Chapter 21 Vin
Vin
Iwas sitting at Raven's bedside when the world outside the door seemed like nothing but a distant howl of wind.
My eyes, shit, they were heavy—burning with the kind of fatigue that no amount of cheap whiskey or restless sleep could cure.
But I didn't look away from her, not even for a second.
Raven lay there still as death, pallid skin making her look like some ghost of the woman she used to be.
And fuck, it tore through me like a barbed wire.
A week had passed since I found her lying in her own blood. A week.
"Live hard and die free," that's what we always said.
But watching her lying there, seeing her fight for every shallow breath, made me question if I was ready to let her do either.
My chest was this tight knot, all wound up with concern, love, and anger that had no place to go.
There was this war inside me, right? One side screaming to stay by her, the other barking orders about club shit that couldn't wait.
Finally, I stood up, joints cracking in protest. The clubhouse was quiet as a grave when I walked out of Raven's room, my boots echoing off the walls like some kind of damn judgment.
The renovations were coming along, a testament to the Royal Bastards' ability to take a hit and swing back twice as hard.
Plaster and sawdust, it smelled like change, like survival.
I strolled through the half-finished chaos, seeing the bones of what would be the new heart of our operations.
Pride surged through me—a feral sort of satisfaction that we'd kept the wheels turning even while everything else went to hell.
We were the sum of our scars, the club and me, and each new mark was a story of resilience.
"Built on blood and loyalty," I said to myself, running a hand over the new framework. Every nail, every board, it was a promise to the future, a big middle finger to anyone who thought they could tear us down, including Stansfield.
I pushed open the double doors, the hinges whispering secrets of a past long gone.
The church meeting space spread out before me, its bones dressed in fresh wood and the sharp tang of paint hanging in the air like the ghost of progress.
This was holy ground, not in the traditional sense, but for the Royal Bastards, it was sacred all the same.
Every board laid down was a testament to our unity, every stroke of paint a line in the sand against those who'd see us broken.
"Damn," I murmured, my boots echoing against the new floor as I walked down the center aisle.
The place still held that sanctified silence, the kind that made you want to confess your darkest sins or maybe just spill your guts about how screwed up life could be.
But for us, for the club, it was more than that.
It was where we'd come together, brothers in arms, standing shoulder to shoulder when the world outside wanted to chew us up and spit us out.
Leaving the echo of my steps behind, I drifted toward the bar area, the heart of many nights both wild and weary.
It stood proud and fully stocked, a beacon of camaraderie amidst the chaos of our lives.
My gaze swept over the bottles lined up like soldiers ready for battle, each one holding memories of revelry and whispered confessions shared over amber liquid and clinking glasses.
A smirk tugged at my lips as fleeting thoughts danced through my mind—nights that bled into mornings, laughter ringing louder than the music, and the soft warmth of bodies pressed close in the dim light.
There was a promise here, too, a silent oath that no matter how rough the ride got, we'd find our way back to this spot, to raise a glass to survival, to fallen comrades, to victories hard-won.
"Here's to the next chapter," I said to the empty room, a shot glass filled and lifted high.
The spirit burned its way down, leaving a trail of fire that matched the one in my gut.
As I set the glass down, my reflection stared back at me from the mirrored shelves—a man carved from life's brutal hands, yet unbroken.
I knew then, as I looked at myself and this place we called ours, that we weren't just surviving.
We were thriving, and nothing short of hellfire itself would change that.
I pushed off from the bar, the clink of glass fading behind me as I stepped into the pulse of the recreation area.
The place was alive, humming with the sort of energy you could only find amongst family—the Royal Bastards kind.
Pool balls cracked against each other like thunder in a clear sky, while laughter and banter wove through the air like smoke.
"Vin!" someone called out, but I just raised my hand without breaking stride.
There'd be time for games and shit-talking later.
Right now, I was here to soak it in—the refuge we'd carved out from the world's crap.
Circling past a heated game of cards, I caught snippets of conversation—tales of rides and raids, love lost and found.
You couldn't bottle this kind of camaraderie, and why the hell would you want to? It was raw, unfiltered—like us.
A door at the far end caught my eye, freshly painted with a cartoonish mural that seemed almost too soft for the likes of us.
Yet, as I stepped inside the childcare room, I couldn't help but feel the rightness of it.
Tiny tables and chairs were scattered around, with bright toys and books lining the shelves.
It was a pocket of innocence in a world often anything but, and damn if it didn't hit the spot.
I ran a hand over a crib, the wood smooth beneath my calluses.
We'd built this place for the next generation—our kids who'd one day understand what it meant to wear the patch.
But until then, they'd have a safe haven to laugh and play, shielded from the storms their parents rode through daily.
"Good job, Vin," I muttered to myself, the pride swelling in my chest like a tide.
We were more than our reputation; we were protectors, defenders of our own.
And this room was a testament to that commitment, to the life we were fighting to provide.
It was a promise etched in every toy, every book, every fucking crayon—that no matter how dark the roads we traveled, there'd always be light waiting at home for those who mattered most.
