Chapter 4
Reagan had almost convinced herself the bikers weren't coming back.
Twenty-four hours since the prospect with the intense eyes had stood in her store and promised help she hadn't asked for. Twenty-four hours of jumping at every door chime, checking her phone for calls that never came, wondering if she'd imagined the whole thing.
Maybe he'd been humoring her. Maybe the Ridgerunners had bigger problems than one thrift store owner who couldn't keep her mouth shut. Maybe—
The door chimed.
Nate Culver walked in with five men behind him and a duffel bag over his shoulder.
Reagan's stomach dropped to her shoes.
"Told you we'd be back." Culver smiled that cold smile she remembered from her nightmares. "Brought you some inventory."
She stepped behind the counter. Her hand found the baseball bat, fingers curling around worn wood. Not much against six men, but it was something.
"Nothing's going in my store."
"See, that's where you're wrong." Culver set the duffel on the counter with a heavy thunk. Electronics rattled inside. "This is going on your shelves tonight, and you're going to sell it to tourists tomorrow, and next week we'll bring you more. That's how this works now."
"No."
The word came out steadier than she felt. Her heart hammered against her ribs, every instinct screaming to run, but Reagan Sadler didn't run. Not from her stepfather, not from poverty, not from men who thought they could take what wasn't theirs.
"No?" Culver's smile flickered. "You didn't learn from last time?"
"I learned plenty. Learned you're a bully who gets off on scaring women." She lifted her chin. "Learned I'd rather watch this place burn than let you use it."
One of the men behind Culver laughed. "She's got a mouth on her."
"She does." Culver leaned across the counter, close enough that she could smell cigarettes and menace. "Maybe we need to teach her what happens to mouths that don't know when to stay shut."
Reagan's grip tightened on the bat. She could feel the back door behind her, ten feet away. If she ran—
The front door slammed open.
Channel came through first, moving with a controlled violence that made her breath catch. Behind him was another man—older, broader, with chemical burns mapping his forearms and eyes that assessed the room in one cold sweep.
Patched. The second man wore a full Ridgerunner cut, not a prospect's.
"Culver." Channel's voice was flat. Deadly. "Step away from her."
Culver straightened slowly, his smile going sharp. "Well. The cavalry. Little late, aren't you?"
"I said step away."
Something in Channel's tone made Culver take a half-step back. Reagan watched it happen—watched a man who'd shoved her into a clothing rack retreat from a prospect who looked barely old enough to drink.
But there was nothing young about Channel's eyes right now. Nothing soft about the way he positioned himself between her and the threat, his body a wall of barely leashed violence.
"This isn't club business," Culver said. "This is between me and the lady."
"She's in our territory." The older Ridgerunner spoke for the first time, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a man who didn't need to raise it. "That makes her our business."
"Says who?"
"Says Still. Says every brother who rides these roads." The man moved to flank Culver's crew, cutting off their line to the door. "You want to argue about it, we can take this outside. But I don't think your boys are ready for that conversation."
Reagan watched Culver's men shift. Five of them against two Ridgerunners—numbers that should have been in their favor. But something about the way Channel and the patched brother held themselves made those numbers feel less certain.
These weren't men who threw sloppy punches in bar fights. These were men who knew exactly how much damage they could do and weren't afraid to prove it.
"Back door," Channel said without turning. "Reagan. Cover it."
Her name in his mouth sent heat down her spine. Ridiculous. They were surrounded by men who wanted to hurt her, and she was noticing the way he said her name.
But she grabbed the bat and moved to the back door anyway.
Not because he'd told her to. Because it made tactical sense. Because if Culver's men tried to flank them, someone needed to be there.
Because Channel had put himself between her and danger without hesitating, and the least she could do was watch his back.
"This isn't over," Culver said. His hand hovered near his waistband, and Reagan's heart stuttered—but he didn't reach for whatever was there. Not with two Ridgerunners ready to end him. "Farris isn't going to like hearing the MC's involved."
"Then tell Farris to come talk to us himself." Channel's smile was all teeth, no warmth. "We'll be happy to explain how things work in our territory."
