next to me with zero grace and zero shame, then spreads her legs wide, planting her boots on the edge of my seat so I’ve got no choice but to settle between them.

She uses her thighs like armrests, completely owning the space.

Her chin tips down just enough to meet my eyes.

I’m fucking gone.

“Jealous?” I ask, loving the way she’s trying to act like she’s not fuming.

“Please.” She scoffs. “I’m just protecting what’s mine.”

The words hang in the air. She blinks, like they snuck past her lips before she could reel them back. I cup the back of her head, and crush my mouth to hers. It’s not gentle. It’s a claim.

Her lips part, hungry and wild, and the second her tongue tangles with mine, I feel it. The shift. The heat. Her thighs clamp tighter around me, and I swear her whole body buzzes against mine.

I pull back just enough to look her in the eye. “Your pussy throbbing for me, Firefly?” I whisper. “Greedy for my cock already?”

Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and her body arches toward me without even thinking.

She doesn’t answer. So I press, smirking. “Say it.”

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it punches straight to my gut.

Fuck yes. That’s all I need.

I make her sit on my lap and get up, lifting her like she weighs nothing. She squeals, wrapping her arms around my neck, laughing, but I don’t stop.

“Where the hell are you taking me?” she laughs, breathless.

“Need to taste what’s mine.” I grunt.

The whistles in the bar makes me grin like a fool.

“North!” She'se hides her face in my neck.

I squeeze her ass. “Try and stop me, Firefly.”

I kick the office door shut with my boot and set her on the desk, papers scattering to the floor.

She’s still laughing, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like she’s been running. But when I step between her thighs and grip her hips, the laughter dies. Her lips part, her gaze drops to my mouth, and that’s it. I drag my tongue along the seam of her lips before claiming her again, deeper this time. Her fingers fist in my cut, nails digging through the leather. I break away just long enough to yank her jeans down and off, leaving her in nothing but those tiny black panties she adores.

“You do this to me,” I growl, dragging my fingers along her inner thigh, watching her shiver. “Walk around all night like you don’t know you own me.”

Her breath hitches when I slip my hand under the lace, feeling just how wet she is.

She gasps, clutching the edge of the desk. “North.”

I sink to my knees and hook her legs over my shoulders, tearing the panties down with my teeth. The second my mouth is on her, she arches hard, her head falling back, the sweetest, filthiest moan spilling from her throat.

Her taste—fucking Christ. I could drown in it.

I work her with my tongue and lips, holding her down when she tries to squirm away. Every breath is a plea, every sound a crack in my armor.

And then she screams my name.

Not a whimper or a moan. A scream, raw and desperate. It hits me like a fucking bullet.

Something inside me surges, something I don’t want to name. It’s not just lust, it’s a bone-deep need to give her everything, to keep her like this, wrecked and wild for me alone.

And it terrifies me. I’ve spent my whole life believing love makes you weak. That needing someone is a death sentence. But right now? Hearing my name rip from her throat like that… I’d burn the whole goddamn world just to make her say it again.

I push two fingers inside her, curling them just right, my tongue never slowing. She cries out, clutching my head, and I know she’s close.

“Come for me, Firefly,” I order against her clit. “Now.”

Her body obeys before her mind can catch up, she shatters, clenching around my fingers, her scream echoing off the office walls.

I stay there, tasting every last drop of her release until she’s shaking, breathless, her thighs trembling against my shoulders.

When I finally stand, her eyes are glassy, lips swollen, skin flushed. And the only thought pounding in my skull is mine. Even if that truth scares the living hell out of me.

Her breathing’s still ragged, chest rising fast, eyes locked on me like I’m her next breath.

Before I can say a damn word, she fists my cut and yanks me closer, her other hand already tugging at my belt with that single-minded determination that’s dangerous as hell. The buckle pops open, the metallic click loud, and then she’s dragging the zipper down, slow, deliberate, knuckles brushing over the thick line of me through my jeans.

Fuck.

My cock jerks at the contact, the barbell piercing catching just enough to make my whole body throb.

Don’t do this, my head warns. Don’t let her in deeper.

But my body’s a traitor, leaning into her touch.

She smiles up at me, that dark, knowing curve of her lips. “Missed this.”

I don’t even remember when I tore those panties off her earlier, only that they’re lying shredded on the floor now, no barrier left between her and what she wants.

She slides her hand inside my jeans, wrapping around me, thumb brushing over the piercing with a slow drag that makes my knees lock to keep me upright.

“Nyxa,” I growl, my forehead dropping to hers.

Her grip tightens. “Say it again.” Such a fucking naughty brat.

“Nyxa.” This time it’s a warning. A plea. A fucking prayer.

She smirks like she knows she’s winning. “Fuck me, North.”

That’s it. I shove my jeans down just far enough and hook my hands under her thighs, lifting her and pinning her to the wall. Her bare heat presses against me, slick and ready, and when I push into her in one hard thrust, she breaks, head thrown back, body arching, screaming my name. The sound… fuck. That sound lodges somewhere deep inside me where nothing and no one gets in. I move in her, each stroke hitting deep, the piercing dragging along her walls, making her nails dig into my shoulders. She’s gasping, moaning, holding on like she’ll never let go. And I’m pounding into her like I’m trying to erase something. Only I’m not. I’m branding it in deeper.

Her lips crash into mine, desperate, teeth scraping my bottom lip. I swallow her moan and thrust harder, needing to hear it again, needing her to say my name like that until the world fucking ends.

When she comes, clenching around me, crying out “North” in that broken, reverent way, it hits me—this is new. This is dangerous. Because it’s not the sex, not the sound. It’s that some twisted part of me wants to keep her screaming my name like that for the rest of her life.

It terrifies me.

So I hold her tighter. I bury my face in her neck, groan her name against her skin, and let go with her.

Chapter 17

Nyxa

The rejection emails blur together now.

We’ve decided to move forward with another candidate.

Unfortunately, your experience does not align with our requirements.

Thank you for your interest, but…

I slam my cell phone on the couch before I can read the rest. My chest feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, each refusal tightening it.

It’s the same damn story every time, no experience, no qualifications. Like the years I spent dancing, the medals, the hell I crawled out of, don’t count for shit.

Word spreads fast in the clubhouse that the BB’s looking for a new bartender, and for a few minutes, I actually let myself hope. It’s here. It’s close. It’s something.

I find Iron in the back lot of the clubhouse, wiping down his bike. “Hey,” I say, forcing myself to sound casual. “I heard you’re looking for a new bartender.”

He smirks before I even finish. “We are.”

“Give me a shot.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and then he laughs, loud enough to draw a few curious glances. “Yeah, sure. You behind the bar? Place would shut down in a week.”

I cross my arms. “Why?”

“Because, sweetheart, if anyone so much as looked at you wrong, half the men in here would start digging graves.” He leans closer. “And the other half would be in them.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “That’s exaggerated.”

“It’s reality.” He still grins like this is funny. “Talk to North if you really want it. But,” he tilts his head, “don’t think Prez would let you work behind a bar full of drunk assholes who’d spend the night trying to get in your panties.”

His words dig under my skin like splinters. I want to snap that North and I aren’t even together in that way, or at least not officially, but the truth is murkier than I want to admit.

I walk away before my pride makes me say something I can’t take back. I wander back into the Blacktope Blood area, my steps lighter than my mood. The music’s low, a lazy hum under the chatter, and the smell of fried food lingers in the air. A few of the Candies are gathered at a corner table, counting cash from the afternoon poker game.

“Hey, future bartender!” Cherry calls, grinning like she just solved world hunger.

“Future unemployed, more like,” I mutter, sliding into the booth beside her.

“What happened?”

I shrug, fiddling with a stray beer coaster. “Iron thinks I’m too much of a liability.”

“Meaning?” Jules asks, already smirking.

“Meaning apparently if a guy so much as looks at me wrong, we’ll have bodies stacked like firewood out back.” I roll my eyes, but my tone is brittle. “Guess I’m too dangerous for customer service.”

They all laugh, but it’s not mean, it’s the kind of laugh that says they get it. They’ve heard the same crap, lived the same crap.

“Sweetheart, behind this bar, you wouldn’t have to pour a single drink,” Cherry says. “Half these guys would line up just to hand you their wallets.”

“Yeah.” I force a smile. “But I’m not trying to start a savings account with someone else’s blood money.”

Jules leans back, eyeing me over the rim of her beer. “So what’s the plan, then?”

“I’ve got a plan.” My voice is steady, even though the truth is I’m just stringing stubbornness into something that sounds like certainty. “Save up. Take some courses. Get my dance qualifications. I’m not asking North to foot the bill.”

“You could, though,” Cherry says softly. “Ask him.”

I shake my head before she even finishes. “I can’t. He’s done more than I deserve.” The words taste sharp on my tongue, bitter.

They don’t push.

Instead, Jules smirks and nudges me with her shoulder. “Well, if you change your mind, you can always join my side hustle. Pays cash, no experience necessary, and the clients tip better than most of the guys in here.”

I snort. “Please tell me it’s not stripping.”

“Exotic cardio,” she deadpans, and we all laugh, the sound spilling over the table like a relief valve.

But when they turn back to counting bills and swapping stories, I lean back in the booth, my smile still fixed but my mind a thousand miles away.

Every rejection email, every polite no, every job that won’t give me a chance, it’s starting to pile up. And I hate how much it feels like I’m standing still while the whole damn world keeps moving.

I want a life that’s mine. I just don’t know if I’ll get it without him.

And that scares me more than I want to admit.

By the time I leave the clubhouse, the air is getting chilly that makes you pull your jacket tighter even if you’re not cold.

North’s at the far end of the room when I glance back, arms crossed, head bent toward Rook and Soul, deep in whatever business the Saints' are chewing over tonight.

