Chapter 23
Swag
Jo-Leigh is fast asleep when I slip from the room.
My body thrums from everything we did all night, but now it’s time to get back to work.
The clubhouse is quiet except for the low hum of the neon beer sign and the faint creak of old wood beneath my boots.
My head’s a mess, but there’s one thought cutting through the noise. Ricky Langston has to go.
When I hit the main room, Pretty Boy’s leaning against the pool table, a drink dangling from his hand. The moment he spots me, his jaw tightens, and he stalks my way.
“Prez.”
I grit my teeth. “What is it?”
“You planning on leaving her alone again?”
“You know I am.”
Pretty Boy’s shoulders tense, his hand curling around the glass until it creaks. “You should stay. Let us go after Langston.”
I let out a sharp laugh, no humor in it. “You think I’m sending you in blind while I sit here, cozy in bed? Not happening.”
“Jo-Leigh’s not gonna like this.”
“She’ll get over it,” I bite out, even though I’m not so sure.
I head for the door, grabbing my cut from the back of the chair and slinging it on. Behind me, Pretty Boy mutters something about me digging my own grave. Maybe he’s right. But Ricky’s been poking the wrong bear, and now it’s my turn to bite back.
The warehouse smells like motor oil, rust, and blood.
Unfortunately, the last one is mine. My ribs are screaming, my jaw aches, and there’s a metallic tang coating my tongue.
Two of Ricky’s guys are already down, moaning in a heap on the concrete, but the third one, a big bastard with a busted nose and a mean right hook, just won’t quit.
I duck under his swing, driving my fist into his gut hard enough that he folds, choking on his own breath.
“Where’s Langston?” I growl, grabbing him by the back of the neck and slamming him against the wall hard enough that the drywall cracks.
He spits blood at my boots and laughs, wild-eyed.
“You think this ends with him, Swag?” His voice is hoarse, ragged. “Ricky’s already two steps ahead. You can’t protect her.”
The world narrows to a pinpoint. My knuckles flex around his shirt, fury flashing hot behind my eyes.
“Who?” I snarl.
He grins, teeth red. “Pretty little thing you’ve been warming your bed with. Jo-Leigh, right?”
I slam him harder into the wall, my voice dropping to a dangerous rasp. “What the fuck did you just say?”
He coughs, wheezing, but keeps smiling like he wants me to pull the trigger. “Ricky says you take something from him, he takes something from you. He knows where she sleeps.”
My stomach drops, a cold spike tearing through the red haze of rage. I shove him down and spin, scanning the shadows.
“Where is he?” I bark.
He chuckles low, dark, and I’ve had enough. My boot connects with his ribs, and he folds with a sharp cry, coughing up blood.
“You’ve got no idea,” he rasps, clutching his side. “Langston’s already moving. You’re too late.”
A roar tears from my throat before I even know it’s coming. I yank my gun from my waistband, jam the barrel against his forehead.
“Tell me where.”
Before he can answer, I hear the crack of boots on concrete behind me.
Two more of Ricky’s men spill from the shadows, bats in hand, and suddenly I’m back in it — ducking, swinging, snarling like a caged animal.
The first bat whistles past my face; I grab the second guy by his jacket and slam him headfirst into a steel post. The third catches me across the shoulder blade.
Pain blooms white-hot, but adrenaline drowns it out.
I rip the bat from his hands and bring it down hard, sending him sprawling. My chest heaves, ears ringing, blood dripping from my knuckles onto the floor.
It’s quiet again.
I turn back to the first guy, the one who talked. He’s slumped, panting, sweat rolling down his face. I crouch, pressing the barrel of my gun under his chin.
“You tell Ricky this,” I rasp, voice low and lethal. “He so much as breathes near Jo-Leigh, I’ll burn his whole fucking world to the ground.”
I leave him there, broken and bleeding, and storm out into the night. My heart’s a war drum in my chest, every beat screaming the same thing: Get to her. Now.
The bike roars beneath me, every gear screaming as I push it harder, faster, cutting through the backroads like the devil’s on my tail. My ribs ache, my knuckles are split, but none of it matters.
He knows where she sleeps.
The bastard’s words play on repeat, jagged and sharp.
By the time I skid into the clubhouse parking lot, gravel spraying under my tires, I’m half out of my seat before the engine’s even dead. My boots hit the ground hard, lungs burning as I shove through the front door.
“Bee!”
No answer.
The main room’s empty. No Pretty Boy, no one at the bar, just the faint smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Dread claws at my throat as I sprint down the hall, my hand already reaching for the Glock tucked into my waistband.
