Chapter 12
The Wolverines weren’t the kind of men who waited. They were wolves—predators, not prey. And the longer they stayed away from the fight, the more restless they became.
The tension inside the clubhouse was thick. Every man present was on edge—their wolves pacing, their fists itching to land the first punch, and they weren’t alone.
Inside the Chapel, three other presidents sat at the table, their presence both an alliance and a test of loyalty.
Ronan sat back in his chair; arms crossed over his broad chest. He was a towering force of muscle, his presence alone enough to command a room without saying a word. His thick black beard was peppered with silver, a testament to the years he had spent in the trenches of MC warfare. His dark eyes were cold, calculating, the kind of stare that could break a lesser man without a single threat being spoken.
A long, jagged scar cut across his left cheek, disappearing into his beard, a reminder of a knife fight he had walked away from—but the other man hadn’t. His knuckles were busted and rough, the hands of a man who had solved more problems with his fists than with words.
The Blood Fangs MC wasn’t just a club—it was a brotherhood forged in war. Unlike some of the other clubs, Ronan didn’t allow weakness. His men were hardened, most of them ex-military, ex-cons, or men with nothing left to lose.
He didn’t tolerate disloyalty. He didn’t believe in second chances. And he sure as hell didn’t fight for anyone else’s cause—unless he saw an advantage in it.
Ronan had built his reputation on blood, on dominance, on being the kind of leader who didn’t just survive wars—he ended them. He had carved the Blood Fangs’ name into the MC underworld, making them feared, respected, and ruthless.
So, if he was here, if he was even considering backing the Wolverines in their fight against the Shadow Riders, it wasn’t out of kindness. It was because he saw something worth betting on, and Ronan didn’t bet on losing sides.
Viper leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the wood, the rhythmic click, click, click the only sound in the room aside from the low hum of conversation. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, the smoke curling around his face like a ghostly veil. He took a slow drag, exhaling just as lazily, his movements deliberate, controlled. Nothing about Viper was rushed.
He was calm, but deadly, the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command obedience. When he spoke, it was with absolute finality. When he gave an order, it wasn’t to be questioned. And when he gave a kill order? It wasn’t a threat, it was a fact.
Viper was a man you never saw coming. He wasn’t built like a brute, not like Ronan or King—he was lean, wiry muscle wrapped in a venomous coil of intelligence and lethality. His short, dirty-blond hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face, a permanent smirk that never quite reached his cold, calculating eyes. His knuckles bore faded scars, not from reckless brawls but from the kind of precise violence that came with knowing exactly where to hurt someone the most.
The Iron Claws weren’t a brotherhood—they were a business.
Viper didn’t lead with sentiment, and he didn’t tolerate emotions clouding judgment. His men were mercenaries, enforcers, men who lived and died by contracts and power plays. Loyalty in his club wasn’t given because of brotherhood—it was bought, reinforced through fear and brutal efficiency.
Some said the Iron Claws didn’t even feel like a real MC anymore. That they had turned into something colder, more calculated—a machine of destruction. Viper never cared what people thought, because at the end of the day, he got results.
And if the Wolverines wanted his club in this war, they had to understand something—he wasn’t here to play hero, he was here to make sure the job got done. And if the cost was piling bodies until no one stood against them, then so be it.
Mace sat with an easy smirk, legs spread lazily, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair in a slow, steady rhythm. To the untrained eye, he looked relaxed—like a man without a care in the world. But anyone who knew Mace, anyone who had faced him in a fight, knew better.
His eyes told the real story—sharp, always assessing, watching every movement in the room like a predator sizing up his prey. Nothing got past him.
Mace wasn’t a big man, not in the way Ronan or Goliath were, but what he lacked in sheer size, he made up for in speed, cunning, and the kind of vicious unpredictability that made men second-guess crossing him. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, but not from age—from the kind of stress and survival that would have killed lesser men long ago. His arms bore faded burns and scars, remnants of a past he never talked about.
