Shivs
Nothing in Kentucky sparkled like the Stillwater grand hall on a night like this—when every surface, every polished banister and whiskey-glazed rafter, hummed with a tension so thick you could bottle it and sell it for triple the MSRP.
The new chandeliers dripped gold onto the crowd below, and if you listened close, you could hear the old-money bourbon lords and the tattooed Royal Bastards swapping stories over neat pours of a whiskey that, up until tonight, had existed only as rumor.
Carrie was the axis. She stood at the center of it all, a blood-wine dress hugging her like she’d been poured into it, the mate mark on her throat just visible above the collar if you knew where to look.
She’d learned from her father: stand where the light hits you, never blink, and let the world convince itself it’s already lost. She worked the room in sweeps—shoulder brushes with rival distillers, direct eye contact with old enemies, half-laughs with the journalists who’d tried to kill her with pen and camera. Everyone wanted a piece.
I shadowed her from the edge, black shirt starched so crisp it might as well have been body armor, jeans tailored to fit but not so much as to risk the patchwork of scars and old club ink peeking from my sleeves.
I kept my hands in my pockets to hide the tremor that came when the bond went active.
That happened every time Carrie so much as glanced my direction, but I played it off by shifting my weight, watching the exits, or taking slow, measured sips of the only thing here strong enough to keep the wolf from howling.
Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, but even the air tasted of warning.
The bourbon elite never forgot, and they sure as shit never forgave—not a Stillwater, not a Royal Bastard, not anyone who’d upset the order.
But tonight they were here, all of them, because the alternative was to admit defeat.
And if you looked close enough, you’d see they kind of liked it.
Lila Vargas, legal terminator, took the makeshift stage at the far end of the hall.
She wore a suit the color of wet asphalt, eyes sharper than the steak knives sheathed at the caterers’ table.
She motioned for silence with nothing more than a glance.
Within seconds, the entire room had turned, even the prospect bikers and the stiffest of bourbon execs.
She pulled a manila folder from under her arm and flicked it open like a magician about to saw someone in half.
“On behalf of Stillwater Bourbon and all vested parties, I’m pleased to announce that Marcus Ellery has reached a full settlement and entered into a plea arrangement with the Commonwealth of Kentucky.
Details are public as of this evening, but the highlights: Ellery admits full liability for sabotage, arson, and attempted hostile takeover.
” Lila paused to let that sink in. Several hundred-year-old eyebrows went north.
“Restitution in excess of eight figures, and a permanent lifetime ban from all bourbon industry trade, production, or even employment within the state.”
A ripple, part shock, part approval, washed the room.
Someone at the bar let out a low whistle.
Glasses clinked—some in salute, some just for the excuse to drink.
I saw Bennet Shore in the corner, his face a wash of emotions: relief, pride, a hit of grief for the years spent babysitting the old man’s legacy.
Carrie stepped into the silence. “Stillwater survived,” she said. No mic needed—her voice carried. “Not because of lawyers, or luck, or even the law. We survived because this is more than a business. It’s a family, and we protect our own.”
She raised her glass. “To the ones who tried to end us: next time, bring something stronger.”
The crowd laughed, some genuinely, some through gritted teeth, but all of them drank. Even the rival heirs, the Macallister twins in their matching blue suits, let their posture slip, just a hair. I felt the bond between us crackle—pride and hunger, and something more dangerous beneath it.
Then Bennet took his spot at the display table, which was stacked with the first run of the Silver Back Reserve.
The bottles were something else: heavy glass, black labels branded with a charred wood pattern that would make any liquor store shelf feel naked by comparison.
He uncorked the first one, and the aroma sliced through the room with sweet, smoky promise.
“I want to say something about this batch,” Bennet began, voice rough as always, but steady.
“The flavor’s different, because the process is different.
The barrels were charred hotter, for longer, using a technique learned from a man most of you wouldn’t let past your loading dock.