I hit our door so hard it slams against the wall.
She’s not there.
The bed’s unmade, sheets tangled, her phone sitting on the nightstand exactly where she left it. My chest tightens, my vision blurs around the edges, and a single thought detonates in my head.
I’m too late.
Then I hear voices outside.
I’m moving before I even register it, barreling toward the side exit. The door bangs open, slamming into the brick as I step into the alley behind the clubhouse.
Pretty Boy’s there, gun drawn, his back to me as he faces off against two men I recognize instantly. Langston’s crew. One’s got Jo-Leigh by the arm, hauling her toward a black SUV idling with its headlights off. She’s fighting like hell, kicking, nails clawing at his hand, but he’s twice her size.
Rage detonates inside me.
“Let. Her. Go!”
The words rip out of me like a thunderclap, and the guy dragging Jo-Leigh freezes, head jerking up.
The second one pivots, gun flashing under the sick yellow glow of the alley light. I fire first. He drops, screaming, clutching his shoulder as his weapon clatters to the ground.
“Swag!” Jo-Leigh cries, voice sharp with terror, but the sound just fuels me.
The bastard holding her shoves her forward, straight into Pretty Boy’s arms, then charges me like he wants to end this with his hands. Bad move.
I meet him halfway, tackle him hard into the side of the SUV. Pain screams up my ribs, but I don’t feel it. All I feel is the need to end this. My fist connects with his jaw, then his ribs, then his throat, relentless until he’s gasping for air.
He wheezes, bloody and broken, and I grab him by the collar, slamming him against the car.
“You tell Ricky,” I snarl, my voice low and lethal, “I’m coming for him. And when I find him, I’m putting him in the fucking ground.”
I throw him down, and he crawls away, dragging his unconscious buddy toward the SUV before peeling out into the night.
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by Jo-Leigh’s ragged breathing.
When I turn, she’s standing there barefoot, wearing one of my shirts, trembling from head to toe. Her wide, glassy eyes lock on mine.
“Swag,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “What the hell is going on?”
I holster my gun and close the distance in two strides, cupping her face in my bloodied hands.
“They’re coming for us,” I rasp, forehead pressed to hers. “For you. But they’re gonna have to put me in the ground before they ever touch you again.”
Pretty Boy shifts behind us, jaw tight, gun still drawn. “Prez, we’ve got a war on our hands.”
And for the first time tonight, I don’t doubt it.
Hours later I’ve called church into session. The table’s crowded, smoke curling thick in the low light, the weight of everything pressing down like a storm about to break. Pretty Boy leans against the far wall, jaw locked tight, while Iron, Wrench, and Ghost argue about next moves.
I don’t say a word. Not yet.
Instead, I pace at the head of the table, hands braced on the wood, knuckles still raw and split from the fight. My shirt’s ripped, ribs aching with every shallow breath, but the pain’s nothing compared to the fire burning low in my gut.
“She almost got taken.” My voice comes out low, steady, but the whole room freezes anyway. Every man turns to look at me, expressions shifting as the words sink in.
Ghost swears under his breath. “Jesus Christ, Prez?—”
“They came for her,” Pretty Boy cuts in, voice sharp. “Tried dragging her into a fucking SUV behind the clubhouse.”
A ripple of curses runs around the table, Iron slamming his fist down hard enough to rattle glasses.
“Ricky’s crossed the goddamn line,” Wrench growls.
“No,” I say, straightening to my full height, my voice carrying over the noise. “Ricky made this personal. He wants me broken, so he’s aiming at Jo-Leigh.”
“Then we lock her down,” Talon says quickly. “Move her to a safe house. Post two guards. Keep her off Ricky’s radar until we deal with this.”
I shake my head once. “No safe house.”
Ghost blinks. “Swag?—”
“She’s not running,” I cut him off. My tone sharpens, each word edged in steel. “And she’s not hiding. If Ricky wants to get to her, he’s gotta come through me first.”
Pretty Boy’s watching me now, brows furrowed like he knows what’s coming before I even say it.
I plant both hands on the table, leaning forward. “Tomorrow, we ride into town. And I make it official.”
Silence.
Talon’s the first to speak, his deep voice rough. “Make what official?”
I meet his stare dead-on. “Jo-Leigh’s mine.”
It hangs there for a second, thick and heavy, before I finish it.
“I’m marrying her.”
The room explodes.
Voices overlap, chairs scrape back, a chorus of protests and questions hitting me from every side. Ghost’s swearing, Iron’s pacing, Wrench looks like I just told him I plan to burn the clubhouse down myself.
