Katana (Royal Harlots MC Atlantic City Chapter #1)

Chapter 1

KATANA

The moment I step inside the gym, I can already tell someone’s bled on the mat again.

The scent’s faint, but I know it like old perfume. The familiar scent of sweat, copper, and adrenaline curls in my nose laced with the memory of every fight I didn’t walk away from. A fight happened last night that wasn’t scheduled, and if it wasn’t sanctioned, someone’s about to eat shit.

That alone sets off a slow burn in my gut. I run this side of the operation. I bleed for it. And I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. Steel Roses has rules. If you want to bleed, you do it by the book. If someone thinks this gym is just another pit to throw fists, they don’t belong here.

I drop my duffel near the front counter and stalk toward the ring. The fluorescents overhead flicker like the building’s got nerves. I climb the apron, run my fingers across the sticky ropes and glance at the camera mounted above the cage, making a mental note to pull the footage.

Steel Roses is already humming with the low pulse of music through the walls, the metallic clink of chains from the weight room, and the silence of discipline.

The air pulses with sweat and adrenaline.

The kind that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs.

Everything smells like old leather, chalk dust, and blood that’s been scrubbed a hundred times but still stains the floor.

Even with the bay doors cracked for airflow and the early morning chill rolling off the Atlantic, the place is warm.

Three girls are on the floor, two sparring, one doing crunches with that blank-eyed look that usually means she saw something ugly recently.

“Kat!”

Riot’s voice echoes from the weight rack.

She’s sitting cross-legged on a bench, wrapping her hands.

Her braid is half-done, and she’s got a fresh bruise on her cheek.

Purple with a sick yellow tinge spreading around the edges.

Probably from sparring, hopefully. With Riot, you don’t ask unless she offers.

“You’re up early,” I jump down from the ring beside her.

She grins. “Didn’t feel like sleepin’. Figured the weights might hurt less than my thoughts.”

“You planning to punch with that wrist?” I ask, eyeing the tight wrap job on her wrist.

“Only if someone gives me a reason.”

I nod once, understanding what she means completely.

Cracking the tension from my neck, I continue to move through the gym like I’m stalking a perimeter.

My boots tap a steady rhythm across the polished concrete, the sound echoing up into the exposed beams above.

Light spills in through high-set windows, cutting across the gym floor in sharp, golden angles.

The walls are dark red brick patchworked with old paint and newer graffiti, most of it done by the girls.

Steel Roses isn’t just a gym. It’s our frontline.

Every woman who walks in here gets stronger, whether she realizes it yet or not.

This isn’t a place for posturing or cheap fights.

This is where broken things get remade harder than before.

We don’t just protect women. We build them into something dangerous.

I check the corners, the doors, the heavy bags. Every bolt. Every chain. My mind clicks through the same checklist every morning. Tail Gunner instincts don’t go quiet just because I’m off my bike.

I make a quick pass through the rest of the ground floor. The gym section is fully stocked: treadmills against the wall, racks of kettlebells and free weights, two sparring mats, and the mirrored area where we teach women how to survive.

Next door is our garage. Three bikes up on lifts, one stripped down to its frame.

I catch the lingering smell of brewing hops from the equipment in the back room leftover from when the building was still a brewery.

Quinn, the Royal Harlots Atlantic City President, never tore out the tanks.

She runs Harlots Ale through them, bottled and sold to allies and locals who don’t ask too many questions.

I finish the sweep and head back to the counter, rifling through paperwork and schedules.

Quinn’s left-handed scrawl sprawls across the margins with class changes, gear orders, a note about fixing the second-hand dryer again.

Riot brings me coffee, some questionable blend she swears by, and we go over names of girls who’ve missed class or gone quiet.

My gut knots. The girls that come through these doors are street kids, runaways, survivors of shit no one should have to live through.

Some crawl out of bad relationships, bruised inside and out.

Here, we offer them safety. Strength. A place to rebuild.

We teach them how to hold their ground, and how to land a punch.

But lately, that haven feels like it’s cracking.

One of the names stands out. Amber. A self-defense student who was barely eighteen when she came in off the streets with a fight in her eyes and nowhere safe to put it.

But lately she’s been slipping. Skipping drills.

Showing up late. I mark it down to follow up.