” He nodded to me, and I pretended not to care, though every hair on my arms stood at attention.
“The result? Nothing like it in the state. Maybe not in the country.”
He poured out samples, passing them down the line.
The first sips went to the Macallisters, then to Lila, then to Carrie.
Each one lingered on the nose, searching for weakness, a flaw to pounce on.
But no one found any. I watched Carrie take her first taste—her lips parted, tongue tracing the rim of the glass, and then her eyes closed in something between ecstasy and memory.
Across the room, I saw Moab and Canon posted by the back wall, drinking with the careful discipline of men who knew they could outdrink everyone here and still take apart the room if needed.
Vin, my oldest friend and sometimes babysitter, had found a group of distributors and was regaling them with tales of biker justice—cleaned up, mostly, but still raw enough to make the older women in attendance flush at the ears.
Carrie worked the crowd, but it was different now.
Less defensive, more like a general inspecting the troops after a victory.
She fielded questions from the press, dodged a few loaded ones with enough grace to make even the hardline legacy houses blink.
She paused at the edge of the room, caught my eye, and just held it.
I felt the jolt down my spine before she even started across the floor.
I drained my own glass—she’d want me steady, not tipsy—and wiped my hands on my jeans just in case the tremor had started.
I tried to look bored, but the truth was I’d been vibrating inside since she put on that dress.
The bond didn’t help; it threw everything into high-def.
Her scent—bourbon and sweat and something older, animal—hit me even before she closed the gap.
She didn’t say anything. Just leaned in, slow, and let her hair fall to one side. “I need you,” she whispered. “Now.” The words were so low I doubted anyone else heard, but I felt them through every layer of skin and muscle.
I nodded, and she was gone, moving toward the corridor behind the tasting hall. I let her get three steps before I peeled away from the crowd and followed.
Nobody stopped me. Nobody could. I was still the security guy to most of them, a ghost at the feast. But as I slipped into the shadows behind the oak door, I felt the real weight of what we’d done. The old world was dead, and the new one wore a mate mark and a red dress and didn’t care who saw.
Her office was designed for power moves and bourbon deals—floor-to-ceiling glass, massive oak desk, a view of the rickhouse stretching to the edge of the Kentucky dusk.
Tonight it was all fire and shadow, gold lines of sunlight knifing through the slatted blinds, picking out every drop of sweat on her skin, every grain of dust in the air.
I let the door click shut behind me and twisted the lock, slow, just to hear the sound.
Carrie didn’t bother turning around. She just braced her hands on the window, shoulders flexing under the silk, and waited. She must have heard my breathing, felt the animal in me chewing through restraint. Maybe she wanted it to win. Either way, the moment hung between us—tense, savage, pure.
I crossed the room and put my hands on her hips, the burgundy dress already warm from her body.
She arched against me, her breath fogging the glass, and I ran my mouth along the line where neck met shoulder, biting down just enough to remind her whose teeth had put the mark there in the first place.
Her pulse jumped; the bond flared, a spike of want so sharp I almost lost control before we even started.
She spun, fast, grabbing me by the collar and crushing her mouth to mine.
The taste of her was better than the bourbon, sharper, like she’d spiked it with adrenaline and rage.
I reached behind her, found the zipper, and ripped it so hard the teeth popped.
The dress slid down, pooling at her feet in a puddle of blood-red silk.
She was naked underneath, not a stitch, and for a second, I just stared, taking in the lines of her body, the new muscle over old scars, the way the mate mark pulsed just above her collarbone.
She didn’t wait for me to get my bearings.
She shoved me backwards, hard enough that I almost tripped on the rug.
Six months ago, I could have picked her up and thrown her through a wall—now, she might do it first. I grinned, loving the change, and let her push me until my back hit the edge of the desk.
She ripped at my shirt, buttons scattering like birdshot, and raked her nails down my chest. The wounds bled, just a little, and she licked them clean, eyes gone amber and wild.