Chapter 6
Cami
I hear the roar of Wrath's bike in my mind as my pencil glides over the rough paper sketching every line, every curve—I've memorized how the chrome catches the afternoon light, the way the paint job sparkles at a certain angle. There’s something so raw about the way a biker mounts his machine, but I still can't quite capture the power of man and metal fused together.
I've been sketching motorcycles obsessively, trying to capture the aggressive grace of these mechanical beasts and the men who ride them.
"You done eye-fucking the Harleys, or you want some privacy?"
I press so hard the pencil point snaps off.
Jigsaw grins as he examines the V-twin he’s working on. "Relax. He's not back yet."
"I wasn't—" Heat floods my face. "I'm just drawing."
"Sure you are." He wipes grease on a rag that's seen better decades. “Grab that socket wrench. And give me a hand with this.”
I pass him the tool, grateful for the distraction. Hanging out in the garage has become my refuge. Alongside my sketching, Jigsaw's been teaching me mechanics. The man is a saint. He’s patient in a way no one's ever been with me before.
I'm helping him rebuild the engine on one of Diesel's Harleys, or rather, I'm handing him tools and trying not to mess up anything important.
What started as casual observation—me sketching while he worked—turned into him patiently explaining the intricacies of motorcycle mechanics while I absorbed every detail.
"You've got good hands for this," he continues, watching me carefully position the part he indicated. "Steady. Assertive.”
"It's a lot like drawing," I say, surprised by my own confidence. "You have to see how all the pieces fit together before you can make it work."
"Exactly." His approval warms me. "That's why you’re good at this—you see the art in it."
Art. Somehow that comparison makes perfect sense. There's beauty in the way these machines are constructed, elegance in the relationship between form and function.
I’ve only been here a few days, but these dangerous men have made room for me at their table without asking for anything in return except my presence.
Lizzie has taken me under her wing like the mother I never had.
Trix includes me in the easy camaraderie between the old ladies.
Even the newer prospects like Tiny have started greeting me with genuine warmth.
For the first time in my adult life, I'm not just surviving—I'm living.
"Can I see that drawing from yesterday? The one of Wrath's bike?"
My sketchbook sits on the workbench, the edges of some of the pages warped from constant use. I retrieve it, flip to the drawing he means. It's one of my better pieces—every chrome accent and custom modification rendered in precise detail.
Jigsaw studies the page. His eyes track every line with the focus of someone who understands what he's seeing. "Jesus, Cami..." He tilts the page to catch better light. "Twenty years I've been building bikes, and you make me see this machine in a way I never have. Like it's alive."
My throat closes. I duck my head, blinking fast.
"You could sell these." He says it like a fact, not a compliment. "Custom motorcycle art? There's a market for quality work like this. Guys treat their bikes like family."
“Sell them? For real money? You think—"
"I know your first customer." He's already pulling out his phone. "My buddy Spike in Phoenix just dropped fifteen grand on a custom paint job. Bet he’d love to find an artist to do a technical drawing for his shop wall. Show off all the detail work."
Artist? He called me an artist.
“I'm serious about connecting you with buyers. You've got talent."
His voice carries something that feels foreign in my ears. Belief in me.
"Jigsaw." Lizzie's stands in the doorway. "Phone. Parts order."
He nods, then turns back. "I sent him a text. I’m gonna feel him out about what kinda prices to attach to something like that."
For the first time in years, I imagine a future doing something I love.
"Mind some company?" Lizzie approaches with two steaming mugs. Over the past weeks, she's stepped into a role I don't have words for. After my mother chose her abusive husband over her daughter, I soak up Lizzie’s maternal attention like a sponge.
"Please." I take the offered coffee.
“I heard Jigsaw saying you could sell your artwork."
"Maybe. I don't know if—"
"Can I see?"
I hand over the sketchbook. She flips through pages, pausing on a drawing of Steel and several brothers playing poker. Their weathered faces caught mid-laugh, cards forgotten.
"Honey." She breathes. "These are extraordinary."
The praise makes me straighten with pride. It's not just the compliment itself, but the genuine surprise and respect in her voice.
"You really think they're good?"
"I think you're sitting on a goldmine and don't know it.
" Lizzie settles beside me on the workbench, her voice taking on the tone of someone with experience navigating practical matters.
"Custom motorcycle art, portrait work, even commercial illustration—there's serious money in this if you market it right. "
Serious money. The phrase echoes in my mind with the power of an impossible dream suddenly becoming possible.
Since I was seventeen, home has been whatever couch someone would let me sleep on, whatever car I could afford, whatever cramped room I could rent week to week.
The idea of having something of my own—a bank account with serious money—has me salivating.
"I wouldn't know where to start."
Her face lights up. "We photograph your best pieces. Set up social media to showcase your work. Jigsaw spreads word through his network while you build a portfolio. Baby steps."
We. She said we.
Lizzie must read my thoughts because she smiles knowingly.
“Around here, we help each other figure things out.
That's what family's for." The casual use of that word—family—still makes my chest tighten with hope and disbelief.
“Steel knows people in the art world. Trix has friends in the tattoo community.
And Jigsaw has connections from coast to coast. You're not starting from nothing, honey. You're starting with a support system."
Support. It's such a simple concept, but revolutionary for someone like me. Here, among these dangerous men and strong women, I'm discovering what unconditional acceptance feels like—what it means to be valued for who I am instead of how much I can endure.
"Lizzie?" I venture, as a question I've been carrying surfaces. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything, sweetheart."
"How do you do it? Live with someone whose job involves violence?" The question has been eating at me since I arrived. "How do you reconcile loving someone who's gentle with you but dangerous to others?"
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face with the kind of understanding that comes from personal experience and hard-won wisdom. When she speaks, her voice carries the weight of decades spent navigating this exact contradiction.