But first, I want to know who bled on my damn mat.

I swipe the tablet from under the counter and log into the security feed.

The cage has no blind spots unless someone yanks the cable, and no one with a patch is that stupid.

I rewind the feed to 01:12 a.m, just after closing last night.

Two figures step in through the side door, gloves already on before they step into the ring.

I recognize them instantly. Meadow and Silk.

They don’t touch gloves. Just circle and start trading shots. No theatrics, no ego. Just clean strikes and tension bleeding out through sweat. Meadow’s fast as hell but Silk holds her own. It’s not a grudge match. Just something they needed to work out the only way we know how.

Meadow takes a clean jab to the mouth near the end. That explains the smear on the ropes. Silk offers her a hand when she goes down and Meadow takes it.

I let the footage run for another few minutes, watching them clean up the mess. Silk keys in the code, and locks up behind her before they both slip back out through the side door.

I exhale. Not thrilled, but not pissed either. This is their gym as much as it’s mine. It belongs to all of us. I shut down the feed and slide the tablet back under the counter.

By mid-morning, the gym is filled. I catch Tori, who came to us after years of taking swings from her Ol’ man, shadowboxing near the mirror.

She’s got a strong jab, decent footwork, but she second-guesses herself too much.

Still, I’ve seen her get back up after being knocked on her ass more times than most.

“Tori,” I call out. “Wrap up. You’re sparring with me.”

She blinks. “Now?”

I nod. “Time to see what stuck.”

She grins like she’s been waiting for this. Fifteen minutes later we’re in the ring, gloves on, mouthguards in. I keep it controlled, this isn’t a beatdown, it’s a measure of her skills.

She opens strong. Quick jab, cross combo. I parry the cross, throw a feint, then pivot left to test her guard. She adjusts, late, but she adjusts. Her right elbow’s a little wide. I tag her ribs to remind her.

“Keep it tight,” I growl through my mouthguard.

“Yes, ma’am.”

We go two rounds. She’s sweating, breathing heavily, but she’s still in it. She doesn’t flinch when I close in, she doesn’t freeze when I switch stance mid-push. Her form’s better. Her head’s clearer. No wild swings. She’s thinking now. Controlled. Focused.

Third round, I let her drive me back with a body shot that actually lands clean. She blinks at the contact, surprised she got through, and that’s her mistake. I close in, feint left, pop her with a hook that snaps her head just enough to wake her up again.

We call it.

She’s got a split lip and a grin that makes me proud.

“You’re getting there,” I tell her, pulling my gloves off. “Still drop your shoulder when you breathe. Fix it.”

“Got it.” She nods, proud but not cocky.

The gym’s gotten louder now. The bags are thudding, ropes snapping, music heavier. I finish wrapping a few girls’ hands before hitting the shower.

I head toward the lockers just as Lady Cain, our VP, appears in the doorway dressed in her usual black tactical pants, black tank, hair pulled into a high ponytail.

Her dog, Diesel, moves beside her like a shadow.

He’s big, all muscle and steel-gray fur with white markings on his chest and snout.

His spiked collar glints under the lights.

He watches me with dead-calm eyes like he’s always three seconds from snapping a neck.

“Quinn’s asking for you,” LC says, her voice cutting through my thoughts like the crack of a pistol.

“What’s up?” I ask, wondering if she knows something about Amber.

“Another one of our girls turned up in Cross’s circuit.”

Dante Cross. Fucking hell.

His name tastes like rust on my tongue.

Underground promoter. New king of the dirty fight scene since he moved into Atlantic City. He set up shop in a warehouse two blocks from the bay, started hosting private matches that drew big money and bigger risks. His shady operations puts everything we work for at risk.

Some of our girls are starting to disappear into his ring. That’s the part that gets under my skin. The way the women we train, mentor, bleed for, are being lured into something we can’t control.

I hate not having control.

There’s a difference between training and street fighting, and if Dante Cross is playing rough in my yard, we have a problem.

I follow LC through the bar and lounge. The main wall glows with neon under the graffiti mural of members past and present.

There’s a dartboard near the booth in the back, a pool table that’s seen more blood than chalk, and the bat Quinn used to cave in a trafficker’s skull is mounted above the bar like art.