Chapter 6
Saint
I keep my hand at the back of Oisín’s neck as I bring him through the side entrance, not hard enough to force him forward, but firm enough that every man watching knows exactly who he’s with.
The contact serves more than one purpose.
It keeps him close, keeps him moving, and keeps the tremor in his body where I can feel it instead of guessing at it from across the room.
It also tells every half-drunk, half-curious bastard in the front bar that the soft-looking Rogue in Saint Masters’ grip isn’t lost, available, or up for interpretation.
His gaze moves quietly over everything as I guide him through the side entrance with my hand at the back of his neck.
He notices the reinforced steel door first, then the camera tucked high in the corner, then the hallway that angles toward the bar instead of leading straight in.
His eyes flick to the two prospects posted near the inner door, the locked case beneath the wall-mounted fire extinguisher, the mirror positioned to catch the blind spot near the stairwell.
He doesn’t stare at anything long enough to look suspicious, but he sees it all.
The quiet little thing Canon called support staff has been inside my clubhouse for less than thirty seconds, and he’s already mapping weak points while pretending to be overwhelmed.
Good.
Fear makes most men stupid. It makes Oisín observant.
The two prospects by the dartboard notice first, one elbowing the other hard enough to make him miss his shot.
A woman leaning over the pool table straightens with her cue still in hand.
Three men at the bar lower their voices without turning around, which tells me they’ve seen me in the mirror behind the liquor bottles.
Somebody laughs near the jukebox and then cuts himself off when no one joins him.
Oisín’s throat works beneath my thumb as his shoulders pull in by a fraction before he catches himself and straightens again. Canon called him support staff, like that meant forgettable.
Canon is a fucking idiot.
A man with Cade’s crew looks up from a table near the jukebox, squinting through smoke and neon. “That the Rogue?”
His friend cuffs him before I have to look over. “Shut your mouth.”
I ignore both of them, guiding Oisín through the silenced chaos.
The public side of the main clubhouse is all rough wood, old smoke, motorcycle oil dragged in on boots, and the kind of half-controlled chaos that keeps outsiders from understanding where the real business begins.
That’s the point. Let people see the drinking, the pool tables, the women tucked under arms, the prospects hauling beer and taking shit from patched members.
Let them think Obsidian is muscle and noise.
The real rooms sit farther back, past the locked interior hall and the second set of cameras, where the bar gives way to offices, private quarters, and the family wing my father built when he decided a clubhouse wasn’t enough unless it could also function as a fortress.
“You always watch this much?” I ask, low enough that only he hears.
His eyes flick toward me. “I’m in a new place.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’m giving you.”
There’s a little bite in the words. Oisín yields beautifully when the right pressure is applied, but there’s a spine under all that softness. Canon missed it because it didn’t look like his own reflection.
One of the men near the bar mutters, “Thought we were getting the sister.”
Another answers, “Saint doesn’t bring home what people expect.”
As much as I want to put someone through the wall, the night’s already been messy enough, and I need Oisín inside my rooms before I decide which instinct is strategy and which one is just my temper wearing a better coat.
At the locked door, I punch in the code with my free hand. Oisín looks down immediately, a deliberate refusal to see what he could have seen.
Interesting.
“You already caught the first two numbers,” I say.
His mouth tightens. “I looked away.”
“You want credit for that?”
“I want you to know I did.”
Oisín isn’t what I expected at all. The moment I realized who he was, I expected him to fold. This version is way more entertaining.
I push the door inward and guide him through ahead of me, closing it behind us on the bar’s smoke and noise.
The lights are warmer here, the floors polished instead of scuffed raw, the walls lined with framed photographs, old charters, ride memorials, and the kind of history men like Sol use to turn violence into legacy.
This is the house part of the club, the stretch of rooms reserved for ranking members, the Masters family, and anyone trusted enough to sleep behind locked doors without three guns pointed at them.
Oisín slows despite my hand at his neck, observing everything his eyes can reach. Tomorrow, that mind becomes useful. Tonight, it belongs to me.