I tell myself I’m fine with slipping out without saying goodbye.

It’s not a lie, exactly.

The walk home feels longer than it should. Every step is a chance for my mind to chew on itself—on the rejections, the stupid pride, the way I keep building this wall between myself and asking for help.

The house is quiet when I step inside. I kick my boots off at the door, drop my jacket over the back of the couch, and head for the kitchen.

That’s when I see it.

A folder. A laptop. And a neat stack of glossy flyers spread across the table like someone laid out a hand of cards.

I freeze.

The flyers are for courses, both online and in-person. Dance pedagogy. Studio management. Early childhood movement education. The kind of qualifications the schools kept telling me I didn’t have.

The prices make my stomach drop. They’re not just expensive—they’re the kind of numbers you don’t even say out loud unless you’ve already made peace with the debt.

Right in the middle of it all, on top of the folder, is a yellow sticky note in his sharp, blocky handwriting. Two words: Do it.

My throat closes up before I can even blink.

The first tear slips hot down my cheek, then another, until I’m gripping the edge of the table just to keep from falling apart.

I’d been so sure he didn’t care. That if he wanted to help me, he would’ve already. That he was too busy, too distracted, too wrapped up in the hood. But he’d been giving me space. Letting me decide for myself.

And then showing me—without fanfare or a speech—that he’s there. Even through my stubbornness. Especially through it.

I swipe at my cheeks, but more tears follow.

The laptop’s already on, screen glowing with a blank application page. I sit down and start typing. Not just one form, but three. Every school that’s even remotely possible, I’m filling it in. My fingers hover over the last box, the one asking for a reference. A pocket name. I stare at it for a solid minute before I realize I can’t put North.

Looking through the tabs I realize he made sure to research everything, even on how to run a dance school. Licensing. Insurance. Rent. Mirrors. Floors. The whole damn thing.

Even if the thought of telling him thank you makes my chest ache in ways I don’t have words for.

When the door opens, I jump a little. He steps inside, his eyes flick over the table and that smirk tugs at his mouth. Not the smug, I’ve got you cornered one. The softer one. The one that’s dangerous because it feels like it sees too much.

“You filling them out?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, chewing the inside of my cheek. “But they need a real name. Yours.”

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s weighing something. Then he leans against the counter, arms crossed, and says, “Vincent. Vincent Addare.”

I repeat it under my breath, letting it roll on my tongue. Vincent. It fits him, sharp and solid, but somehow softer than North. “I like it.”

Something flickers in his eyes before he looks away. “Use it. Makes it official.”

I nod, but the guilt gnaws at me until I blurt, “It’s a loan. I’ll pay you back.”

The corner of his mouth curves into a smirk that says he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Sure you will, Firefly.”

“I mean it, Vince,” I press, and my chest does a strange little flip at the way he watches me when I say it. Oh, shit.

He steps closer, palms braced on either side of my chair, crowding into my space until my heartbeat is a drumline in my ears. “And I’m serious when I say you’re not paying me back.”

I try to glare. It comes out more like a pout. “You can’t just…”

“Yeah, I can.” His voice dips, final, and then he straightens. “C’mon. Grab your jacket.”

“What? Why?”

“Need to clear my head. We’re going for a ride.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the back of his bike, arms wrapped tight around his waist. The engine’s deep rumble settles somewhere low in my stomach, a constant vibration that makes it impossible not to melt against him.

The wind whips my hair into tangles, stings my cheeks, and steals every thought except one: I could stay like this forever.

He’s different tonight. His hand leaves the throttle more than once to skim down my thigh, fingers splayed warm and possessive through my leggings. Once, he runs his knuckles up the inside of my arm, slow enough that goosebumps explode across my skin.

By the time we pull off onto a dirt track and wind through a tunnel of trees, I’m practically humming from the mix of adrenaline and something a hell of a lot more dangerous.

We stop in a small clearing lit only by moonlight. There’s a bluff at the edge, the whole city sprawling below like a bed of fallen stars.

I swing off the bike, helmet in hand, and just… stare. “This is beautiful.”

He shrugs, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. “Come here when I need to shut the world out.”

It’s not lost on me what it means for him to bring me here. This isn’t the bar, or the clubhouse, or even the house. This is his.

I step closer and tug lightly at the leather of his cut, testing the boundary.

His brow cocks. “You trying to steal this off me?”

“Maybe.” My voice is lighter than I feel.

He stares for a beat, then leans in. The kiss is unhurried but deep, the kind that drags the breath right out of your lungs. His hand slides up my spine, anchoring me in place like he’s not ready to let me go.

And for once, I’m not afraid of that.

The night is still. Too still.

The engine’s off, but I swear I can still feel the hum of it under me, or maybe it’s just him. North’s body is all heat and control, caging me where I straddle his bike, the moonlight catching the hard lines of his jaw.

His place and secret. And now mine too.

He doesn’t say a word when his hands grip my hips and drag me forward, until I’m flush against the front of him. The thick ridge straining against his jeans leaves no question what he’s thinking. My breath snags, and I swear my pulse matches the phantom rumble of the Harley beneath us.

He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “Still want to play stubborn?”

A shiver slices down my spine. “That depends… on the rules.”

His low chuckle is pure sin. “The only rule is you hold on.”

Then the zipper’s down and he frees himself, and Jesus, I forget how to breathe. The metal of his piercing catches the faint light, and my thighs clench.

I’m about to move but he keeps me in place. “You won’t tear my damn leggings.”

He smirks but lets me get down and take one leg off but before getting back I bend down and grab his cock. Wrapping my lips around it makes him suck through his teeth. The reaction reaches right between my thighs. I tease the piercing with my tongue until he fists my hair and keeps me in place while fucking my mouth like a possessed man. Each thrust makes my pussy clench, feeling it get even wetter. He yanks me back and I get lost in those stormy eyes. I let some saliva drip on his dick, making him curse.

“Hop here, Firefly.”

I do because I need him deep in me.

He drags my panties aside, not tearing this time, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he fists my hair and yanks my mouth to his in a kiss that’s all teeth and claim. His other hand guides me down onto him, the blunt head stretches me, forcing me open until I take every inch.

The bike rocks under us with the force of it, the leather seat slick against my thighs. My nails dig into his cut, my forehead pressed to his as he starts to move, deep, deliberate thrusts that make the world dissolve into sound and sensation.

“Vince…” His real name slips out before I can stop it, the one I only just learned, the one that feels too intimate to say out loud.

He freezes for a second. Just one. His eyes lock on mine like I’ve just cut through every wall he’s ever built. Then he snaps his hips up, burying himself so deep I swear I see stars.

“Say it again,” he growls, voice jagged.

“Vince, oh, fuck…”

He fucks me harder, the metal of his piercing dragging against every nerve inside me, each thrust building until I’m a mess of breathless moans. The night air is cool on my overheated skin, the scent of pine mixing with leather, sweat, and him.

When it hits, it’s violent, my body seizing around him, my voice breaking into a scream that’s half pleasure, half surrender.

His own release crashes into me seconds later, a guttural sound tearing from his throat, his grip bruising on my hips as if he can keep me anchored while the world falls away.

We stay like that, breathing hard, my cheek against his shoulder, his hand still tangled in my hair. And even though he says nothing… I can feel it. Something shifted.

Chapter 18

North

The air in the clubhouse lot is heavy with engine oil and late-summer heat, the kind that makes the asphalt breathe waves.

Sweat beads at my temple before I even lift a damn finger. It slides slow down my jaw, mixing with the smell of gasoline and the faint tang of burnt coffee still in my mouth.

The prospects are loading the crates into the van like it’s their first day on a job site, jerky movements, nervous glances at me, as if I’ll snap their necks if they scuff the paint on one box.

“Handle it like it’s your dick,” Rook barks from behind, lighting a smoke. “Don’t drop it and don’t bang it into shit.”

Soul grins, leaning against his bike, sweat darkening the neckline of his cut. “That explains why the last load was late. Prospect probably had to stop halfway and cry over it.”

I ignore them and run my hand along the straps securing the crates in place. The nylon is coarse under my palm, gritty from dust. I tug hard, I want to feel that bite into my skin, then check each latch.

One of the kids hovers, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “They’re tight, Prez.”

“Check again,” I tell him without looking up, “before I make you drink it all and piss it back out.”

Rook chokes on his smoke, laughing. “Bet he’d enjoy that more than you think.”

Soul strolls over, grinning like he’s been born for trouble. “Kids ready?”

I nod toward the prospects. “They’ll be ready when I say so.”

Soul smirks. “Translation: you’re gonna ride their asses all night.”

“Part of the job,” I say, climbing onto my bike. “Better I break them than Iowa does.”

It takes another twenty minutes before I’m satisfied, van loaded tight, extra fuel strapped down, everyone armed and with comms on. I give the signal, and the row of engines growls to life like a pack of wolves waking up.

We ride out in a staggered formation, the van dead-center, my crew flanking it. Wind whips against my face, the leather of my gloves creaking as I flex my fingers on the grips. The road smells of dry wheat fields and exhaust, sharp and raw in my lungs.

Rook pulls up alongside me for a stretch, his grin splitting his face. “Feel like a field trip, Prez. You pack us juice boxes?”

“Yeah,” I shoot back. “Yours is spiked with antifreeze.”

Soul’s voice crackles over comms, lazy and deep, “Better than that protein powder Rook drinks. Smells like feet and bad chocolate.”

We roll out slow, then hit the open road, the hum deepening into a roar. The night wraps around us, a cold bite in the wind that makes my jaw ache. Iowa’s a straight shot, but I keep my eyes cutting left and right, scanning for trouble. Not our first border run, but this deep into their side? There’s a reason I brought Rook and Soul, not just muscle, but eyes I trust.

