Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
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It’s Thursday afternoon that feels way too normal for my life lately.
The shop smells like oil and tire rubber, Rev and Jax are elbow-deep in a custom build, and I’m sorting inventory while pretending I’m not staring at Blade every five minutes like a lovesick degenerate.
He’s in the corner welding, tattoos on full display, and if OSHA knew how much hotter he makes protective eyewear look, we’d have a national crisis.
I’m mid-daydream when the shop door opens and the vibes instantly nosedive. The kind of nosedive where you know you’re about to watch a disaster and also grab popcorn.
The college douche brigade walks in. The same ones Blade shut down last month when they tried swinging their daddies money and demanding custom bikes.
Blade notices before anyone else because Blade always notices. He turns off the welder, lifts his visor, and gives a look that could peel paint off steel. A slow, dangerous look like he’s already picking out which bone he’ll break first.
The trio strolls in like they’re on a campus tour, not stepping into a den of people who could bury them and be back by lunch. The leader tries to act like the heat in here isn’t from the men watching their every move.
“We’re here about the bikes,” he says. “You said to come back when we were serious. We’re serious.”
Rev snorts without looking up. “You serious about dying?”
The kid ignores him. Bad choice.
“We want something with presence,” the second one adds. “Flashy. Like you guys.”
Switch wipes his hands on a towel and leans a hip on the lift. “Bro. You’re wearing loafers. Relax.”
Blade takes a slow step forward. The shop goes quiet in that way that says everyone is listening and no one wants to miss the moment this goes sideways.
“You want Reaper bikes,” Blade says.
“Yeah,” the leader confirms. “We’re ready to pay. Top dollar. So let’s cut the bullshit and talk business.”
Blade laughs once. A single, dead sound. “You got no clue what business you’re stepping into.”
Cologne Boy crosses his arms. “We got money. Isn’t money what matters?”
Lucky drifts closer, arms folded across his chest. “Money matters until blood shows up. Then money runs.”
The kid pretending to lead scoffs. “We can handle heat.”
“You sure?” Rev asks. “Cause you look like you cry if your DoorDash driver forgets extra sauce.”
Sunglasses steps up like he’s not terrified. “Whatever. We want the same look your guys have. Bikes. Cuts. Reputation.”
Blade’s eyebrow lifts. “Cuts?”
“Yeah,” Sunglasses says. “Like an official membership. We want in.”
Silence. Thick and holy.
Riot breaks it. “You dumb or suicidal?”
Blade steps into their space and points at his cut. “You see this on a man’s back? It means he earned it. It means he bled for the brother next to him. It means he’s got graves he visits on Sundays.”
The leader swallows but holds eye contact. Barely. “We can earn it. We’re not scared.”
Switch mutters, “He says while shaking like a chihuahua in winter.”
The kid turns sharp. “You wanna go outside?”
Switch grins slow. “You first. I’ll send the pieces out after.”
Blade puts one palm flat to the kid’s chest, not pushing, just reminding him who’s the predator here. “You think wearing our mark makes you dangerous? That patch paints a target the size of your futures on your backs. You think you can live with that kind of enemy?”
“What enemy?” one asks, voice cracking.
Lucky taps the gun at his hip. “The kind we keep these for.”
All three boys flinch like firearms are a surprise.
“You don’t join the Reapers because it looks cool,” Blade says, leaning in. “You join because you ain’t got anything left but loyalty and rage.”
Rev chuckles darkly. “And sometimes even that ain’t enough.”
The leader’s bravado starts melting in real time, pooling at his feet. “We just… wanna look like we belong.”
Blade grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him up to eye level. “Then find somewhere you do.”
He drops him just as fast.
“And if I hear you throwing our name around again?” Blade adds, voice so quiet it’s lethal. “You’re gonna learn what belonging costs.”
This time when Blade jerks his chin toward the exit, they don’t posture. Don’t argue. They scatter like cockroaches in daylight.
The door slams behind them.
Riot exhales. “College really ain’t what it used to be.”
Switch cracks his neck. “Bet they go cry to whoever’s funding this stupid idea.”
Blade doesn’t look away from the door.
“They’re being pushed,” he says. “And someone wants to see how far they can poke the Reapers before we bite.”
My stomach knots. Because Blade is right. And the bite is coming.
The mood shifts instantly from humor to dread. And I can feel it deep in my chest…This just escalated big time.
My heart is in my throat and my hands are a little sweaty, but curiosity and anxiety link arms inside me and push me forward. Before I can overthink it, my hand pops up like I’m in third grade volunteering to read aloud.
Every biker head turns toward me like I just started juggling chainsaws.
Mason squints, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. “Are you fucking raising your hand to ask a question?”
