Chapter 9
Rowan
"Hey, sweetheart.” Chaos's voice rumbles from somewhere to my left.
I blink against the dim light filtering through heavy curtains and push myself up on my elbows, disoriented.
The moment I see him, the events of the past twenty-four hours come crashing back.
Chaos sits on the edge of the bed, a plate balanced on his knee. He's changed clothes—fresh jeans and a tight black t-shirt that stretches across his muscled chest in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
"What time is it?" My voice comes out rough from sleep.
"Around seven.” He gestures to the plate. "Made you a sandwich. Turkey and cheese."
My stomach growls loudly in response, and I take the plate, suddenly ravenous. "Thank you."
“Your things are here.” He gestures to an armchair where I notice my textbooks and a duffel bag I recognize from my closet, presumably filled with clothes.
My throat tightens. "You sent someone to get my things."
“The brothers grabbed what they could. Figured you'd want your books." He watches me take a bite of the sandwich. "There's a party happening downstairs tonight."
"A party?" I swallow my mouthful of food.
"Celebration for Demon's twenty-eighth straight win in the cage." His eyes track my movements as I eat. “Parties here…” He pauses, searching for words. “They get loud and crazy. Rowdy."
The sandwich is actually really good—the bread is fresh, the lunchmeat is quality. Better than anything I usually buy. "You don't have to babysit me up here. I'll be fine."
"I know you will." Something in his tone makes me look up. "Because you'll be with me."
My heart does that stupid fluttery thing again. "Oh."
“I need to talk to you about some things first, though." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "About the club. About how things work around here."
I stop chewing mid-bite, suddenly nervous, and nod.
"This is a one-percenter club." He watches my face, clearly gauging my reaction. "You know what that means?"
I shake my head.
"Means we operate outside the law. We have our own code, our own rules." His jaw tightens. "Our own way of handling things.”
"You're criminals." The words come out before I can stop them.
"We're outlaws," he corrects, but there's no anger in his voice. "There's a difference. It’s not our way to hurt innocent people. We protect our territory, take care of our own, and yeah—we do shit that ain't exactly legal."
My mind spins, trying to process this. I mean, I'd already figured they weren't Boy Scouts, but hearing it stated so plainly makes it real in a way it wasn't before.
“So at the party tonight…” His forehead wrinkles, and he rubs the back of his neck as if searching for the words. “In our world, if a woman isn’t someone’s ol’ lady, if she’s not claimed by a brother, she’s fair game.”
“Fair Game?”
“A woman whose sole purpose here is to party and fuck the brothers. They’re referred to by all sorts of names: club whores, club bunnies, sweet butts. We call ‘em cut sluts.”
I swallow audibly and think of the blonde, Kandi.
"I'm telling you this because when we go down there, you need to understand some things." He holds my gaze. “I’ll be claiming you as mine. My woman. It’s how I can assure you’re safe and protected.”
My eyes widen. His woman? What does that even mean?
“What you need to do is to follow my lead. Don't disagree with me in front of my brothers. Don't contradict me."
Something prickles at the back of my neck. "That seems..."
"Controlling?" His mouth quirks. "It is. But it's how things work. I'm the president. What I say goes, and that extends to my woman."
His woman. There it is again.
"And I'm not saying you can't have opinions or speak your mind when we're alone. But in front of the club? You're mine, and that means you respect me publicly. Those brothers out there, they’re the toughest and most loyal group of guys you’re ever gonna meet, but they ain’t gonna respect me if I can’t even keep my woman in line. Got it?”
I bite my lip, considering my options. He's keeping me alive. Feeding me. Protecting me from literal cartel hitmen. And honestly, the idea of publicly disagreeing with him in a room full of outlaws doesn't appeal to me anyway.
"I can do that."
"Good girl." The praise makes my cheeks flush. He stands, offering his hand. "Finish eating, then we'll head down."
***
The noise hits me before we even reach the bottom of the stairs—loud music, shouting, raucous laughter. My hand tightens in Chaos's as we descend into the main room.
It’s packed with bodies. Bikers in leather cuts crowd around the bar, the pool tables, clustered in groups, drinking and talking. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer. Scantily-clad women weave through the crowd, their hands trailing over broad shoulders and muscled arms.
My steps falter, but Chaos's grip on my hand keeps me moving forward.