After a few miles, Rook pulls up alongside me and shouts over the wind, “Prez, you sure about this route?”

“You doubting my sense of direction?” I shout back.

“Last time you said that, we ended up in the middle of a goddamn cattle drive,” Soul cuts in from behind, laughter in his voice.

“That was once,” I bark, though the corner of my mouth twitches, “And I smoked Doc’s stuff.” Rock made sure to kick his ass but I never felt so high after a joint.

“And we still talk about it,” Rook fires back.

“Better than that time you tried to charm your way past a checkpoint and almost got us strip searched,” I shoot at him.

“Almost,” Rook says. “Keyword.”

The banter runs like this for miles: sharp, crude, familiar. It’s the kind of talk that keeps the edge off without dulling it completely. We all know what’s under it. The parts no one says out loud.

By the time the GPS pings us close to the meet point, my mood’s a steady mix of focus and suspicion. The warehouse sits like a shadow on the edge of the road, broken windows and rusted siding giving it that hollowed-out feel.

We circle once. I nod to Rook. He peels off to check the back while I take the front, Soul keeping watch near the van.

Everything looks clear.

That’s the problem.

The meet spot is a wide patch of dirt just past the Iowa line, where the road crumbles into gravel and weeds. On paper, it’s perfect, open view, no buildings close enough for a sniper to nest, horizon clear except for a few stubborn oaks. In my gut, it’s wrong.

We do a slow perimeter sweep. Tires crunch on loose stone. The air smells different here, damp, like rain that never came.

Rook calls over comms, “Perimeter clear.”

I’m not convinced.

We roll into position anyway, the van idling center, our bikes circling like dogs on a chain. The other crew’s already here: a handful of patched bastards I don’t recognize, leather stiff, eyes cold. They stand too straight, too still. No one smokes. No one laughs.

That’s the first crack in the picture.

The truck’s already there. Parked too neat. Everything is too still.

Something itches in the back of my skull.

The second comes when I clock their bikes, no road dust, like they haven’t ridden a mile to get here.

Then the wind shifts and I smell it.

Gun oil.

“Down!” I roar, but the first shot’s already tearing through the air and a prospect goes down hard, his head snapping back like a rag doll. Second one hits the other kid in the gut; he folds, screaming.

The echo turns into chaos, gunfire spraying from the dark, the metallic stench of blood flooding the air.

“Cover! Move!” I bellow, diving behind a rusted forklift. Rook’s firing back, Soul’s cursing so loud it almost drowns out the shots.

But there’s too many of them.

Too clean. Too quick.

This isn’t just a hit. It’s a setup.

A cut draped over a mirror in the shadows. Black and red. Iowa crew.

Small, dirty, desperate. And standing just beyond them, like a snake in tall grass, is Myka. He’s got that smug, lazy grin, the one that says he thinks he’s already won.

Chaos detonates.

The air fills with muzzle flashes and the metallic stench of blood. Rook’s yelling, Soul’s barking orders, but it’s swallowed by the thunder of gunfire.

The fight tightens, no room to breathe, no cover worth a damn. Soul goes down to one knee, blood running down his thigh, still firing.

Two of our own are already on the ground, not moving.

We’re losing ground, boxed in.

And then they’re on us. A blow to the back of my skull makes the world lurch. My knees hit dirt. Rough hands wrench my arms behind me, and I throw my head back, feel the crunch of bone against my skull, one bastard drops, but another slams something sharp into my neck. My fingers brush the spot and come away with a dart the size of my thumb.

The drug burns hot and instant. My pulse slams against my ribs, my vision doubling.

No.

Not here.

Not in front of them.

I keep firing, keep moving, because if I stop, if I give in, it’s over. But my arms are heavier by the second, my legs like wet sandbags.

Hands grab me. Boots slam into my ribs. My gun skitters across the floor.

I swing, elbow catching someone’s jaw with a satisfying crack but it’s sloppy. Too slow.

Another blow catches me across the temple and I stagger. My breath saws out of me. The drug’s in full swing now, buzzing in my veins, making the edges of the world shimmer.

They haul me upright, half-hanging, half-standing, my shoulders screaming from the strain. My boots barely touch the ground, enough to keep me in constant, grinding pain.

Blood drips down my face, warm trails sliding past my ear. The room sways. My vision tunnels, snapping between shadows and faces.

“Well, well,” Myka drawls, stepping out from behind a truck like he’s walking into a goddamn movie scene. His smirk is all teeth and rot. “The mighty Prez. You fight better than she did… for now.”

I lunge at him, but my body’s already betraying me. My arms jerk, slow, like I’m moving underwater.

He stops in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. “Thing about this serum? The more you fight, the faster it works. Happened to her too. Oh, she fought at first. Until she stopped. Until she started enjoying it.”

I want to rip his throat out with my teeth, but I can’t even lift my head without the chains groaning. I close my eyes, steadingingy pulse. I can’t fight him right now. But I will. I’ll tear the skin from his bones. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born. The red that floods my vision isn’t the drug. It’s pure rage. I snarl so hard it tears my throat, every muscle screaming against the poison dragging me down. “Fuck you.”

He laughs low, pats my cheek like I’m some stray dog. “You’ll get there, Prez. And I’ll enjoy watching it happen.”

I glare at him, and my pulse detonates in my ears.

My vision whites out.

Every muscle in my body’s screaming to lunge for him, to bite, to kill but the chains hold. The drug claws at my brain, slowing everything, smearing the edges of rage into something heavier.

But I feel it.

All of it.

The helplessness. The heat in my chest that isn’t fear, it’s the kind of hate that remakes you from the inside out.

I lock my eyes on his and I make a promise without saying a word.

I’m going to kill him.

Not quick. Not clean, and when it’s over, there won’t be enough of him left for the crows to fight over.

The last thing I register before the world tilts is the sound of Soul still fighting somewhere behind me, the thud of fists on flesh, Rook’s voice breaking through the haze.

Then the dirt rushes up to meet me.

And I’m gone.

Chapter 19

Nyxa

Iwake to quiet. Not the usual lazy-morning quiet where the coffee’s brewing in the kitchen and North’s heavy steps thump across the floor. This is hollow quiet. Still. Cold.

The space beside me is untouched. Sheets smooth. No trace of his warmth sinking into the mattress.

I roll over, grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen glares back at me; no missed calls, no texts. Nothing from him.

It’s not the first time he’s come in late, but he always ends up next to me by the time the sun’s up. Always.

I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the kitchen. The coffee pot is bone dry, no mug on the counter. It’s a stupid thing to notice, but the absence punches me in the chest harder than I want to admit. I pull one of his shirts and jeans before marching out the door. I pull my hair up.

The BB’s my first stop and is closed. Dark inside. That’s not right.

By the time I pull up to the clubhouse, my stomach’s a knot I can’t untangle. There’s so many bikes over here, it scares me.

The second I push the door open, the noise hits me like a wall.

Voices sharp, clipped. Boots stomping on tile. The metallic click of weapons being checked, the thud of gear dropped onto tables. The air smells like gun oil, leather, and tension.

Iron’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and commanding. “—double-check your clips. Nobody rolls out half-ready. If you’re not on my list, you’re not on the road. That’s not a debate. We’ve got twenty minutes, and if you’re late, you’re left behind.”

My gaze sweeps the room: Saints' moving like a single machine, packing ammo, strapping on cuts, slamming magazines into place. I catch words here and there. Border. Iowa. Trouble.

“Prez is missing. Him and every man who went with him.”

The words don’t make sense at first. They just hang there, twisting in my chest until the meaning slams home. My lungs seize. The edges of my vision blur. My hands go cold. The sound in the room gets louder, but it’s like I’m underwater, distorted, muffled, too far away.

I can’t breathe. I can’t…

A hand on my arm jerks me back. “Hey—hey, look at me.” It’s Eva, her brows pulled tight. “Nyxa, you can’t stay here. Breathe.”

I shake my head. No. Breathing won’t fix this. Breathing won’t put him back in this room.

I force the air in, force it out, but my legs already know what I’m going to do. Before I even think about it, I’m moving, cutting through the room, ignoring the looks, ignoring Eva calling my name, and making a straight line for Iron.

I wait until the others peel off, then plant myself in Iron’s path. “We need to talk.”

“Now’s not the time, Nyxa.”

“I’m not doing this in front of everyone, so either you take five minutes or I make a scene you won’t like.” I don’t blink. I don’t lower my voice. I just hold his gaze until his jaw ticks and he jerks his head toward the hallway.

We cut down a narrow corridor, past the armory. The second the office door shuts behind us, I’m on him.

“What the hell happened?”

His arms cross, his stance widening like he’s bracing for impact. “You don’t need…”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I need, Iron. My man is out there. Missing. And if you think I’m just gonna sit on my ass while you play hero.”

His voice rises over mine, steel and command. “This isn’t about playing the hero. It’s about keeping people alive. You step one foot where you’re not supposed to, and you’re not just a liability, you’re a target. You want to help him? Stay the fuck out of our way.”

“Then let me be a target.” I jab a finger into his chest. “If whoever the hell took him, wants to use me as bait—good. That’s more time for you to get to him. More minutes for him to breathe.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You got a death wish, Nyxa?”

“I’ve got a North wish,” I snap back, my voice trembling from the force I’m holding inside. “I’d bleed before I let them keep him.”

His laugh is humorless. “You try me, and I’ll chain you to the goddamn wall. You’re not Prez. You’re not patched. You’re not going.”

“I’m his.” My voice drops, quiet but burning. “That means something here, doesn’t it?”

“It means you don’t challenge a brother in front of the club unless you’re ready for the fallout. It means you listen when I tell you something, and you clearly don’t listen to me. Wolves and Black Panthers are already moving. Every minute we waste could cost lives.”

