Chapter 15 Sasha
SASHA
Ismooth my hands over the black dress, examining myself in the mirror. It’s simple but fits perfectly, hugging my curves in ways I’m getting used to. The clubhouse is buzzing with activity as everyone prepares for the party.
“Something special,” Havoc had said this morning before leaving, his voice low and intimate. “Got something planned for you tonight.”
My stomach flutters with nerves. What could it be? For all the intensity between us, I still feel like I’m learning who Havoc is—who I am with him.
I apply another coat of mascara, hands slightly unsteady. Ruth had helped me pick out the dress, whispering that it would drive him crazy. The thought makes my cheeks warm.
A knock at the door. Three sharp raps that I already recognize as his.
“Come in,” I call, setting down the mascara wand.
Havoc fills the doorway, silver hair styled perfectly, leather cut gleaming over a fresh black T-shirt. His eyes darken as they travel over me, that usual heat igniting between us.
“You ready?” His voice is so gravelly.
I nod, suddenly breathless. “What’s this special thing?”
His lips quirk up. “Patience, baby girl.”
He crosses the room in three strides, and then his hands are on my waist, pulling me against him. I look up, meeting his gaze, and his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is hungry, demanding. His tongue tangles with my own as one hand fists my hair, tilting my head back for better access.
I moan into his mouth, pressing against him, feeling him harden against my stomach. His hand slides down to grip my ass, squeezing forcefully.
“Fuck,” he growls against my lips. “We don’t have time.”
“We could be quick,” I suggest.
He chuckles darkly, pressing his forehead to mine. “Trust me, baby, next time I get you naked, it won’t be quick.” He reluctantly puts space between us. “Everyone’s waiting.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Havoc’s hand rests firmly at the small of my back as we approach the bar. The press of his fingers feels reassuring. Music and laughter spill through the doors, the familiar sounds of club life I’ve slowly grown accustomed to.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice low against my ear.
I nod, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. Since that first night together, since his public claiming kiss in front of everyone, things have shifted. The club members treat me differently—with respect, with caution, with curiosity. I’m no longer just Viking’s daughter. I’m Havoc’s girl.
We step through the doorway together, and like a wave receding, the noise pulls back. Conversations halt mid-sentence. Music continues to play, but it suddenly feels muted against the weight of dozens of eyes turning toward us.
I scan the room, spotting Ruth with her warm smile, Carol raising her beer bottle in greeting, and Diesel with his knowing smirk. The prospects stand straighter, almost to attention. The club women assess me with new interest.
Havoc’s hand moves to grip my waist, pulling me closer to his side. His presence is solid, unwavering. He doesn’t seem bothered by the attention—he expects it.
“Listen up,” he calls out, his deep voice carrying easily through the suddenly quiet room. No one dares interrupt. “Tonight ain’t just another party. We’re celebrating something important.”
His blue eyes find mine briefly before returning to scan the crowd.
“Tonight, I’m officially presenting my old lady with her cut.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some members nod approvingly. Others look surprised.
“Sasha ain’t just Vike’s daughter anymore,” Havoc continues, his voice carrying that edge of authority. “She’s mine. My old lady. My property. And tonight, everyone gets to see it.”
Property.
The word echoes in my mind as Havoc’s voice rings through the room. There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there? The word should make me angry, should make me feel degraded, but instead, warmth floods through me. My body responds to his claim like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Stand here,” Havoc says, positioning me in front of him. From behind the bar, Diesel produces a package wrapped in black fabric. Havoc unfolds it with careful hands, and I catch my breath.
It’s a cut—a leather vest like the ones worn by all the members, but smaller, perfectly sized for me.
The front bears the club’s name above the heart, but when Havoc turns it around, my pulse quickens.
On the back, beneath the Wicked Sinners MC patch, are the words Property of Havoc in bold white lettering.
“Arms up,” he commands softly.
I lift my arms, and he slides the leather over my dress. The material is heavy but warm, like his hands on my skin. It smells of fresh leather. I run my fingers over the patches, over the Wicked Sinners MC patch, and shiver. Why does this feel so right?
Havoc turns me to face him, his blue eyes intense as he adjusts the cut on my shoulders. “Perfect,” he murmurs, and then his mouth claims mine.