The worn leather of my cut creaked as I shifted, the clubhouse's stale air clinging to my skin like a second shadow.
There was movement all around, the club thriving in its own chaotic symphony, but at that moment, it was just background noise.
It was the calm before the storm, and I knew it.
My phone buzzed against my thigh, an insistent vibration that spelled trouble or, at the very least, more shit to shovel.
"Talk to me," I grumbled into the receiver, already bracing for impact.
"Vin, it's Jameson," his voice crackled through, urgency giving each word a serrated edge. "How are things on your end? Anything with Raven?"
"Club's buzzing like a beehive after you kick it," I replied, my gaze sliding across the recreation area, where life thrummed strong despite the shadows we all lived under. "Renovation’s shaping up nice. Nothing has changed with Raven.” My voice cracked and I was sure Jameson heard it, though he said nothing.
He understood. Men understand things and pass on that understanding often through silence.
"Good, we'll need that unity. Stansfield's been sniffing around our turf again. We gotta stay sharp and keep track of his moves. How are the Prospects holding up?"
"Like hounds on a scent," I assured him, the protective fire flaring hot inside me. "They're combing streets, eyes peeled. We'll get a whiff of Stansfield long before he rears his ugly head."
"Keep it tight, Vin. We can't afford any slip-ups, not with Raven down and the heat we're packing." Jameson's words were a weighty reminder of the tightrope we walked, every damn day.
"Understood." The authority came easy, natural as breathing. "We're locked and loaded, brother. We'll give 'em hell if they so much as glance our way wrong."
"Damn straight. Stay frosty, Vin. We ride together on this one.
" He cleared his throat. "Before you hang up, Vin," Jameson's voice crackled with that old-school gravitas that made you sit a little straighter, "I gotta hand it to ya.
The way you dismantled that Black Market Railroad was nothing short of badass.
All the chapters are talking about it. Hell, some of them want to send members your way. "
"Appreciate it, brother." My voice was back to normal, the words simple but weighted. "But the road's long, and this is just another mile marker."
"True enough," he conceded, and I could almost see him nodding on the other end of the line, his face set in that steely resolve that had seen us through hellfire and back. You’re a good man, Vin. Keep your head on a swivel. We’ll touch base later."
"Later," I echoed before the line went dead.
I pocketed the phone, feeling its weight against my thigh like a totem of the chaos we courted daily. My mind raced, each thought revving like an engine at the starting line, ready to tear down the track. Stansfield, that smug son of a bitch, would be coming, and when he did, we'd be waiting.
Stepping back into Raven's room felt like crossing the threshold of a sacred shrine, one where hope hung heavy. The soft cadence of her breathing was the only sound that dared trespass the silence, wrapping around my heart like a whispered prayer. I slid into the chair beside her bed, the leather creaking under my weight. I leaned forward and pressed my lips against hers. Could a man who’d been spat from Hell have prayers answered?
She lay there, still as death except for the rise and fall of her chest. I leaned forward again, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together as if I could squeeze some life back into her through sheer willpower alone. Heavy with unshed emotion, my eyes stayed glued to her pale face.
"Come on, Raven," I murmured, barely above a growl.
"Don't do this to me." My fingers itched to brush against her skin, but I held back, respecting the fragile peace she'd found in unconsciousness.
My grim determination clashed with the naked fear that clawed at my insides.
She had to wake up. She just had to. Because without Raven, all the turf wars, the midnight rides, and the brotherhood—they meant jack shit.
"Open those eyes, babe," I whispered fiercely.
"You've got a whole lot of living left, and I'll be damned if you're gonna do it from this bed.
" I allowed myself a moment—a single, stolen moment—to picture her standing strong and fierce, the way she always did.
But it was a fleeting comfort, snatched away as soon as I opened my eyes to her unmoving form again.
"Fight," I willed silently, the word more invocation than request. It was the only thing I knew how to do, and by hell or high water, I'd make sure it was something she remembered too.
The stillness shattered like a beer bottle against asphalt. Raven's eyelids, those damn curtains keeping her from me, they started to flutter. It wasn't much, just a tremble really, but it was as if lightning struck straight through the room.
"Raven?" My voice was barely a growl, choked with the kind of hope that had no right to be there after all we'd been through. I leaned in close, my heart pounding out a rhythm for some desperate prayer.
Her eyes cracked open, and I swear, the spark in them could've lit the whole damned clubhouse on fire. "Vin?" she rasped, her voice a whisper of smoke and defiance.
"Right here, babe." A laugh bubbled up from someplace deep, someplace I thought had turned to stone long ago.
Relief washed over me, fierce and sweet as a shot of bourbon after a dry spell—no, better.
It was everything. "Welcome back," I said, my voice rough around the edges, like I'd been riding too long without a break.
But hell, I'd ride into eternity if it meant seeing those eyes open again.
We shared a kiss and tears, me lying in the bed next to her, never, ever, wanting to let her go.