But it was his grin that unsettled people the most. That damn smirk, that easy, devil-may-care expression that made men wonder if he was amused or just thinking about killing them, and when it came to the Shadow Riders?
That smirk disappeared entirely. Mace had dealt with them before, and it hadn’t ended in a handshake.
“They’re worse than fucking rats,” he had once said. “They breed fast, they infest everything, and they don’t know when to fucking die.”
The Black Reapers had history with the Shadow Riders, ugly history. A bad deal gone worse, men killed, a war nearly ignited. Mace had lost good men to those bastards. And unlike the others in this room, he didn’t need a reason to want them dead. He already had one.
So, when he leaned forward, that ever-present smirk finally vanishing, he spoke in that calm, almost friendly tone of his, it wasn’t a question. It was a promise.
“Tell me when, and I’ll start digging their graves.”
King sat at the head of the table, his gaze sharp, his presence commanding.
Goliath, Fang, Dixon, and Frost flanked him, silent but imposing. They weren’t here to make friends. This was war planning, and war didn’t have room for hesitation.
King leaned forward; his voice measured but firm. “The Shadow Riders made their move. Now it’s time we make ours.”
Ronan exhaled, his gaze unreadable. “You think we’re just going to ride into this for free?”
“We’re not asking for charity,” King stated. “We’re offering an opportunity.”
Viper smirked, “That so?”
Dixon leaned forward, eyes flashing. “They called in the Serpents. That means this isn’t just about turf anymore. This is about survival.”
The room went quiet. Mace ran a hand down his beard. “Serpents MC?” He whistled low. “Those bastards don’t move unless there’s serious money involved.”
“Which means the Shadow Riders have deep pockets or powerful friends backing them,” King said.
Ronan shook his head. “And you want us to roll into a blood war with you?”
“We’ll settle our debts,” King said smoothly. “Once this is over, you won’t regret backing us.”
Viper snorted. “We better not. Because if we ride with you, we ride to win.”
Mace’s smirk widened. “So, when do we start killing?”
The doors swung open, and Gunner and Hunter strode in, covered in dirt and sweat. Their eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, the remnants of their shifts still clinging to them.
They had been gone for over a day, stalking the Shadow Riders’ clubhouse, gathering intel, moving unseen in the dark.
“Report,” King ordered.
Hunter cracked his neck. “They’re getting ready for something. More men have been rolling in.”
Gunner nodded. “At least another dozen in the past twelve hours. Armed and ready.”
A murmur swept through the table.
“That’s forty men, maybe more, plus whatever the Serpents are bringing,” Fang growled.
Ronan swore under his breath. “They’re planning something big.”
King’s jaw tightened as he stood, his voice absolute, “Then we hit them before they get the chance.”
“We strike at dawn. Three-pronged attack. The Blood Fangs take the west side, the Iron Claws hit from the east, and the Black Reapers flank them south. The Wolverines go in from the front.”
Viper smirked. “Brave.”
“Necessary,” King corrected. “We keep the Serpents from reinforcing them. Cut off their escape. We don’t leave survivors.”
Goliath’s fists clenched. “And Grant?”
King’s eyes darkened. “He’s yours.”
Silence fell over the table. Then Mace chuckled. “Alright, boys. Looks like we got ourselves a war.”
As the meeting ended, the men spread out, preparing for battle. But the weight in their chests wasn’t just about the coming war. It was about who they were fighting for, who they were protecting.
Blue kept looking at his phone, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the screen. He knew he should put the damn thing away, but the urge to check, to send a message, to hear something from her, was gnawing at him.
Siena would tear him a new one if she found out they were moving without warning, and he wouldn’t blame her. Their relationship had never been quiet. It had never been easy. Siena was fire—hot-tempered, sharp-tongued, and stubborn as hell. She had never been the kind of woman to sit on the sidelines and let someone else fight for her. She had come into his life like a goddamn hurricane, wrecking everything he thought he knew about love and loyalty, and he had never stood a fucking chance.
