Chapter 9 Kaila
KAILA
The screen glows blue in the dim light of the loft, reflecting off my retinas until I’m sure the words are burned there permanently.
IDENTITY PROTOCOL: COMPLETE. SUBJECT: KAILA GUNNAR.
I stare at the name. It looks like mine, sounds like mine, but carries a heavy, foreign weight.
Beside me, Daniel powers down the secondary servers with precise, methodical keystrokes.
He just erased my entire past and built a new existence over the ashes, sacrificing the one thing he always guarded more fiercely than his own blood. His freedom.
The Tracker is grounded because of me.
"Stop thinking so loud, Kaila," he grunts, keeping his focus on the console. His voice rumbles low enough to vibrate through the floorboards. "I can hear the gears grinding from here."
"I’m processing," I counter, spinning my chair around to face him. "You just ended your life as a Nomad, Daniel. You’re stuck here in Pine Valley with the gossip network and the endless parade of people."
He finally turns, leaning back against the desk. Thick arms cross over his broad chest. His t-shirt strains against biceps that have done more damage in the last twenty-four hours than most men do in a lifetime. Dark eyes lock onto mine, intense and unblinking.
"I’m not stuck," he rumbles. "I’m planted."
"That sounds like something a potato would say."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "You’re lucky you’re cute when you spiral. Get up. We’re going downstairs."
Heat flares in my chest, tight and restrictive. "Downstairs? As in, where the rest of the bikers are? The ones who probably still think I’m a Costa spy sent to upload a virus into their coffee maker?"
"They know who you are," Daniel rasps, closing the distance between us. His large hand wraps around the back of my neck, settling there with a grounding, possessive weight. "And they know who you belong to. Kevin is awake. He’s eating in the mess. It’s time to make this official."
Kevin. My brother. The image of him safe and eating real food settles my racing pulse faster than any line of code. I stand up on shaky legs. Daniel keeps his iron grip on my neck, guiding me toward the heavy steel door of the loft. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin behind my ear.
"You realize," I mutter over the click of the lock, "that 'Kaila Gunnar' technically has a credit score of 720 and a nursing degree from hidden records I didn't even know existed. You were thorough."
"I'm always thorough," he counters, shoving the heavy door open. The ambient noise of the clubhouse drifts up the stairwell. Laughter mixes with the clink of glass and the heavy thud of boots. "She doesn't have a nursing degree. She's a freelance systems analyst. Don't insult my craftsmanship."
I lean into his solid side as we start the descent.
The metal, industrial staircase spirals down into the heart of the beast. The air shifts as we drop in elevation, trading the ozone-and-static of the server room for the rich, earthy grit of the club.
Leather and gun oil replace the clean tech smell, undercut by the faint tang of stale beer.
The heavy scents create an immediate sense of security, an absurd concept inside a fortress full of outlaws.
The bottom of the stairs deposits us into the main common area. The massive space blends hunting lodge aesthetics with bunker-level security. Dark wood beams cross the ceiling above a massive stone fireplace dominating the far wall.
The noise cuts out the second my boot hits the main floor. Silence crashes into the room. Every head turns our way.
I spot Kevin immediately at a long wooden table, a plate of roast beef in front of him. A thick bandage wraps his head, and his arm rests in a sling. He waves a fork at me with a full mouth and a wide smile.
Blake, the Prospect from the dossier I hacked, sits next to him. He listens to my brother with an amused grin.
The real weight of the room centers around the pool table.
Logan Gunnar stands there, dominating the space with nothing but a cue stick in his grip. Beside him, Austin watches us with sharp, calculating eyes. Shane, the Sergeant at Arms, cracks his knuckles like he needs a target to hit.
Daniel’s hand slides from my neck to the small of my back. He guides me forward one step, staying glued to my side. A massive human shield. A living declaration.
"Tracker," Logan rumbles, setting the cue stick down. "You decided to join the living."
"Nomad tab is closed, Prez. I’m grounding," Daniel announces. His deep voice carries easily across the quiet space. The words land with the heavy, final weight of a gavel.
A physical ripple of shock rolls through the assembled men. Money changes hands between two guys in the far corner.
Logan shifts his heavy, assessing gaze to me. "And this?"
Daniel tightens his arm around my waist, yanking me flush against his hard side. "This is Kaila. She’s not a guest, and she's not a job."