We navigate through the crowd, Chaos nodding to brothers who call out greetings. I keep my eyes down, trying not to stare at the sheer amount of leather and tattoos and raw masculinity surrounding us.
Chaos leads me over near the bar and stops in front of a black woman who’s probably in her late fifties. She’s full-figured and dressed impeccably in professional attire—a dark purple business pantsuit and a silk blouse that seems wildly out of place in this den of debauchery.
"Mama Pat." Chaos's voice warms as we approach.
She looks up, her sharp gaze moving from Chaos to me and back again. One perfectly shaped eyebrow arches. "Well, well. What do we have here?" Her eyes rake over me, then soften as her lips curl in a friendly smile.
Chaos pulls me closer to his side, his arm wrapping around my waist. "This is Rowan, my ol’ lady, and I’m about to claim her publicly.”
Mama Pat’s eyes widen comically, and she mumbles just loud enough for me to hear, “Lord, am I glad I didn’t miss this tonight.”
Chaos motions to someone, and the music stops.
"Brothers, listen up!" he shouts, cutting through the din.
The room doesn't go completely silent, but the noise level drops significantly. Heads turn our way, and I fight the urge to shrink against Chaos's side.
"I got an announcement." His hand tightens on my hip. "This here's Rowan. She's my ol' lady."
Now there’s dead silence. It’s as though everyone’s waiting for the punchline of a joke.
Chaos pulls me even closer, his voice dropping to a rumble. "She's to be afforded the same respect you give me. Anyone got a problem with that?"
Three long seconds of silence, followed by whooping and hollering. Raised beers. Congratulatory backslaps for Chaos. Respectful nods for me.
I manage to keep a smile plastered on my burning face.
A group of brothers practically drags Chaos toward the bar.
"Go." Mama Pat waves him off. “I got her.”
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do or how I’m expected to behave. The last party I went to was Jenny Donnelly’s birthday sleepover in sixth grade. We did each other’s hair and talked about kissing boys. I don’t have a clue what goes on at biker parties.
Fortunately, Mama Pat leans over and explains. “He’s gotta do shots with the brothers. It's tradition after claiming an ol’ lady.”
Her warm hand guides me by the elbow to a table in the corner. "C'mon, child. Come sit with me."
I sink into the chair beside her, watching as across the room someone lines up shot glasses in front of Chaos and several other men.
"You look overwhelmed," Mama Pat observes. Her voice is kind. "I'm gonna tell you some rules of the club and I’ll answer any questions you have.”
Questions? Where do I start?
I watch Chaos throw back a shot, his throat working as he swallows. "I don't even know what to ask. This is all so foreign to me.”
"I was an ol' lady myself," Mama Pat continues. “Still am, I guess, in the eyes of the club. My husband, Reaper, died eight years ago. Motorcycle accident." Her voice softens. “I’m an accountant by trade, and now I keep the books for the club as well as helping out where I can."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you, baby." She squeezes my hand. "These parties can get raucous. My old bones can't handle the party life anymore—I just came to see my son."
"Your son?"
"Demon." Pride fills her voice. “The one celebrating his twenty-eighth win tonight."
I glance up at the intimidating man with the intense eyes and air of controlled violence. He’s standing near Chaos, laughing and drinking. “He's your son?"
"Surprised?" She chuckles. "Don't let that brutal exterior fool you. He's a good boy. They all are, in their own way."
Another round of shots goes up on the bar, and I watch Chaos throw his head back, laughing at something someone says.
“I’ve known Jace since he was in diapers," Mama Pat says, following my gaze.
"Jace came up hard. His daddy was a member here and got killed when Jace was just a little thing.
His mama was drowning in grief and ended up marrying the club president—a mean bastard named Razor who treated that boy something awful. "
My chest tightens. I picture Jace as a young boy being abused and mistreated by a big, gruff biker.
"When Razor was killed by a rival club, Jace was twenty-two.
Took over as president and turned this club around.
Built it into something strong, something that actually takes care of people instead of just taking from them.
" She shakes her head. "His mama would be proud.
She and I were close, you know. Best friends. "
"You were friends with his mother?"
"Sure was. Back in the day, we had a great group of ol' ladies.
We leaned on each other, supported each other through the rough times.
" Her expression turns wistful. "But now.
..well, most of them are gone. Moved away or passed on.
I keep hoping some of these other boys will settle down, claim ol' ladies. Build that community back up."