My nails dig crescents into my palms. “And every minute I’m stuck here feels like losing him all over again.”

Iron steps in close, his shadow swallowing mine. “Saints' HQ is locked down.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m disposable,” I fire back. “You think I’m scared of being a target? I’ve been a target since the day I was born.”

His nostrils flare, breath coming heavy through his teeth. “You’re not just some girl in the club. You’re Prez’s. And I won’t lose any of my family.”

My stomach knots. “You just said it. Family.”

“So?”

“So, if I’m family, I fight with my family. You don’t lock me up and call it protection. You take me with you.”

His eyes narrow, weighing me. “That’s not how this works.”

“Then change how it works,” I bite back, my voice shaking with rage I can’t swallow. “Every minute you waste holding me back is another minute he’s in their hands. You might be able to stomach that. I sure as hell can’t.”

Iron doesn’t answer. He just stares, the kind of stare that feels like it’s stripping me down to bone, measuring how far I’ll go and whether I’m bluffing.

I’m not.

My pulse is wild, the air between us is buzzing with the kind of tension that makes people swing or kiss. With Iron, it’ll always be the first.

Finally, he exhales hard through his nose and looks away, raking a hand over his shaved head. “You got claws, I’ll give you that.”

“Then let me use them.”

His gaze snaps back to mine, sharp as a blade. “You don’t get it. Out there, it’s not about claws. It’s about coming home breathing. I take you with me, you’re another body I have to shield. Another distraction that gets men killed.”

“I won’t be a distraction.”

“You will.” His voice drops into something almost… regretful. “Because whether you like it or not, he’ll burn the whole damn map to get you safe before he thinks about saving himself. And if that happens, we lose both of you.”

The logic slams into me, but I don’t let it show. I shove it down, wrap it in fire, and hurl it back. “If I’m not there and they kill him, you’ll still lose both of us. Because I won’t survive it.”

For a second, something flickers in his expression.

Then it’s gone.

He shakes his head, voice like steel on stone. “You stay by my side, and if you cause trouble, I’ll be the one haunting your ass for the rest of your life. Prez’s ol’ lady or not, he’s my family. They all are. And when shit goes bad, my brothers need someone who won’t break before they make it home.”

I step forward until there’s barely an inch between us. “I won’t be a pain in your ass. It’s my man you’re talking about, and sure as hell I ain’t staying here while you ride out there without me.”

His mouth curves, not in amusement, but in that grim, knowing way men do when they’ve already made up their minds.

“Fine.”

I let out a long breath, slow and shaky, my palms slick with sweat. My gaze catches on North’s office, and there they are. His father’s iron knuckles. Sitting high on the shelf, dull metal catching the low light, edges worn from years of stories I’ve only heard in bits and pieces.

I grab them before I can second-guess it.

They’re heavier than I thought, solid enough to bruise bone just by holding them. The cold bites into my skin, grounding me.

If you’ve got anything left to give, old man, give it to me now.

Outside, engines are already rumbling, headlights spilling across gravel. Iron straddles his bike, helmet hooked on one arm. He looks at the knuckles in my grip and smirks.

“You even know how to use those, little hellcat?”

I shake my head, jaw tight. “I’ll figure it out.”

He chuckles, low and mean. “Not unless you wanna break your own damn hand.

“Listen up.” He sighs. “Knuckles aren’t for flailing. You hit wrong, you shatter your fingers. Keep your wrist straight—lock it.” He grabs my hand briefly, adjusting my grip on the steel so it sits flush with my knuckles. “You aim for soft spots: temple, jaw, gut. Don’t waste time swinging at the thick parts. You want ’em down fast.”

The metal feels different now, more dangerous, more alive, like it knows I’m about to use it for real.

He jerks his chin. “Get on.”

I swing onto the seat behind him, gripping the leather of his cut as the engine roars to life. The convoy starts moving, the night air slicing cold against my cheeks.

The ride is a blur of roaring engines and sweeping shadows. I can feel Iron’s muscles shift under my hands as he weaves through the empty roads, the scent of oil and leather in the air.

He taps the comm in his helmet. “Black Panthers are en route. Wolves too. ETA, fifteen.”

“Good,” I yell back. “The faster they⁠—”

“We’re not waiting,” he cuts in.

“Wait won’t kill us.”

He laughs without humor. “We don’t wait. And keep the spirit, but no headshots. We don’t have time to babysit.”

I tighten my hold on him, leaning close enough so my voice cuts through the wind. “Fuck you, Iron. With all due respect, I don’t need a fucking babysitter. I need my man.”

His shoulders shake with a scoff, but his grip on the bars tightens. “Then you’d better hit harder than you talk, hellcat.”

The road stretches ahead, black and endless, but all I see is North: bleeding, hopefully alive, waiting.

And God help anyone standing between me and him.

Chapter 20

North

The world is a strobe light of pain.

My head jerks forward and back, each swing yanking against the chains biting into my wrists. The metal’s chewed skin down to raw meat, slick with blood, and every drop trails warm over my forearms before dripping into the dark. My shoulders burn like they’ve been wrenched out of their sockets, my feet nowhere near the ground. Hanging here feels less like being captured and more like being crucified. Every breath drags blood up my throat until I taste nothing else. My eyes keep closing, no matter how hard I try to force them open.

I can taste iron and gasoline in the air. Blood, my own, runs into my mouth, metallic and bitter. The drug Myka pumped into me is still flooding my veins, turning the edges of my vision into a crawling black haze. Every time I force my eyes open, the world slides sideways.

Soul hangs to my right, strung up like me, his shirt shredded and soaked dark with blood. His head lolls for a second before he jerks, muttering, “Stay with me, Prez.” He’s trying to sound steady, but his voice is fraying like rope about to snap.

Rook’s on my left, straining hard against the chains. They’ve cut deep enough I can see where flesh turns red and raw. He curses under his breath, eyes darting to the door like he’s measuring how many seconds he’d last before getting gunned down.

Somewhere outside, engines rumble. The air hums with tension, like the moment before a storm tears the sky apart.

I keep fading in and out.

Sometimes I’m here, breathing, bleeding, waiting for my moment.

Sometimes I’m gone, watching the room from somewhere outside my own skull, like a fucked-up movie I can’t shut off.

And then… I see her. Hair wild, eyes blazing like she’s about to take down the whole goddamn world just to get to me.

For a second, I’m sure my mind’s gone. Hallucination. Got to be. The women don’t come to the field. Ever. Saints' rule number five: club women are never brought to a rescue, because they don’t come back from this kind of fight.

If Iron brought her here… I’ll make sure he doesn’t see another sunrise.

The main door explodes inward with the sound of gunfire. The staccato crack of rounds ricochets off the walls, shards of metal and wood spraying the room. Glass from the barred windows rains down in glittering daggers. The air fills with smoke, acrid and hot, burning the back of my throat.

I try to shout for her to get the fuck out, but all that comes out is nothing. My voice is gone, shredded.

She moves forward anyway. Every step is a fucking dare to fate. She’s smaller than any of the men here, but somehow she manages to reach close. A spray of bullets rips into the wall beside her, close enough to catch her in the spray of plaster dust. She doesn’t flinch.

I’m motionless. Probably dead-looking. Can’t move, can’t speak. Can only watch through the thin slit of awareness the blackness hasn’t stolen yet. Blood streams down my arms, dripping off to the floor.

Then movement is too fast. She jerks sideways like a puppet with its strings yanked. Her body folds, knees buckling, and she hits the ground hard. Something inside me shatters. Rage ignites inside me, burning hotter than the pain, hotter than the drug tearing through my veins. Blood roars in my ears, drowning out Soul’s shouts, Rook’s cursing. The room tilts and bends, the black haze trying to close in, but I push against it with everything I have. Because she’s here. Because she’s down. And because if I black out now, I might never open my eyes again to see her breathing.

Chapter 21

Nyxa

Iron’s voice crackles through the comm in my ear.

“Keep low. Keep quiet. Keep me updated every damn thirty seconds.”

Easy for him to say. Out here, the air tastes like rust and gasoline. Too many engines growl outside, too many boots scuff concrete, too many men with guns pacing like wolves. It’s a minefield, and one wrong step blows everything apart.

The warehouse looms ahead, windows smashed out, flickering light spilling from inside like the building itself is sick. Iron’s hand clamps down on my shoulder before I go in.

“You sure about this?”

I glare at him. “If you have to ask, you don’t know me.”

Inside, the air is thicker. The mix of motor oil, gunpowder residue, and the tang of sweat slams into me. The concrete floor vibrates faintly under my boots from the distant rumble of bikes outside. Iron and two prospects slip ahead, their movements sharp, calculated, the kind of quiet that’s louder than a scream.

And then I see him.

Hanging from chains bolted into the ceiling, wrists wrapped in steel links, feet dangling inches from the ground. His head is slumped forward, blood streaking down his temple, dripping off his jaw. He looks, Christ, he looks, dead.

Panic claws at my chest, vicious and fast. My lungs refuse to work, and the edges of my vision go black. Somewhere behind me says my name, but I don’t hear it right. I can’t. All I can see is him.

I force myself forward. One step. Two. Don’t think. Just move.

And then, that voice.

Myka.

It slithers through the air, low and sharp. He’s barking orders to the men around him, his tone all bite and no mercy. My muscles lock, but only for a second. “I see ten armed men, and Myka. North, Soul and Rook are hung.” I whisper into the comm. I keep moving, weaving between stacked crates until I’m close enough to see the pulley system holding the chains.

Soul’s eyes find mine first. They go wide. “The fuck⁠—”

I put a finger to my lips, mouthing quiet. He grits his teeth, but he doesn’t call me out.