"Your territory." Culver laughed, but it was hollow. "You're a prospect. You don't have territory. You have errands."
"And right now my errand is making sure you don't touch what's mine."
Mine.
The word hit Reagan like a shock. She watched Channel's back, the tension in his shoulders, the way he'd planted himself in front of her like he had every right to claim her.
She should be angry. She didn't belong to anyone. She'd spent nine years making sure of that.
But some traitorous part of her thrilled at the word. At the possession in his voice. At the way he'd walked into danger for a woman he'd known less than a day.
"Walk away, Culver." The patched brother jerked his head toward the door. "Take your boys, take your stolen shit, and don't come back to this store. Next time we won't be talking."
Culver's jaw worked. He looked at Channel, at the older Ridgerunner, at Reagan with her bat at the back door. The arithmetic had changed, and he knew it.
"You're making a mistake," he said. "Farris has twelve men. The Ridgerunners can't babysit every business on this strip."
"Don't need to babysit every business." Channel hadn't moved, hadn't relaxed an inch. "Just this one."
Something flickered in Culver's eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
Just this one.
Not club business. Personal.
"We'll see." Culver grabbed the duffel off the counter. "Enjoy your protection detail, sweetheart. Won't last forever."
He jerked his head at his men and walked out. Five sets of boots on hardwood, the door chime incongruously cheerful, and then silence.
Reagan stayed at the back door, bat in hand, listening to engines start and tires crunch on gravel. Only when the sound faded did she let herself breathe.
"They're gone." The patched brother moved to the window, checking the street. "For now."
Channel turned.
His eyes found hers immediately, and Reagan felt the impact of his attention like a physical thing. He crossed the store in three strides, stopping close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
She looked down. Her hands were trembling on the bat, adrenaline catching up with her now that the danger had passed.
Channel reached out. His hand closed over hers, warm and steady, stilling the tremor.
"You did good." His voice was low, meant just for her. "Holding the back door. Keeping your head."
"I'm not helpless."
"Never said you were." His thumb brushed across her knuckles, a gentle stroke that shouldn't have felt as intimate as it did. "Said you were brave. There's a difference."
Reagan stared at him. At the concern in his eyes, the possessive set of his jaw, the way he touched her like he had every right to.
"You called me yours."
It wasn't a question.
Channel's expression didn't waver. "Yeah. I did."
"We've known each other for one day."
"I know."
"That's insane."
"Probably." He still hadn't let go of her hand. "Still true."
The patched brother cleared his throat. "Hate to interrupt whatever this is, but we should move. Culver's going to report back to Farris, and I'd rather not be standing in a storefront with glass windows when he does."
Reagan pulled her hand free, her skin burning where Channel had touched her. "I'm not leaving my store."
"Nobody's asking you to leave it." Channel stepped back, giving her space, though his eyes never left her face. "But you're not staying here alone tonight."
"I've been staying here alone for four years."
"Things are different now."
"Because you decided they are?"
"Because Farris decided." Channel's voice hardened. "He made you a target. I'm making sure he doesn't get another shot."
The patched brother moved to the door. "I'm Proof, by the way. Since the prospect's too busy staking his claim to make introductions."
Reagan looked between them. A prospect who touched her like she was precious and called her his. A patched brother who'd walked into a six-on-one without blinking. Two men who'd shown up when she needed backup and hadn't asked for anything in return.
She didn't trust it. Didn't trust them. Didn't trust the warm feeling in her chest when Channel looked at her like she was worth protecting.
But she wasn't stupid, either.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm not closing early. And if anyone thinks they're giving me orders—"
"Wouldn't dream of it." Channel's smile was slow, knowing, infuriatingly attractive. "I'll be right here. Watching the door."
Reagan turned away before he could see the flush creeping up her neck.
She had inventory to price. A store to run. A life that didn't include possessive bikers who said mine like they meant it.
But as she picked up the pricing gun and tried to focus on work, she could feel his eyes on her. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.
And the traitorous part of her—the part she'd spent nine years trying to silence—didn't hate it at all.