Blue was used to handling shit on his own. Used to keeping his emotions locked down, used to keeping people at arm’s length. But Siena? She didn’t let him get away with that. She fought him, fought for him, and that scared him more than anything.
Because she saw through him, saw past the gruff exterior, past the leather and the scars. She saw him, and fuck, if that didn’t make him weak. Weak for her.
And now? She was miles away. And he was about to walk into a fight without telling her. She was going to murder him.
Blue sighed heavily, rolling his shoulders back. He had to trust that she was safe, but it didn’t stop the growl of frustration in his chest, the need to hear her voice, to feel her near. His wolf wasn’t handling the distance well, neither was he.
He turned his phone over in his hands once more before shoving it into his pocket. Later. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, he had a war to win.
Fang was uncharacteristically quiet, his broad shoulders tense as he sat near the edge of the room, eyes narrowed, gaze unfocused. His wolf was restless, agitated, pacing beneath his skin. He could feel it scratching at his insides, growling for something, for someone. For his mate.
Mystique. The woman who had somehow become his entire world.
His fingers flexed against the wooden table, his claws itching to extend, to shift, to run to her, but she was miles away. Safe. At least, that’s what he had to tell himself.
Fang had always been the controlled one. He wasn’t the type to let his emotions get the best of him. But Mystique had changed that. She was his mate, his woman, and one day she would be the mother of his children. Being away from her? It felt like his soul was being stretched too thin, like a rubber band ready to snap.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. He was scared shitless that one day it could be taken away.
Blue swallowed hard, trying to push the thought away. He had to trust that she was safe, that the men they had left behind were protecting her, but it didn’t stop the growl in his throat, didn’t stop the overwhelming need to be at her side.
He had fought battles before, he had killed before, but this? Being away from her, knowing she needed him, knowing he couldn’t be there? This was always the hardest fucking battle of his life.
And when this war was over, when the Shadow Riders were nothing but ashes and bloodstains? He was going to hold her, bury himself in her scent, and never fucking let go.
Hunter gripped his gun too tightly, his knuckles white, the metal biting into his palm. He knew he needed to loosen his hold, knew that tension in his body wasn’t doing him any favours, but he couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at his gut.
Dakota. Her face haunted him, the way her blue eyes had burned into his when he’d told her he was leaving. She hadn’t cried, hadn’t begged him to stay—she wasn’t the type, but the look she had given him? That look had fucking wrecked him. It wasn’t fear, it wasn’t sadness. It was a quiet kind of fury, a barely restrained storm brewing just beneath the surface.
Dakota was a fighter, his fighter. She didn’t sit back and let things happen—she got up, she made shit move, she took charge. She wasn’t wired to be left behind, and yet, he had left her. For her safety, and for his own goddamn sanity, but that didn’t make it easier.
His wolf hated this, hated being away from her. It clawed at his insides, snarling, demanding that he drop everything and go back to her. To protect her. To hold her, but he couldn’t. Not yet.
Hunter exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not when they were about to go to war. But the war inside of him, that was a different battle entirely, because no matter how much blood he spilled, no matter how many enemies he put in the ground, there would be no victory until he was back at her side, and God help anyone who tried to keep him away.
And then there was Goliath.
He sat at the bar, staring at his untouched drink, jaw tight. He had spoken to Sofia, heard her voice, but it wasn’t enough. His wolf needed her, and yet, she was miles away, locked in that safehouse while he was here, preparing to kill for her. The thought had his blood burning.
“You good?” King’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Goliath exhaled through his nose. “No.”
King smirked. “None of us are.”
Goliath clenched his jaw, “We should be with them.”
“We will be,” King said. “After this is done.”
Goliath nodded, but deep down, he knew—this war wouldn’t end cleanly. And when it was over, he would be able to finally spend the time he wanted with his mate. Time for them to get to know each other better.