I reach the chains, fingers trembling as I grab the lever. It’s heavy as hell, but I start to crank it, the metal groaning above me.

“We’re close.” Iron’s voice reaches me.

That’s when Stitch nods. His gaze flicks to the men Myka’s yelling at, then back to me. In one swift motion, he draws and fires. Three bikers drop like sacks of meat, but a bullet catches him in the side and he cries out, staggering back.

I keep cranking. My breath’s ragged, my arms shaking from the effort, but the chains begin to lower.

Then I hear it. “Myka, behind you!”

He turns and sees me.

The world narrows to the space between us.

He’s on me in seconds, rage twisting his face. I swing but he catches my wrist, shoving me back. I fight, kicking, clawing, but he’s stronger. He drives a fist into my side, knocking the air from my lungs, then shoves me hard enough that I crash to the floor.

Right under North’s feet.

His boots sway above me. His eyes are closed, head tilted, blood dripping onto the concrete beside me. Too much blood. No. No. No.

Pain flares through my skull, but I don’t stop. Myka’s hand clamps down on my arm like a steel trap, yanking me backward so hard my feet scrape the concrete. The iron knuckles dig into my palm as I twist, thrashing against him.

“Well, well,” his voice snakes into my ear, slick and venomous, “look what the Saints' left lying around. Prez’s little toy.”

“Let. Me. Go.” I drive my elbow back toward his ribs, but he sidesteps, shoving me into a crate. Pain splinters up my spine.

He grins, and it’s pure poison. “Feisty. Bet that’s what he likes about you.”

I swing with the knuckles, aiming for his jaw, but he catches my wrist mid-swing and shoves me again, hard enough that I almost lose my footing.

“You really think you can play with the big boys, fucking slut?”

I spit blood at his boots. “I’m not here to play, asshole.”

This time, I drop low, twisting my arm free the way Jules taught me in boot camp. I put everything into it, every bruise, every scar, every night I lay awake imagining killing this son of a bitch. The metal slams into his temple in a solid, bone-crunching hit. Pain shoots up my arm so hard I see white, but Myka staggers, roaring in agony.

And then, chaos.

Iron bursts in with half the Saints', bullets screaming past my ears, muzzle flashes strobing the walls. The warehouse turns into a hurricane of noise, shouting, boots pounding, guns cracking.

Soul’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Nyxa! Focus! My voice! Now!”

I stagger back to the chain lever, blood running down my temple, and start cranking again. My vision blurs, but I don’t stop. The chains drop farther, until Rook’s feet hit the ground, then Soul’s. My arms feel like they’re tearing at the sockets.

North crashes down beside me, heavy and limp. “North!” I grab his face, shaking him, blood slick under my hands. “Come on, come on, wake up, dammit!” Nothing. Not a twitch. Not even the rise of his chest. “No, no, no, no, “ My voice cracks. “Come on, you stubborn bastard!”

And then Myka’s there again. He hauls me back against him, my spine pressing into his chest. One arm snakes around my waist; the other shoves a knife up under my jaw. I can feel the blade’s edge, sharp and cold, right against my pulse.

“Move, and I open her from ear to ear!” he roars.

No one moves.

The whole platoon, Saints', Bullet, even a few Black Panthers, stand frozen. Outside, the war rages, engines screaming and gunfire rattling like a storm, but in here, the world has gone still.

North’s sprawled on the floor, pale and still, and they’re all in my fucking way. No one can get to him. No one can help him.

My eyes lock on Iron. “Shoot!”

“Hellcat—”

“Do it, you fucking coward! You gonna stand there and watch your Prez die?”

His jaw tightens.

I snarl, yanking against Myka’s grip even as the knife bites deeper. “Then fucking do it!”

Iron doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move.

My voice breaks and I burst into tears when realization hits me. “My life has no meaning without him.”

And then I throw my whole weight back into Myka, driving my elbow into his ribs.

The knife slices my neck, hot pain blooming across my skin, and then gunfire explodes around me. Someone screams and the world tilts sideways, swallowed in black.

Chapter 22

North

Iwake to the steady beep of a monitor, the burn of antiseptic in my nose, and the faint sound of someone snoring. For a second, I’m convinced I’m dreaming. Hell, maybe I didn’t make it at all.

Then my eyes adjust.

Stitch is passed out in the chair by the window, chin tucked to his chest. Rook’s stretched out on the couch, boots still on. Iron’s got his arms crossed, head tipped back against the wall, asleep like he doesn’t give a shit about neck pain.

It’s too peaceful. Too still.

Something’s wrong.

The fog in my head clears just enough for memory to come back in jagged flashes: chains, blood, Nyxa’s face, Myka’s hands on her. My stomach knots, bile clawing up my throat.

The door slams open.

“Rise and shine, fuckers.” Soul’s voice blasts through the room. He’s grinning, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Prez’s awake.”

Iron jolts upright. Stitch blinks. Rook mutters a curse. All eyes swing my way.

I push up on my elbows. Pain detonates in my ribs, white-hot and mean. I grit my teeth and growl, “Where’s Nyxa?”

Iron starts, “She’s⁠—”

I swing my legs over the bed.

“Don’t,” Stitch warns, limping to stop me.

The IV tugs at my arm. I rip it out, blood welling at the puncture. I don’t care. “Where the fuck is she?”

“She’s alive,” Iron says, slow, like that’s supposed to calm me.

“Alive?” My voice is a snarl. “That all you got for me? Alive?”

I’m on my feet before they can stop me. Every cell in my body screams, every stitch pulls, every bruise throbs, but I cross the space and slam Iron into the wall. My forearm presses against his throat.

“You better have more than that.”

Rook grabs my shoulder. Stitch hooks an arm around my chest. Pain lances through me, but I hold Iron’s gaze.

He doesn’t flinch. “You want the truth? She’s banged up because she wouldn’t sit her stubborn ass down,” he snaps, finally pushing back. “Because she shoved her way into the middle of that goddamn war to get to you. While bullets were flying and bodies were dropping, she was threading her way through hell, North. You were chained and still breathing because she made damn sure of it.”

My grip tightens. His words sink like lead in my gut.

“She fought like she was born for it,” he continues, his voice cutting deeper. “Took hits that would’ve dropped some of our brothers. Put Myka on the ground with your old man’s knuckles and kept moving, bleeding like a stuck pig, until she rolled your sorry ass and the boys down from those chains. You’re standing here because she didn’t stop. She didn’t fucking stop.”

I loosen my grip, but it’s not out of mercy, it’s because the weight of his words is already cracking me open.

“Where is she?” My voice is lower now, but it’s dangerous.

Iron jerks his chin toward the door. “Room across the hall. But you better get your head straight before you go in there, Prez. She’s the reason you’re not a corpse, and she’s still paying for it.”

I don’t remember crossing the hall.

One second Iron’s words are still ringing in my head, the next my hand’s on her door, the smell of antiseptic bleeding through the crack. My pulse is a drum in my throat, loud enough to drown out the world.

I push it open and freeze.

Nyxa’s small in that hospital bed, swallowed in white sheets that make the bruises stand out like war paint. Her neck is wrapped in clean bandages, the stark white already shadowed with the bloom of blood beneath. Her right hand is swaddled in gauze, thick enough that I can almost feel the sharp edge of the iron knuckles she wore, the way they must’ve torn her skin when she swung for Myka’s face. Dark bruises arc over her collarbone, her arms, scattered like the fucking roadmap of everything she went through to get to me.

My stomach turns.

Myka’s hand’s in her hair, jerking her head back. The knife grazing her throat. Her voice, raw, furious, pleadingfor Iron to shoot, saying her life meant nothing without me.

It’s all right there behind my eyes, brutal and uninvited.

I remember thinking I was hallucinating when I saw her moving toward the chain system. I thought the serum was messing with my head but she did. She came.

And she almost didn’t walk back out.

Her chest rises and falls in slow, drugged rhythm. For a second I just stand there, my fingers curling into fists at my sides because I don’t know if I’m supposed to touch her or not. I don’t know if my weight anywhere near her is going to hurt her.

But I know one thing: she bled for me. She fought for me.

She risked every goddamn thing for me.

And I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.

I drop to my knees beside the bed before my brain even catches up. The tile’s cold under me, but her skin is warm when I reach for her. Too warm. Feverish.

“Since when?” My voice is rough, like it’s been dragged through gravel.

“Two days,” Soul says quietly from the doorway.

Two days.

My forehead presses to her arm. I don’t care who’s in the room. Don’t care that my brothers are watching me break open. My shoulders shake, my jaw clenches until it aches, but I still pull her closer, careful not to jostle the tubes and wires.

“I’m here now, Firefly,” I whisper, but it’s more for me than for her.

My hand finds hers, what’s left of it under all that gauze, and I feel the weight of what she did like it’s been poured into my bones. She came for me when she shouldn’t have. She fought for me when every rule says she should’ve stayed the hell away.

She’s reckless, dangerous, and mine.

I push my tears back. Soul shifts closer.

“What about Myka?” I ask, voice low enough it’s almost a growl.

“In our cage,” a grim smile touching his mouth. “Cutter stitched him. Kept him breathing. Figured you’d want him alive.”

Alive.

Good.

Because I’m not done with that bastard. Not by a long shot.

I keep my eyes on Nyxa, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her bandaged neck. “Yeah,” I murmur. “I want him alive.”

And when I’m finished with him, he’ll wish I hadn’t.

Chapter 23

North

The only time I leave the hospital is to beat Myka to a pulp.

I don’t remember the ride back to the clubhouse.

Prospects bring Myka to the back room of the clubhouse bound, bleeding, and barely standing. Good. I don’t want him comfortable. I want him scared enough to understand that whatever happened after I went down, whatever he took from her while I couldn’t move, he’s going to pay for it with pieces of himself. They hung him the way he did with me.