The kiss is deep and frantic, another public declaration. His hands cup my face as whistles and catcalls erupt around us. Someone—sounds like Diesel—lets out a particularly wolf-like howl. I should be embarrassed, but the only thing I feel is a sense of belonging.
When he finally releases me, my lips are tingling, and my cheeks are flushed.
“Drink?” Havoc asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice. We move to the bar, and as Havoc orders our drinks from the prospects, I glance around the room.
My eyes land on Ruth and Carol, standing together near the pool table.
They’re both wearing cuts too—black leather vests I’ve never noticed them wearing before, with Property of Tank and Property of Bone across the backs.
They raise their glasses to me, smiling with something like pride in their eyes.
As we move through the crowd, congratulations flowing around us, I can’t help but wonder about the implications of those words.
When we reach Ruth and Carol, I finally ask the question that’s been lingering.
“Can I ask about the property thing?” I say. “I mean, isn’t it kind of... demeaning? Being someone’s property?”
Ruth’s laugh is warm as she adjusts her own cut. “Honey, I used to think the same thing. But in this world, it means something different.”
Havoc’s arm tightens around my waist. “It’s protection,” he explains. “Everyone in this life knows what that patch means. It means you’re mine. Anyone who touches you, they answer to me.”
“It’s not about ownership like we’re objects,” Carol adds, sipping her drink. “It’s about belonging. The men have their patches showing they belong to the club. We have ours showing we belong to them.”
Ruth nods. “Trust me, I was a women’s studies major before I met Tank. Had my share of protests back in the day.” She touches her own cut with affection. “But in club life, this is respect. This makes you untouchable to others.”
“The world out there doesn’t understand,” Havoc says, his fingers tracing my shoulder through the leather. “But in here, wearing my name means you’re protected. Respected. No one would dare disrespect what’s mine.”
Carol smiles. “Bone and I’ve been together thirty years. This patch saved my ass more than once when we ran into trouble with other clubs. One look at whose property I was, and they backed off.”
“It’s more than protection, though,” Ruth says. “It means you’re family now. Not just his—” she nods at Havoc “—but ours too. The club protects its own.”
I run my fingers over the leather again.
“So it’s like... a declaration? Not a limitation?”
“Exactly,” Havoc says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Doesn’t change who you are. Just tells everyone who’s got your back.”
The music grows louder as the night progresses, and Havoc keeps me close, introducing me to some nomad members I haven’t met yet. My new leather cut feels heavy on my shoulders, but I love how Havoc’s eyes keep returning to it.
“Another drink?” Diesel appears with shot glasses, passing one toward me.
Havoc nods his approval, and I down it, feeling the burn of whiskey slide down my throat. It’s my second, along with a beer, and the room has taken on a pleasant, fuzzy glow. Havoc’s arm around my waist feels like the only thing keeping me grounded.
I lean into him, feeling the alcohol spread through me. “This is nice,” I murmur.
His gaze sharpens as he looks down at me. “Just wait, baby girl.”
As we move through the crowded room, I notice something strange.
In the darker corners, on couches pushed against the wall, some of the club men are with women I vaguely recognize—the sweetbutts who hang around hoping for attention.
But they’re not just kissing. One woman’s dress is pushed up, a biker’s hand between her legs.
Another is on her knees before a patched member.
My eyes widen, and I feel heat rise to my face. I’ve never seen people being so... public before.
Even more surprising, I spot Tank and Ruth near the back hallway. Ruth is pressed against the wall, Tank’s large hand disappearing beneath her shirt as they kiss deeply.
“Oh,” I breathe, unsure where to look.
Havoc’s grip tightens on my hip, fierce and possessive. He leans down, his breath hot against my ear. “You’re wearing the cut, might as well show them exactly what it means.”
I turn to him, pulse racing. “What?”
His voice drops to a growl that only I can hear. “I’m going to fucking breed you in front of everyone on that pool table, make them see that you really are mine.”
A whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it. My knees go weak, and I clutch at his cut for support. The thought of all eyes on us, of Havoc claiming me so publicly, should horrify me. Instead, liquid heat pools between my thighs, and I can barely breathe through the wanting.
“That’s insane,” I gasp.
Havoc’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I need everyone to fucking witness that you’re mine,” he growls. “Not just see the cut—see what it means.”