Chapter 13
Rowan
Chaos's fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back just enough to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeps in to claim every inch of my mouth. Heat explodes through my veins, lighting a raging inferno.
He pulls back slowly, his eyes locked on mine.
His thumb brushes over my swollen bottom lip, smearing the dampness from our kiss.
Around us, the brothers chuckle and clear their throats, but I barely notice.
All I see is him—tall, broad, his dark blond hair pulled back with a leather tie, scruff shadowing his jaw.
His deliciously manly scent tickles my nose.
His hand slides down to squeeze my ass possessively before he lets go. "I'll find you after I finish dealing with today’s club business.”
I nod, my cheeks burning, and turn toward the door.
I find Mama Pat’s office. It's filled with neat stacks of papers, a computer humming softly, and a framed photo of her on a motorcycle, seated behind a white man who's wearing a Renegade Kings cut, both of them grinning widely. I figure he must be Reaper, which explains Demon’s mixed-race coloring.
When she sees me, she stands and loops her arm through mine like we're old friends. She leads me through the sprawling compound on a quick but thorough tour.
"This used to be three separate businesses," she explains as we step outside. "A sleazy, rundown motel, an auto shop, and a bar. The boys connected them all with underground tunnels after they bought the properties fifteen years ago."
I squint against the morning sun, taking in the impressive complex.
The entire compound is surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire that glint menacingly in the sunlight.
There's a guard shack near the main gate, and security cameras are mounted at regular intervals along the perimeter.
The central courtyard is filled with motorcycles—gleaming Harleys and custom choppers arranged in neat rows. Along one wall, several pickup trucks are parked, their doors emblazoned with the Renegade Kings' emblem—a crown perched atop a skull with crossed wrenches beneath.
"The boys take their bikes seriously," she chuckles, leading me toward the converted motel. "Touch another man's ride without permission, and you'll lose several fingers. Maybe a hand."
The club's colors are prominently displayed everywhere—painted on the buildings, hanging from flagpoles, even etched into the concrete at the entrance.
I'm already familiar with the part that used to be a motel, but Mama Pat points out a few things I haven't yet seen on the ground floor layout.
"Common quarters down here—prospects sleep in shared rooms, visitors from friendly clubs get slightly better accommodations." She gestures to a long hallway lined with doors. "Storage, laundry, and supply rooms at the far end."
She pushes open a door to reveal what looks like a small medical clinic. "Doc's domain," she explains. The room contains an examination table, cabinets of medical supplies, and equipment that looks surprisingly professional.
Next, we pass a room with a reinforced steel door. She lowers her voice. "Interrogation room. Best not to ask what happens in there."
We climb a staircase to the upper floor, where the hallway is quieter, the carpet newer. "Patched members get private rooms up here," Mama Pat explains. "Officers get larger quarters, as you well know—Chaos's room is the biggest, of course."
The former motel office now serves as a security hub—multiple monitors display feeds from cameras throughout the compound. Two men watch the screens intently, barely acknowledging our presence.
"Nothing happens here without the brothers knowing about it," Mama Pat says with unmistakable pride.
We cross through one of the underground tunnels. The passage is well-lit but narrow, forcing us to walk single-file.
We emerge in an auto shop. It's a cavernous space divided into two distinct areas. One half contains mechanical bays where motorcycles in various states of repair rest on lifts. Tools line the walls, and the scent of motor oil and metal hangs in the air.
"Kings Auto Shop—a legit business with a good reputation here in Detroit," Mama Pat explains. "They do custom work, repairs, you name it."
The other half of the building has been converted into a gym and training area—with weight equipment, heavy bags, and what looks like a miniature fighting cage.
"This is where the fighters train. My Demon's domain," she says with maternal pride. "Best fighter in the club's history."
Finally, we enter another place I'm familiar with. It was the scene of the party last night.
Mama Pat tells me it was once a seedy dive bar.
Now it serves as the heart of the club's social activities.
The main room features pool tables, dartboards, and a massive bar stocked with every liquor imaginable.
Worn leather couches cluster around a big-screen TV currently showing a motorcycle race.