He lifts his head when I step in. My fist hits his mouth hard enough to split it open, and the sound of it cracks through the room like a shot. His head snaps back, blood spraying over his chin, but it isn’t enough. Nothing about him bleeding feels like enough.

So I hit him again.

And again.

Until my knuckles tear and the concrete beneath us is spotted red. Until his breathing turns wet. Until his knees buckle and the chains are the only reason he stays upright. I take him apart with my fists because there are no answers in him that will make the hospital disappear, no excuse that will put color back in Nyxa’s face, no amount of begging that will undo the sight of her lying there while machines counted the seconds for her.

When he starts to sag, I grab him by the throat and force his head up. “No,” I laugh. “You don’t get to leave before I’m done.”

His eyes roll, glassy and unfocused, but fear still finds its way into them. That’s the first thing that feels right.

I want him afraid.

I want him trapped inside his own body the way I was trapped inside mine, unconscious while the woman I love was hurt. I want every breath to cost him. I want him to understand that death would be the kindest thing I could give him, and I’m not feeling kind.

By the time Cutter steps in, Myka is a broken shape hanging from the chains, blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, the split skin over his brow. My hands are ruined. My shirt is stained. My chest is still full of the kind of rage that doesn’t burn out.

Cutter checks him and exhales through his nose. “He’s close.”

I stare at what’s left of Myka. “Then bring him back.”

Cutter stitches him up just enough to keep him alive. He knows I’m not done with him yet.

Every punch I land on him is a release valve. Every groan he chokes out is fuel. I want him breathing when Nyxa wakes up. I want her to know he suffered.

Bullet calls every damn day. “How’s she doing, brother?”

“Still out,” I say, staring at her through the glass.

“You hang in there, North.”

Rock’s the same. “You need anything?”

“Yeah. I need her awake.”

Even Di calls twice. Her voice is sharper than I remember. “If she wakes up and you’re not there, I’ll find you and end you myself.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. “Not without her.”

They all see it, the wreck I’ve become. I see it too. And for the first time, I get it. What my father felt. Why he was willing to risk everything for my mother.

Love doesn’t make you weak. It gives you something to die for.

I sit by her bed every day.

Some days I talk. Some days I just watch, counting the slow rise and fall of her chest.

At first, I’m pissed. “You’re a goddamn menace, Nyxa,” I mutter on the first night, my elbows on my knees, eyes burning from exhaustion. “Charging into shit you had no business being in. You could’ve been killed. You almost were.”

But her words from the warehouse keep slicing through me.

My life has no meaning without him.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t wrapped up like some romance line. It was the raw, reckless truth. And it’s mine now. Whether I wanted it or not.

Fifth night.

I come back from the cage with Myka’s blood under my nails and my knuckles swollen like rocks. Cutter told me to ice them. I didn’t. I just sit down next to her, staring at the bruises blooming along her neck and the bandage on her hand.

Something in me cracks open.

I reach for her hand, careful, so careful. My thumb brushes over the rough edge of the bandage. The words feel heavier than any promise I’ve made in my life.

“I was a coward,” I admit, my throat tightening. “Thought keeping my distance meant control. That I could protect you without…” I exhale hard. “Without letting you be the thing I can’t lose.”

I drop my head, pressing my forehead to the mattress by her hip. “Come back to me, Firefly. I don’t care how. Don’t leave me here without you.” My voice breaks.

And for the first time since my parents died, I cry.

Hot, humiliating tears. No one’s here to see them but her.

And I don’t care. Not with her.

Chapter 24

Nyxa

Darkness tastes like metal. It seeps down my throat, heavy and suffocating, until even breathing feels like a choice I can’t make. I’m so tired. Too tired to swim toward the flickers of light in the distance.

It would be easier to sink. No bruises here. No scars. No hands forcing me down or voices laughing when I cry. Just nothing.

But nothingness doesn’t last.

The dark peels back and I’m ten again. My mother sits at the kitchen table, cigarette dangling from her fingers, her laughter curling to the man she calls her husband. I’m in my room, the door locked, praying the latch will hold. The smell of beer leaks in through the cracks.

Heavy footsteps. The door creaks.

“Mama!”

She doesn’t come. She never does.

The black swallows the kitchen, spits me out somewhere worse.

Myka’s shadow fills the room. His knee presses into my chest, his breath stinking of whiskey and power. Bitter chalk floods my mouth when he shoves the pill in, his palm clamped over my lips until I swallow.

“Mine,” he whispers, teeth grazing my ear. “Always mine.”

And for years, I believed him. Because nobody ever told me I could be anything else.

The dark rises again, thick and sweet, begging me to let go. I almost do.

Until I hear him.

Not Myka. Not the monster who raised me. North.

It’s a voice made of gravel and fire, cutting through the black like it’s glass. “Come back to me, Firefly.”

I feel it in my chest like a punch. North doesn’t say things to fill silence. He says them when they matter. When they burn.

The darkness trembles.

And suddenly I’m not on the floor with Myka’s hand at my throat, I’m in North’s world. His hand covers mine, calloused and warm, guiding my fist as the weight of his father’s knuckles settles against my skin. His lips press to my scars like they’re holy, like they’ve been waiting for him.

That night he claimed me, he looked at me like I wasn’t broken. Like I was dangerous and beautiful all at once.

I feel that look now.

The dark doesn’t like it. Myka’s face bursts through again, smug and close. You’ll never escape me.

But there’s another grip on my hand, stronger. Not his, but North’s.

I curl my fingers around his until they ache. My nails bite into his palm.

Not his. Not ever again.

Gunfire cracks in the distance, sharp as lightning splitting the sky. My neck burns with the remembered slice of a blade, my ears are ringing with the sound of my own plea—Shoot, Iron, shoot!

I see myself under North’s feet, blood slick beneath my hands, my chest splitting open with fear. His eyes closed. His body too still.

The dark tries to pull me back under. I push harder. Through the pain. Through the weight. Through every filthy word ever shoved down my throat.

Because if he’s out there, holding on for me… I’m not letting go first.

Chapter 25

North

The ride out is quiet in that way only bikers understand. No music. No talking. Just the deep, steady rumble of our engines eating the road, the night air whipping past, the smell of cold dirt and oil clinging to us.

We’re not going far. But we’re going far enough.

The clearing is already lit by the high beams from the brothers’ bikes, the light slicing through the dark. A fresh-dug pit yawns in the middle, the dirt piled high beside it.

And there’s Myka.

He’s on his knees, zip ties biting into his wrists, duct tape hanging loose from where Cutter ripped it off his mouth earlier. His face is a mess, purple, swollen, blood caked along his jaw. Still, he’s breathing. Barely.

Iron meets my eyes and tips his chin toward him. “He’s yours, Prez.”

I step forward, my boots crunching on gravel. Myka lifts his head and the stupid bastard smirks. “North,” he croaks, “you look like shit.”

I swing before I think, my fist cracks against his cheekbone. The satisfying thunk of knuckles on bone echoes. He hits the dirt, coughing, spitting blood.

Soul grins behind me, stepping in only to kick his face. “Guess we’re skipping the warm welcome.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rook mutters, but there’s a grin in his voice too while he kicks him in the stomach.

I grab Myka by the back of his neck and haul him upright. His breath reeks of blood and fear. “She lived,” I tell him, my voice low enough that he has to strain to hear. “You won’t.”

He spits a red glob at my boots. “She’ll never be rid of me.”

I slam my forehead into his. His skull cracks against mine and pain lances down my neck, but I don’t stop. I drag him to the edge of the pit. The dirt smells raw, damp. Like it’s hungry.

“Face down,” I order.

He hesitates, so Rook steps forward, shoving him hard enough he stumbles in. Myka lands on his side, groaning. I toss the first shovel of dirt over him, the earth pattering against his back.

When Myka tries to push himself up, Cutter slams the flat of the shovel into his spine. “Stay down, motherfucker.”

The dirt rises. Myka’s curses grow muffled. Soon, the only sound left is our breathing and the scrape of shovels.

Soul takes the next one without a word. Then Rook. Then Iron. We work in silence, one shovel, then another, the pit filling slow but steady. My arms ache. My ribs burn. My jaw throbs. But every scoop feels like putting something back in order.

When the last mound is leveled, Iron tosses his shovel aside and looks at me. “We done here?”

I stare at the spot where he’s buried. My heartbeat slows, the rage curling in on itself. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re done.”

Iron eyes me up and down, then smirks. “You stink like roadkill, Prez. Get a shower before someone puts you outta your misery.”

“Fuck you, Iron.” I huff a laugh.

The engines roar to life as we tear out of the clearing, the night swallowing the pit behind us.

I’m not leaving her waiting any longer.

The ride back from the clearing is a blur of exhaust, dirt, and the pounding in my skull. My brothers peel off one by one, the rumble of their engines fading into the night. No questions. No words. They know what we just did stays between us and the dirt.

Iron’s voice from earlier echoes in my head and I swing by my place for a quick shower, scrubbing hard enough to take skin with the grime. When I step back out into the garage, Soul’s leaning against my bike like he owns it.

He’s holding something.

“Don’t tell me you went through her stuff,” I growl.

He smirks, the bastard. “Didn’t have to. I made it. Been working on it since the night she tore Myka apart with those knuckles. She’s family.”

I take it from him, rough leather warm in my hands. The back patch—Saints' MC—feels heavier than any weapon I’ve carried.

“She is,” I say, voice low, final. “She’s my ol’ lady. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Soul’s grin widens. “She’s gonna set you on fire when she finds out.”

“She already does.”

Iron’s voice cuts in from behind me. “About time you grew a pair, Prez.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I shoot back, but there’s no heat in it. My brothers laugh, the sound sharp and full of the kind of loyalty you can’t buy or fake.