"You're asking because you’ve fallen for Wrath."
It's not really a question, but I nod anyway, heat flooding my cheeks at having my feelings so transparent. The admission feels dangerous and liberating at the same time.
"The first thing you have to understand is that there's a difference between a man who's violent because he's cruel and a man who's violent because he's protective.
" Lizzie leans closer, her shoulder touching mine.
“It’s like the difference between a serial killer and a soldier in combat.
Steel would kill for me, for this family, for innocent people who can't protect themselves.
He's done it before and he'd do it again without hesitation.
But he's never raised a hand to me in anger, never used his strength to intimidate me, never made me afraid of what he might do if I displease him. "
"How do you know the difference?"
"Watch their eyes when they're angry. A cruel man's eyes light up with pleasure when he hurts someone weaker.
A protective man's eyes go cold with necessity when he eliminates a threat.
" She reaches over and squeezes my hand gently.
"I saw Wrath's eyes when Bulldog was crowding you, they were cold as winter—pure protective instinct.
But when he looks at you? They're warm. Tender. Like he can't believe you’re real."
The accuracy of her observation makes my breath catch. She’s right. That's exactly how he looks at me—like I'm a miracle he's afraid might disappear if he blinks too hard.
"I've never had anyone treat me like he does," I admit quietly, the confession scraping my throat like broken glass.
"I know, honey. It's written all over your face every time he walks in a room." Lizzie's voice gentles with maternal concern that makes my eyes sting. "Someone hurt you bad, didn't they?"
The question breaks something open inside, releasing pain I've carried for so long it feels like part of my bone structure. I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I try to speak.
"Then you know the difference better than anyone. You know what it feels like when someone uses their power to hurt instead of protect." Lizzie's hand tightens on mine. "Trust your instincts."
The rumble of multiple motorcycles cuts through the moment. Through the open bay I see them turn into the compound—Steel’s Harley in the lead, flanked by Wrath and Diesel.
They park in formation. But something's wrong. Instead of the usual easy banter and casual dismounting, the men's body language screams tension. Several members immediately disappear into the clubhouse.
Whatever news they brought back, it's bad.
Wrath's gaze finds mine across the distance. Something in those ice-chip eyes makes my pulse stutter as he strides toward the garage.
"Everything okay?" I ask. He looks worried.
"Club business." He scans my face like he's cataloging every detail. "How was your day?"
"Good. Really good. Jigsaw thinks I could sell my artwork. Make real money and Lizzie is going to help me put together a portfolio.”
His gaze softens from concern to surprise and from surprise to heat. A slow smile stretches his lips.
He’s about to say something when Diesel appears. One look at his expression puts Wrath on high alert.
“Prez wants you. Now."
The ease vanishes from Wrath's frame. Tension snaps back like a rubber band. "Five minutes."
Diesel nods and leaves, shooting me a sympathetic glance.
"I have to handle this." Wrath's hand comes up, cups my jaw. His thumb strokes my cheekbone, callused and warm. “Stay inside." His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling it hammer. "Please."
That please convinces me he's worried. I nod.
He leans in. The kiss is bruising, possessive—claiming me in front of anyone watching. His other hand fists in my hair, angling my head back. When his teeth catch my bottom lip, I gasp. He takes the opening. Tongue sliding against mine, tasting like pure sin.
My fingers dig into his cut, pulling him closer.
He breaks away, breathing hard. Presses his forehead to mine. "Stay inside, baby. I mean it."
Then he's gone, striding toward whatever crisis demands his attention.
I spend the next hour helping Lizzie prepare dinner for an expanded group. Word went out for all available members to return. The kitchen bustles with organized chaos.
The dining room fills. I keep a watch out for Wrath, but haven’t seen him yet. Conversations are muted. Serious. None of the usual banter about bikes and women. Men check weapons with casual efficiency. Phones buzz constantly. The atmosphere hums with controlled aggression.
Something’s going on. I don’t know what, but it can’t be good.
I'm carrying a serving dish of Lizzie's famous cornbread to the long table when I glance out the front window and my entire world tilts sideways.
There, standing on the sidewalk across the street, staring directly at the clubhouse, is my father.
The serving dish slips from my fingers, shattering against the floor with a crash that draws every eye. But I barely register the concerned voices or moving figures as tunnel vision locks my gaze on the man who haunted my childhood and shaped my understanding of what true monsters look like.
He looks older, grayer at the temples, but still carries himself with the aggressive swagger of someone accustomed to intimidating smaller, weaker people. His clothes are nicer—pressed slacks and a button-down instead of stained work clothes. But his eyes are the same.
Cold. Calculating. Assessing threats and opportunities.
As I watch in frozen horror, he smiles—the same cruel expression, the same sinister smile that preceded the worst hours of my childhood, when his anger needed an outlet and I was the most convenient target. Then he raises one hand in a mocking wave.
"Cami!" Lizzie's voice seems distant. Underwater. "Honey, what's wrong?"
I can't answer. Can't breathe. Every suppressed memory crashes back. His painful fists. His threats about what would happen if I told.
"Get Wrath," someone says urgently. “Right fucking now."
But I can't wait for rescue. And I can't stand frozen in dread while my worst nightmare stands fifty feet away, plotting whatever twisted game brought him to this place.
On shaking legs, I stumble toward the front door, some desperate part of my brain convinced that I can somehow make this go away.
I can keep my new friends safe if I just face the monster head-on.
Convince him to leave before he poisons this sanctuary.
"Cami, no!" Lizzie's voice carries panic, but I'm already pushing through the door. Cool evening air slaps my flushed face.
My father's smile widens as I approach. When he speaks, his voice carries that mocking tone that used to reduce me to tears.
"Hello, little girly. Daddy's come to take you home."