My pulse hammers violently against my ribs. I know what he accomplished digitally and what he claimed upstairs in the loft. Hearing him declare it down here, in front of the men he bleeds for, shifts the very foundation of my world.
"She’s my Old Lady," Daniel growls, the deep vibration transferring through his chest straight into my shoulder. "Anyone has a problem with her, they take it up with me. She touches a keyboard because I said so. She walks through these doors because she lives here."
Silence fills the room, heavy and expectant. I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable objection. Surely someone will argue that a hacker who infiltrated their secure servers doesn't belong.
Logan dips his chin, a sharp, final movement that seals the deal. "Welcome home, Kaila."
The President spoke, shifting the undeniable laws of physics within the Clubhouse walls. No vote required.
"About time," Austin calls out with a wide grin. "Thought he was going to keep you locked up in that server room forever. We need someone who actually knows how to work the Wi-Fi. Nick spent three days trying to fix the router and only managed to break it worse."
Rough laughter shatters the tension, letting the room breathe again.
My lungs finally drag in oxygen. Daniel looks down at me, a rare smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The expression transforms his rugged face, smoothing out the harsh lines of the hunter into something devastatingly handsome.
"Told you," he rumbles near my ear.
"You’re smug," I counter softly. "It’s a terrible look."
"It’s my best look."
Kevin scrambles up from the table and crosses the floor, wincing with the effort.
I pull away from Daniel. His heavy hand drags along my hip, lingering until the last possible second before I wrap my arms around my brother.
The harsh scents of antiseptic and woodsmoke cling to his clothes, but his body feels solid and warm.
"They have arcade games in the basement, Kai," Kevin mutters into my hair, sounding exactly like a twelve-year-old kid. "Blake said he’d show me the Forge."
"Don't get used to the vacation, kid," Daniel warns, stepping flush against my back again. "You heal up, then you earn your keep. But for tonight..." His dark gaze drops to me, burning with a feral, possessive heat. "We’re going out."
"Out?" I stare up at him. "Like, into the actual world? The one where the feds might be hunting a ghost who doesn't exist anymore?"
"The world where everyone knows the Gunnars keep what belongs to them," Daniel orders. "Grab your coat. The one I didn't slice off your body like that hoodie."
Blood rushes to my cheeks at the visceral memory. A loud wolf-whistle cuts through the air from somewhere near the club bar. I scowl at the general vicinity, entirely unable to hide my smile.
The drive into town flies by. The snow finally stopped falling, leaving Pine Valley buried beneath a thick, pristine blanket of white under the moonlight. The sleepy mountain town looks like an abandoned, shattered snow globe.
Daniel throws his massive black truck into park directly in front of the Timber Trail Tavern. The neon sign buzzes and flickers above the door. The red 'T' sputters through a slow, electrical death.
"Why here?" I ask over the sudden quiet of the dead engine. "Why not the Lodge? Or somewhere with actual tablecloths?"
"Because Jack pours heavy," Daniel replies, shoving his door open. "And the town needs to see."
He rounds the hood and yanks my door wide before my fingers even brush the handle. Large hands span my waist, lifting me effortlessly from the high cab. His thick thumbs press deep into my hips. He holds me suspended there between the running board and the icy sidewalk.
"See what?" I gasp.
"That I caught you," he rasps, sliding my boots down to the concrete. He keeps me flush against his side, tucking my hand tight into the crook of his arm. "And I'm never letting go."
The tavern air hits my face the second he pushes through the heavy door.
Sawdust and stale beer coat the inside of my lungs.
The sharp tang of roasted peanuts hangs heavy in the suffocatingly warm, unapologetically local dive bar.
Twangy country music blares from a vintage jukebox in the back corner.
Old Jack stands behind the scarred mahogany bar, aggressively wiping a glass with a clean rag. A surprisingly large crowd fills the booths for a Tuesday night.
Conversation drops off sharply as we cross the threshold. A noticeable, heavy lull spreads across the room, replacing the chaotic noise of the bar. Heads turn. People stare.
Several faces match the surveillance feeds I hacked last week. Frank from the hardware store abandons an argument about toggle bolts to gawk at us. Christie, the barista from the Cozy Cup, sits frozen in the corner booth with a pint glass halfway to her mouth.
Her jaw practically unhinges at the sight of Daniel's arm wrapped around me.
"Oh my God," she gasps, projecting the words clearly over the jukebox. "Is that the Tracker?"