I tuck the cut under my arm, swing my leg over my bike, and gun the engine.

By the time I pull into the hospital lot, it’s pitch black. My body aches like I’ve been run over twice but it doesn’t matter. There’s only one thing I need to see. Her.

The sliding doors hiss open, flooding me with too-bright light. Nurses glance up, I ignore them. My boots thud against the tile, echoing in the sterile quiet of the night.

Her floor is still, the air too clean, too cold. I pass a few rooms without looking in, because I know if I see anyone else on a bed, I’ll think of her.

When I reach her door, I stop.

It’s cracked open just enough for me to catch the steady beep of a heart monitor.

I push it open.

There she is.

The monitor’s beeping keeps time with the pounding in my chest, proof that she’s still here. Yesterday they took out the oxygen tube saying she’s breathing normally.

I drag the chair closer and drop into it, elbows on my knees, my head hanging. “You stubborn, reckless little shit,” I rasp. “I should be pissed. Should tell you that you’re never pulling that crap again. But your words… they’re stuck in my head, and I can’t get them out.”

My hand finds hers. She’s warm. Alive. My thumb brushes over her knuckles, careful of the bandages.

“I love you, Firefly.” I lay my head on the edge of the bed, and before I can stop it, a tear slips free. I don’t know how long I stay like that. Time stops meaning anything.

Then the soft pressure happens.

Her fingers closes around mine.

My head snaps up. Her eyes are half-open, glassy but aware, a weak, lopsided smile tugging at her mouth.

“Don’t…” My voice cracks, and I don’t care. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Her lips part. “You… you’re…worth dying for.”

I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in like I’ve been drowning. “Then I guess we’re both fucked,” I whisper. “’Cause you’re worth living for.”

The doctor and nurses rush in and since they need to check her up I’ve been asked to leave. Like I never saw that beauty all naked already. I could map every inch of her body. I’ve been pacing like a caged animal for what seems hours, the leather folded over my arm. My brothers think I’m waiting for the right moment. Truth is, I’m trying not to fuck it up.

Iron’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like he knows exactly what’s about to happen. Soul’s beside him, smirking, and Colt’s got a fifty tucked between his fingers.

“She’s gonna throw that cut right back at him,” Soul mutters.

Iron shakes his head. “Nah. She’s gonna cry first, then throw something.”

“Fifty says she keeps it.”

“Deal.” Tornado nods.

I push the door open after the doctor leaves before I say something that costs me money.

She’s sitting up, the thin blanket pulled over her lap. Her hair’s messy, bandages stark against her skin, but her eyes are locked on me like she’s already bracing for whatever trouble I’m about to bring.

“You gonna wear a hole in the floor?” she asks, voice still scratchy but carrying that bite I know too well.

“Maybe,” I step inside. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for you to stop glaring at me like you’re gonna shake me down for answers.”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah. But so are you.”

I drop the cut onto her lap. The leather lands with a heavy thud, the scent of it rising between us. She frowns, fingertips brushing over the patch like it’s a trap.

“What is this?”

“It’s yours,” I tell her. “Means you’re family. Means no one breathes in your direction without knowing they’ll answer to me. Means you’re my ol’ lady.”

Her eyes widen. “Your what?”

I take a step closer, slow, crowding her space until there’s nowhere for her to look but up at me. “Ol’ lady. My woman. Mine. And you didn’t become that in the warehouse, you’ve been that since the moment you trusted me enough to walk away from your nightmare. Don’t bother arguing. I don’t change my mind.”

Her fingers curl into the leather. “North…”

“Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. Just wear it.”

I lift it from her lap, sliding it over her shoulders. The weight of it seems to sink into her bones, grounding her. It’s a little loose, she’s still too thin, but it looks right. Feels right.

Her hand drifts up to touch the patch, like she’s making sure it’s real. “You didn’t ask me,” she says softly.

“Didn’t have to.”

I kiss her before she can say anything else, slow, deep, a claim and a promise in one. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against hers. “You belong to me, Firefly. And I sure as hell belong to you.”

There’s a muffled noise outside the door. Soul’s voice. “Shit, she’s keeping it.”

“Told you.” Iron grins.

Rook chuckles, “Hand over the fifty.”

I smirk and glance toward the hall. “You hear that? Even my brothers know it’s a done deal.”

She narrows her eyes, but I see it, the way her mouth wants to curve into a smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe. But I’m yours. And now you’re wearing the proof.”

Chapter 26

Nyxa

The hospital smells cling to me all the way back to the charter: antiseptic, metal, and too many days under white lights. But when we pull through the gates, the first thing that hits me is sound. Music blaring, laughter rolling over chrome and gravel, engines revving just for the hell of it.

The hood’s lit up like it’s the Fourth of July.

I didn’t think I’d ever miss this noise. But God, it feels like breathing again.

The smell of gasoline, wood smoke, leather, and spilled beer hits next, thick, warm, and familiar.

North’s hand is low on my back as he walks me forward the crowd outside lining like were waiting for a parade. Not pushing. Not dragging. Just there, steady, claiming. Every step pulls us deeper into the noise: boots stomping the beat, rough voices shouting over music, bottles clinking like distant gunfire.

Eva’s on me before I get two steps in. She grabs my shoulders, spins me so fast my cut flares out. “Was about damn time, Prez,” she shouts over the music, shooting North a look that says finally.

Eyes follow the move, respectful but assessing, and for a second I feel the weight of it, like everyone in here knows exactly what this means. The applause erupts hitting the hidden spot deep under my ribs.

When we push through the Clubhouse door, the place is a goddamn warzone of celebration. It takes little for tables to get crowded with bottles, half-empty pitchers, and enough food to feed a small army. The floor is already sticky with spilled beer. Someone’s yelling over a game of pool in the corner, a couple prospects are arm wrestling near the jukebox, and a girl I don’t recognize is trying to keep up with Rook in a shot-for-shot challenge, and she’s losing.

The Candies are already holding court at their table, three drinks ahead of me. Jules waves me over like I’ve been gone for years. Jude pats the seat beside him. Eva drops into a chair, still smirking. North leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “Go,” he murmurs, his hand sliding away. “I’ll find you in a bit.”

I sink into the chaos. Laughter, perfume, and leather wrap around me as the girls fill me in on everything I’ve missed—club gossip, hookups, fights, and which prospects have actually earned their keep. Knowing we lost Shard breaks my heart. I know how close he was with Iron. I exchange a look with him and he tilts the beer in my direction.

Ashley appears halfway through my first beer, sliding into the seat across from me with a smug little smile. “It took you a hell of a time Miss.”

I pull her in a hug, “You came all the way here?”

“That’s what friends do.” Di grins, “North wasn’t that talkative and when he told us you’re coming home we couldn’t miss it.”

“Thank you.” Emotions hit me like an unexpected wave.

“Recover fast, Firefly,” Ashley says like it’s an order.

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Because I need a new choreography. My competition’s coming up, and my current routine’s about as thrilling as lukewarm coffee.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Ashley, I dance. I don’t teach ice skaters. That’s not my lane.”

She leans in, all confidence and sharp edges, and tilts her beer toward me. “Guess you’ll just have to learn.” She winks, and before I can respond, she’s gone, snatched into some conversation with Blue, one of Black Panthers member.

Then North is there, with Zane, Bullet, Iron, Soul, Tornado and Colt flanking him like a wall of leather and steel. The air changes instantly.

Iron raises his beer at me. “How long till you’re back on your feet?”

I squint. “Why?”

He smirks. “Need a part-time bartender at BB. Thought you might be dumb enough to take it.”

I glance at North, waiting for the verdict. He gives me that short nod that means it’s already decided. “You can have it,” he says. “But you’re starting your courses, too. This hood needs a dance school.”

It’s too much, all at once, and my chest feels tight. I lean into him, hiding my face in the leather of his cut.

“Don’t forget,” Denise calls from the next table, grinning, “we’ve also got a wedding to plan.”

North chokes on his beer. The table explodes into laughter, and I lift my head just enough to smirk. “You haven’t even proposed. Must’ve missed that part.”

His grin is pure trouble. “I did when I gave you the cut, Firefly.”

I tilt my chin up and whisper, “Maybe you should ask me again.”

The chair scrapes back and every head turns.

My heart kicks hard against my ribs.

He reaches me, grabs my hand, and pulls me to my feet.

“North,” I say, breathless already.

His eyes drop to my mouth. “You wanted to play.”

A whistle cuts through the room.

“Get it, Prez!”

Someone laughs. Someone else pounds a fist on the table. The noise explodes around us, rough and shameless, but North doesn’t look away from me. Not once. He just tugs me toward the stairs like I weigh nothing, like the whole clubhouse can watch and he still doesn’t care because his mind is already upstairs, already behind a locked door, already full of all the ways he plans to remind me.

Heat floods my face, but I can’t stop smiling. Especially when he bends, hooks one arm beneath my thighs, and lifts me off the floor.

The cheering gets louder.

I gasp and grab his shoulders, half laughing, half melting against him as he carries me through the room. My legs lock around his waist on instinct, and his hand tightens against me in warning.

“Careful,” he murmurs against my ear.

That one word ruins me.

By the time we reach the stairs, I’m trembling for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. I bury my face in his neck, laughing when the brothers start chanting his name, but North stays silent. His hold on me doesn’t loosen, not even when we reach the hallway and the noise from downstairs fades into a dull, distant roar.

The second his bedroom door shuts behind us, I laugh.

I can’t help it. It spills out of me, breathless and reckless, because I know exactly what I’ve done. I poked the president in front of his brothers. He cages me against the door, one hand braced beside my head, the other catching my jaw with careful, dangerous control. “You want a proposal?”