“You’ll stay in this wing,” I tell him as we move down the hall. “You don’t sleep in the guest rooms, and you don’t wander through the main bar without me knowing where you are.”
His head turns slightly, enough that I can see the edge of his expression. “That supposed to sound better than a cell?”
“No. A cell has fewer exits.”
“That’s comforting.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you.”
Oisín lets out a small scoff and I almost smile.
Almost. Instead, I keep walking, my hand steady at his nape while his steps match mine.
“You’ll meet with Moth tomorrow and hand over everything you know about Rogue routes, losses, books, and internal pressure.
You’ll answer his questions clearly. If there’s something you think he’s missing, you say it.
If you try to hide something because you’re still deciding whether loyalty means bleeding for a man who called you useful, I’ll know. ”
He stops so sharply my hand tightens to keep him from stepping out of my grip.
“I was wondering what would make a man like you falter. Your father’s an idiot,” I tell Oisín, digging my thumb into the side of his neck.
His lids flicker in something dangerously close to submission before he blinks and glares at me. “You don’t know him.”
“I know what he overlooks.” I muse, stepping closer until his back nearly touches the wall. “Which is worse than not being seen at all. A man can miss something once and call it a mistake. Canon made a habit out of missing you, and habits are choices people got comfortable making.”
Oisín stares at me, his breaths coming in a little shallower, and I can see the exact moment the words land somewhere he doesn’t want me touching. His voice drops a little. “Are you planning to do something different?”
I let my thumb move once against the back of his neck. “I’m planning to use what he ignored.”
“That doesn’t sound better.”
“It’s honest.”
His mouth twists faintly. “You keep saying that like honesty makes ugly things less ugly.”
“No. It makes them easier to see coming.” I drop my hand from his neck and gesture further down the hall, wondering if he’ll obey on his own.
Oisín hesitates for a moment and then moves, a small smile creeping onto my lips as I continue laying out his new life.
“You’ll eat in the main hall where we just were,” I push out.
“You sleep in my room. You don’t call Canon unless I’m standing beside you.
You don’t report back to the Rogues. You don’t answer questions from anyone out front, trying to decide whether they can make you flinch.
If someone gives you trouble, you tell me. ”
His brows draw together as he twists around to look at me. “And if I don’t want to run to you every time someone says something cruel?”
“Then tell Tally.”
That catches him off guard. “Who’s Tally?”
“You’ll know her by breakfast. She’ll know you before that.”
“Should I be worried?”
“About Tally?” This time, I do smile a little. “Only if you’re stupid.”
By the time we get to my room at the end of the hall, I’m pissed off, tired, and need something to work out my anger on.
Usually, there would be someone out in the main space who needed to be taught a lesson.
But the perfect piece of ass currently standing in front of me might be the best alternative I’ve ever had.
Oisín lets out a small sound before his shoulders fall, his gaze moving to the one bed in the middle of the room. It’s nothing pretty, this place is more for show than an actual resting place. I can’t remember the last time I actually slept, let alone tucked up in a bed fit for a king.
I close the door behind us and move toward the desk across from the bed, shrugging out of my cut and laying it over the chair. “After you work with Moth, you start learning Obsidian’s system.”
“So I’m working.”
“You thought I brought you here to decorate my room?”
His face heats, and I know exactly what image moved through his head before he looks away.
“I don’t know what you brought me here for,” he mumbles.
That’s the first fully honest thing he’s said since we left the hall.
I step toward him then, slowly enough that he has every chance to stand his ground or move away. He stands his ground, but his pulse jumps in his throat. I stop close enough that he has to tilt his head back to keep looking at me.
“Yes, you do.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say things like they’re true just because you want them to be.”
“They are true.”
“They’re convenient.”
I lift my hand and settle my fingers beneath his chin. He goes still immediately, but it isn’t fear that makes him quiet this time. I tilt his face higher, watching his lashes flicker as he fights the instinct to soften into the hold.
“You asked what I expect,” I say. “You already know.”
His breath catches in his throat, his cheeks coloring until they’re a beautiful shade of rose. Oisín whispers, “Saint.”