"You already know the kitchen's through there," Mama Pat points to a swinging door. "Industrial-sized, always stocked. These boys eat like they've got hollow legs."
She stops before a set of heavy wooden doors. "That's the chapel—where they hold church. Members only. Not even ol' ladies are allowed in during official meetings."
Next to the chapel is a smaller room with a reinforced door. "President's office. Where Chaos handles the more...delicate business matters."
When the tour concludes, we return to Mama Pat's office.
"Any questions, honey?" she asks, settling back into her chair.
I shake my head, overwhelmed by the scope of it all. This isn't just a clubhouse—it's a fortress, a business, a community all rolled into one.
"It's a lot to take in," I admit.
Mama Pat smiles knowingly. "You'll get used to it. This is home now."
By the time Mama Pat leaves me to settle in Chaos’s room with my notes, the morning sun filters through the high windows, casting warm patches on the worn armchair.
I try to focus on pharmacology—drug interactions, dosages—but my mind keeps drifting back to Chaos.
The way he looked at me during breakfast, like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
The black credit card he slid across the table.
It’s hard to process how fast everything in my life is changing. It’s all for the better, which makes the whole situation really hard to trust. Is it all just a house of cards?
Hours blur by. I review flashcards, jotting notes in my notebook, but every small sound has me glancing up, hoping it's him. Finally, I hear footsteps echo down the hall—heavy, purposeful—and there he is, filling the doorway like he owns the space. Which, I guess, he does.
His eyes find mine immediately, and a slow smile curls his lips. He pushes off the frame, sauntering over with that loose-hipped stride that makes my pulse jump. "Miss me, sweetheart?"
I set my pen down, my cheeks heating. "Maybe."
He chuckles, deep and rough, dropping into the armchair across from me. His knee brushes mine as he leans forward, elbows on his thighs, forearms corded with muscle. Tattoos snake up his arms—intricate designs of skulls and wings, faded from years under the sun. "Church ran long. Club shit."
I nod. His hand reaches out, capturing mine, his thumb stroking the back in lazy circles. The touch sends sparks up my arm, and I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how close we are, how the air between us thickens.
"You eat lunch?" he asks, his gaze dropping to my lips.
"Snacked on some fruit in the kitchen." I squeeze his fingers lightly. "What about you?"
"Grabbed a burger." He stands, pulling me up with him effortlessly. His arm snakes around my waist, tucking me against his side as we head out. “I wanna show you something."
We weave through the compound, past the common area where a few brothers lounge, watching a game on TV. They nod at us, eyes lingering a second longer on me than before, but no one says a word. Chaos's grip tightens possessively like he's daring them to look too long.
Outside, the afternoon air is crisp, carrying the scent of fall leaves and motor oil.
He leads me to the edge of the property, where a gravel path winds toward a cluster of trees.
A wooden bench sits there, overlooking a small pond—man-made, I think, with koi fish flashing orange under the surface.
It's peaceful, a hidden pocket in this fortress of fences and guards.
"Sit," he says, guiding me down. He settles beside me, his thigh pressing against mine, solid and warm. The bench creaks under his weight.
I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. "This is nice. Didn't expect quiet like this here."
He drapes an arm over my shoulders, pulling me closer. His fingers toy with the ends of my hair. "Built it years ago. Needed a place to think without the noise."
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the fish dart. His heartbeat thuds steadily under my ear, and I trace idle patterns on his chest through his shirt.
But then his hand slides lower, cupping my jaw, turning my face up to his. His eyes are stormy, hungry. "Been thinking about you all morning," he confesses, voice gravelly. "About last night. How you tasted. How you came for me."
Heat floods my face, but I don't look away. My body remembers—his mouth on me, fingers stretching, the way pleasure built until I shattered. "Jace..."
He kisses me then, slow at first, lips brushing mine like a tease. But it ignites fast, his tongue delving deep. I whimper into his mouth, my hands clutching his shirt, pulling him closer. He groans, the sound vibrating through me, and shifts, hauling me onto his lap in one smooth move.