My pulse stutters and I wet my lips. “Maybe I need a better reminder.”

The room seems to tighten around us.

North leans in, his mouth brushing my ear, and his voice drops into a place that ruins me before he does anything else. “You keep asking for trouble like you forgot I know exactly how to give it to you.”

A shiver slips through me and he catches it.

A breathless laugh slips out of me when North presses me back against the bedroom door, the solid wood catching my spine while the party keeps roaring somewhere beneath us.

“A bit eager, aren’t we?”

He doesn’t smile.

That should be my first warning.

North fills the space in front of me like a storm blocking out the moon, all broad shoulders, dark eyes, and the kind of silence that makes my pulse stumble before he even touches me. His hand comes up slowly, but there is nothing lazy about the way his fingers close around my jaw. He tips my face toward his, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, and the breath I was about to waste on another tease catches in my throat.

“You had plenty to say downstairs,” he murmurs.

My smile flickers, but I hold on to it because I like this too much. I like the danger in his voice. I like knowing I put it there.

“I only said I didn’t remember saying yes.”

His thumb presses against my lower lip, and the look in his eyes turns darker. “Then I’ll make sure you do.”

The words sink through me, hot and heavy, before his mouth takes mine.

There is nothing careful about the kiss. North claims it like he claims everything: with certainty, with hunger, with a kind of brutal focus that makes the rest of the world fall away and I melt into it even as the reckless part of me refuses to surrender too easily. So I bite his thumb, then I soothe the mark with my tongue and watch the exact second his control slips.

A sound rolls out of him, low and rough enough to make heat bloom beneath my skin. His hand tightens at my jaw, his body pressing closer until I can feel every inch of his restraint straining against me. “There she is,” he says, voice ruined around the edges.

The praise hits harder than it should but I lift my chin anyway. “Still waiting on that memorable proposal, Prez.”

For a heartbeat, he only stares at me.

Then his hands are on my dress. He takes his time gathering the soft blue fabric in his fists, dragging it up my thighs with deliberate patience while his eyes stay locked on mine. The dress bunches at my waist, exposing me inch by inch, and the cool air kisses my skin at the same moment his gaze drops.

He sinks to his knees in front of me, and the sight nearly steals the strength from my legs. “Is that what you want?” he asks, his voice rough against my skin. “A proposal?”

My fingers slide into his hair because I need something to hold on to. “Maybe I want a better reminder.”

His mouth brushes the inside of my thigh and every thought in my head goes still. “You’ll get one.”

The first touch of his mouth makes my body jolt, and my fingers tighten in his hair before I can stop myself. North groans like he likes the sting, like he wants proof that I’m losing control too, and then he stops being patient.

He takes his time, and never enough of it is mine. He builds me slowly, cruelly, learning every place that makes my breath fracture and returning to it until my knees tremble and my confidence turns into something far more desperate. I try to stay bold but North knows how to take a challenge apart. He brings me close enough to taste the fall, then pulls back before I can reach it. My gasp turns into a frustrated sound I would be embarrassed by if his eyes didn’t flash with such dark satisfaction.

“North,” I breathe.

His mouth drags over my thigh. “Not yet.”

My head falls back against the door.

The denial burns through me, sharp and sweet, and when he starts again, the pleasure comes back stronger. Meaner. It climbs too fast, coils too tight, and just when I think he’s going to let me have it, he stops again.

I look down at him, furious and shaking.

He looks up at me like he has already won.

“You’re cruel,” I whisper.

His smile barely touches his mouth. “You wanted memorable.”

Then he rises. The loss of his mouth makes me shiver, but the way he towers over me steals the complaint from my tongue. He lifts me from the door and carries me to the bed, laying me down with enough force to make the mattress dip beneath me. Before I can reach for him, he gets rid of my dress instantly and his cut settles over my body.

His expression shifts too, losing some of its cruelty, gaining something heavier. “That was me asking,” he says.

I swallow. “I know.”

His hand slides along my thigh, firm enough to make my breath catch. “No, baby. You joked about it. You wore it. You let them cheer.” His eyes hold mine, dark and unwavering. “But I want the answer.”

The heat in my body twists into something deeper.

Because it isn’t only about desire anymore. It is about the clubhouse beneath us and the life waiting outside this room. It is about the woman I was before him, the one who learned that wanting could be dangerous, that being claimed could feel like a cage. But his cut is over me now, and I don’t feel trapped. I feel seen, chosen, untouchable.

I lift my chin, even though my voice comes out softer than before. “Then earn it big boy.”

North moves over me, and the game changes.

He kisses me until the last of my laughter disappears, until I am no longer teasing him to provoke a reaction but clinging to him because his hands, his mouth, his weight, his voice are turning me into a confession. He takes his time in the cruelest way, giving me heat, taking it back, dragging me to the edge and leaving me there until pride becomes impossible to hold.

Each time I think I can survive it, he proves me wrong.

My body arches toward him, asking before my mouth will. He notices every broken breath, every tremble, every helpless sound I try to swallow, and the knowledge in his eyes makes me burn hotter.

“You remember now?” he asks against my mouth.

I shake my head because I am stubborn enough to lie and reckless enough to want the consequence.

“No.”

His breath leaves him in something almost like a laugh, waiting patiently for the moment I break.

He keeps me there until the world becomes a thin, bright line I cannot cross without him. “Say it,” he murmurs.

I know what he means.

The word sits behind my teeth, too simple for what it carries. It is not only yes to him, not only yes to his cut, not only yes to the life he laid at my feet without ever calling it a proposal.

It is yes to staying, to choosing, to being claimed by a man who makes belonging feel like freedom.

But I make him wait one more second because I want to see what it does to him.

His jaw tightens. His eyes burn. “Nyxa.”

My name in his mouth breaks the last of my resistance. “Yes.” The word tears out of me, raw and certain, and he lets me fall.

Pleasure crashes through me so hard I lose my grip on everything except his shoulders and his name. He holds me through it, rough and steady, his mouth against my skin, his voice low in my ear, telling me he heard me, telling me I said yes, telling me I’m home.

Home.

That is the word that undoes me completely. When I come back to myself, North brushes his mouth over my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my lips, each kiss slower than the last. “There’s my answer,” he murmurs.

I open my eyes and find him watching me. “That wasn’t a proposal.”

His hand slides into my hair. “No?”

“That was a claim.”

His mouth curves, dark and satisfied. “Good,” he says. “Then you finally understand.”

When we head downstairs, the music shifts, bass pounding harder, and someone starts a chant for shots. A couple of the Black Panthers join the circle, slamming their glasses down so hard the table rattles. Wolves fill in the gaps, their deep laughter cutting through the noise.

I sip my beer, letting the noise wash over me before asking, “The ambush, what happened?”

Iron leans forward. “Myka talked. The little MC he tried to drag into his mess? They’re gone. We’re clear.”

“And Myka?”

Their grins say everything.

I lift my bottle high. “To his soul, may it be damned forever.”

“Cheers to that,” Bullet says, clinking his against mine. He leans closer, voice dropping to something darker. “Found who cooked that drug. Lab’s gone. So are the fuckers who ran it.”

“Thank you.”

Iron gets on his feet and I move too. He waves to a few candies and I stop near him. He cocks a brow at me.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

His eyes close for a second. “It wasn’t your fault, Nyxa.”

I shake my head because I know all the members we’ve lost are because of me. Before I can say anything Iron leaves with Beatrice and Jules.

I walk back and sit onto my North’s lap. The music swells, boots pound the floor, and someone sets off a firecracker outside. For the first time in weeks, I let myself laugh without feeling the weight of it.

I’m home. I’m safe. And my man’s hand hasn’t left me.

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Royal Excerpt

Day rides feel different—city smells sharper, asphalt sweating under cloud cover that promises rain. Two prospects—Kent and Ryder—hang back in formation, throttles humming steady. I lead the pack and somehow the bike feels like a heartbeat under me.

We idle up on St. Brigid’s. Red light paints the chrome, and the church looms, all white stone and smug silence. Lilies choke the front steps. I hate that smell—fake joy, fake grief, fake everything.

The doors slam open and a bride bolts.

Not a stumble—she runs, silk gathered in her fists, bare feet pounding down stone steps. Veil tears off in her hand. She rips it away like it’s strangling her, tosses it into the gutter without slowing. Dark bob swings free, pins scattering across the pavement. Suits thunder after her, radios squawking, but she doesn’t even look back. She’s looking at me.

My knuckles grind white on the throttle.

She makes the curb, dress dragging, breath sharp, and then—Jesus Christ—she’s climbing on my bike. No hesitation. The rear shocks dip under her weight. Her hand fists in my cut, the other spread flat against my stomach. She presses in close, heartbeat rattling.

She clutches harder when I lean into the first turn, thighs tight against the seat, chest hot against my back. Her scent cuts through gasoline—soap, fear, something sweet she can’t hide. She moves with me, not like dead weight. She fits. I hate that I notice.

“You got a death wish, doll?” I growl, the wind shredding my voice as we tear down Luther toward the dock. “That your thing?”

Her mouth finds my ear. “You stopping to lecture me or to ride?”

Something ugly and hungry grins inside me. “You keep runnin’ that mouth and see where I put it.”

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About the Author

Adina D. Grey is a USA Today and International Bestselling Author. Born and raised in Italy, it’s no surprise she has a huge addiction to coffee, dogs, and books.

Her book addiction and passion for traveling led her into the creative world of words where she writes, blogs, translates and beta reads. Her writing covers various sub-genres and tropes, but she’s a sucker for a HEA—this is a cliffhanger-free zone.

When she’s not writing or reading, you can find her entertaining her toddler and husband and enjoying family life.

Wanna read more of mine? Flip the page!

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You can find more books and freebies: www.adinadgrey.com