“You’ve lost your goddamn mind,” Pretty Boy spits. “Dragging her into this? Making her a target?”
“She’s already a target,” I bark back, the words snapping like a whip. “Ricky’s made sure of that. You think keeping her on the outside’s gonna keep her safe? No. The second he finds a crack, he’s gonna wedge his way in and destroy her just to hurt me.”
I slam my fist on the table, rattling glasses and bottles.
“She carries my name, my ring, she’s untouchable. Nobody— nobody —fucks with my old lady and walks away breathing.”
The room goes still after that, tension so thick it could choke us all.
Talon finally breaks the silence, voice calm but edged. “You tell her yet?”
I look at him, jaw tight. “I will.”
He smirks faintly, shaking his head. “Better hope she doesn’t shoot you before Ricky gets the chance.”
I ignore him, grabbing the bottle of whiskey off the table and taking a long pull, the burn matching the fire in my veins. When I lower it, my voice is rough but steady.
“Tomorrow, we set things right. And then we finish this.”
No one argues this time.
I give the guys orders. Even though this is fast, I still want it to be special for Jo-Leigh. That means going all out. White dress. Rings. Flowers. Some of the guys grumble, but everyone knows better than to argue with me. When everything is set, I seek out my little bee.
I find her in our room, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, wearing one of my T-shirts and glaring at the floor like it insulted her. She doesn’t look up when I step in. Her shoulders are stiff, jaw tight, whole body thrumming with the kind of fury that could peel paint.
“Thought you were gonna tell me what’s going on,” she says, voice clipped, sharp enough to cut.
“I am.”
She finally looks up, and those big, stormy eyes lock on mine. “I was almost kidnapped, Swag. You dragged me into this mess without warning. And you think you can fix it with a half-assed explanation?”
I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for a second to keep from pacing holes into the floor. My ribs scream when I breathe, but I shove it down. There’s no soft way to do this.
“I’m marrying you.”
The words land like a punch, and for a second, she just stares at me. Then she blinks, slow, like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh or throw something at my head.
“You’re what?”
“Tomorrow,” I say, pushing off the door and stepping closer. “We ride into town. Courthouse first thing. You’re mine on paper, on record, in blood if I have to make it so.”
Her mouth drops open, and then she’s off the bed, shoving at my chest with both hands. “Are you insane? You don’t get to decide that for me, Swag!”
I catch her wrists gently, not to hurt, just to hold her still. “This isn’t up for debate, Jo-Leigh.”
“The hell it isn’t!” she shouts, jerking free. “You think you get to drag me into this MC war, paint a target on my back, and then claim me like I’m one of your damn bikes?”
I grit my teeth, stepping into her space, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. My voice drops to a rough, dangerous rasp.
“He already put a target on your back. You being mine just puts a fucking army in front of you. That piece of paper tells Ricky Langston and anyone else stupid enough to touch you, they’re declaring war on me. On all of us.”
She hesitates, anger flickering with confusion now. “Why, Swag? Why does Ricky even care about me?”
I inhale slowly, forcing down the wild mess clawing at my insides. “Because Ricky’s not just after me, Jo-Leigh. He’s after everything tied to me. You. The club. And there’s more he hasn’t said yet.”
Her brows pinch, searching my face. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I hesitate for a beat too long, and she sees it.
Her voice softens, sharp edges dulled by suspicion. “Swag…”
I can’t tell her what I suspect. Not yet.
So I say, “This is collection of your second debt.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You owe me three debts, little bee. This is the second one being paid for.”
She stares at me, shock giving way to something darker. Hurt, maybe.
“You’re a monster.”
“Yeah, I am. But you’re the only thing that matters,” I rasp, stepping close enough that her breath fans warm against my chest. “Marrying you isn’t just about claiming you. It’s about locking you down where no one can touch you. It’s the only way I can keep you safe.”
Her chin trembles, but she swallows it fast, crossing her arms over her chest like armor. “You think forcing me into your last name is gonna fix this?”
“I think putting my ring on your finger tells the whole goddamn world who you belong to. And I think Ricky Langston’s stupid enough to test it. Let him.”
For a long moment, we just breathe — her chest heaving, mine tight with everything I’m not saying. Then she pushes my hand away, voice low but shaking.
“You better hope I say yes.”
I smirk faintly, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Bee, this isn’t about yes or no.” I step back, grabbing my cut from the chair. “This is war. And tomorrow, you’re my wife.”