Heat rushes to my face and I lower my hand halfway. “Maybe? Look, it’s clearly none of my business, so feel free to tell me to shut up if you want to, I just—”
“Anyone tells her to shut up and I’m kicking your ass,” Blade cuts in casually, like he’s discussing the weather. He doesn’t even look up from the rag he’s folding. Just says it like a fact of nature. Like gravity. Everyone accepts it because they know he means it.
Riot whistles low. “Whipped,” he coughs into his elbow.
Blade’s eyes snap to him. Riot instantly studies the floor like it’s fascinating.
Mason smirks, shaking his head before turning back to me. “Go ahead, sweetheart. What’s the question?”
I take a steady breath, trying not to sound like I’m auditioning for the role of anxious bystander. “How many new prospects have you had lately?”
The guys glance around at each other. A few confused shrugs. Mason narrows his gaze a little.
I continue, “I mean… since those college boys started being a problem. Has there been an increase? Like suddenly more random guys wanting in?”
Mason’s expression shifts. Awareness settles in behind his eyes.
Blade steps in closer, resting a hand on the small of my back, not pulling me away, just grounding me. Like I’m here. Talk.
Riot chews on a toothpick, thinking. “We had three show up last week talking big. Said they ‘heard the club was looking to expand.’”
Lucky frowns. “And there were those two dudes last month who tried bringing in those counterfeit IDs to score favor.”
Rev snaps his fingers. “And that guy who showed up from out of town claiming he was ‘destined for the Reapers.’”
Mason crosses his arms. “That was weird enough. Now these little pricks think they can demand patches? Yeah. Someone’s feeding them bullshit.”
The room grows heavier, the danger suddenly feeling closer than the four walls around us.
Blade’s jaw flexes, eyes narrowing with predator focus. “This isn’t random recruitment stupidity. They’re being pushed. Coached. Set up to infiltrate.”
“In order to undermine the club from the inside,” Mason finishes, voice a quiet rumble.
My stomach drops. I don’t have a patch, I don’t have club ties like they do, but even I understand what that means.
Someone wants to take the Iron Reapers apart, not with a bar fight or a street ambush, but by attacking from the inside, from the heart of the club itself.
Mason gives me a short nod and says, “Good catch,” while Blade’s hand tightens on my hip and he murmurs, “Smart girl,” his breath brushing my ear.
The praise sends warmth through my chest even as a cold thread of fear winds tight beneath it, because I may not wear a cut or share their blood, but tonight I helped them connect a dangerous dot.
And based on the looks on every face in that room, the war isn’t on the horizon anymore. It has already begun.
Mason shifts his attention to Riot, who’s lounging against the counter like he hasn’t been a caged panther this entire conversation. “You ran their names. Checked them out. Right?”
Riot snorts, offended that the question is even necessary. “Of course I did. I’m not Lucky.”
Lucky throws his hands up. “Hey! I haven’t screwed anything up in like… two whole days!”
Riot gives him a look that says you just breathing counts as a screw up, and Lucky mutters something under his breath and tightens a bolt that probably didn’t need tightening.
Mason rolls his eyes. “Alright. What did you get?”
Riot pushes off the counter and taps his phone screen. His expression goes darker with every swipe. “Clean backgrounds for the most part. Minor shit. Noise complaints. A couple speeding tickets. One slapped with a disorderly conduct charge at a frat party, but nothing that screams cartel puppet.”
Rev crosses his arms. “So either they hide their tracks damn well… or someone else is doing the dirty work for them.”
“Exactly,” Riot says, thumbs flying. “Every one of those idiots has family money. Trust funds. Big-name donors behind the college. That’s who has the real pull.”
Mason steps closer, looming over Riot’s shoulder. “Someone with influence is funneling morons into our path.”
Blade’s hand firms on my hip again, like he feels the shift in the room and wants me locked in his awareness. My heart thumps harder because that simple touch says more than words.
He is ready to protect me. Fight for me. Kill for me.
Riot keeps scrolling, muttering numbers and addresses. “They didn’t just show up out of nowhere. There’s a pattern. Someone’s sending them to test us. See how we react.”
My skin prickles.
Testing boundaries is how predators hunt.
Mason grinds his teeth loud enough we all hear it. “We need to hit the source.”
Jax smirks, cracking his knuckles. “About damn time we got something to swing at.”
Blade doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t make a sound. His gaze is locked on the door where those college idiots disappeared. Cold. Sharp. Calculating.
Then he turns his head and presses a quick kiss to my temple. It’s subtle, fast, like a whisper only for me. I lean closer to him without thinking. “This is going to get bad, isn’t it?”
Blade nods once, the tiniest of movements, voice so quiet only I catch it. “But you’re safe. With me, you’re safe.”