Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The hood feels different when it’s business. No music, no candy laughs, no beer foam soaking coasters. Just the Saints around the table, smoke hanging like ghosts. The table’s carved with years of blood and choices, initials gouged deep from men who ain’t breathing anymore.
It’s my turn to bleed tonight.
North sits at the head, calm, silent. Iron’s to his right, Colt next, Soul with his sharp eyes, Tornado spinning his coin like always. No prospects. They don’t get a seat when it’s this serious.
North’s gaze lands on me. It ain’t a question. It’s a demand. “Rook.”
“Prez.” My throat’s dry, but I don’t blink. “Storm ain’t just pussy. I want her as my woman.”
The words hang, heavy, like chains dropped on concrete.
Colt leans forward, toothpick rolling between his teeth. “You sure? Don’t sound like a joke.”
“I’m sure.”
Iron studies me like he’s reading the cracks in my skin. “You know what that means. You call her ol’ lady, she’s under the cut. She’s family. That’s no half-promise. That’s forever.”
“Forever’s the point,” I say, rough and steady. “She’s mine.”
Silence thickens. My pulse kicks hard enough I feel it in my throat. The last time I felt this kind of weight, I was waiting for North to decide if I got a patch or a shovel.
North doesn’t rush. He never does. He leans back, palms flat on the table, his stare cutting through me. “You even know who she is?”
I frown. “I know enough.”
“No,” his voice is sharp as barbed wire. “You don’t. Julie Walker. Daughter of Harrison Walker. Old Ravell money. Old power. That name opens doors most of us only ever kicked through. She’s not just a woman in a boutique. She’s influence.”
The punch lands. Not enough to stagger me, but it burns down my spine. Holy fuck.
North goes on. “She went to the cops seven months ago. Claimed she had a stalker. They brushed her off for no evidence and no bruises. Even with that family name, nobody took her word. That tells you something about her father. How much he believes her. Or doesn’t.”
Soul’s jaw ticks. “That’s fucked.”
North nods once, calm like stone. “Her stalker was the man in white. His place was full of her. Photos. Printouts. Schedules. Receipts. Obsession stacked floor to ceiling.” His voice doesn’t change, but it cuts deep.
“That’s gone now. Apartment burned. Car torched.
Every trace erased. He don’t exist anymore. Neither does her shadow in his life.”
I breathe sharp through my teeth. Relief punches through, fast and hot. He’s gone. That fucker’s gone.
Colt narrows his eyes. “Prez cleaned up your mess, Rook. That ain’t a favor. That’s a warning.”
My shoulders square. “I didn’t ask—”
“No,” North cuts in, hard. “But it’s done. Because once a Saint claims something, the club moves with him. You better be damn sure she’s what you want.”
“I am,” I snap. Then quieter, chest tight, “She’s mine. And she needs this. She needs us. She needs me.”
I mean it. I see her in my head, dark eyes pretending sass, hands shaking when she thinks no one’s watching.
That look in her when she’s fighting like hell not to let anyone see she’s breaking.
I know it. I fucking know it. Because it’s the same mirror I stared into when I was a kid.
Nights I told myself I’d never beg anyone to stay, because no one ever did.
Julie wears loneliness like perfume—pretty on the outside, poison underneath. That’s why I can’t walk away. She’s mine because I know what it is to drown quietly. And I’ll gut the world before I let her drown.
Tornado’s coin pings off the table. “Then call it. Is she your ol’ lady?”
I don’t blink. “Yeah. She is.”
The room stills. Eyes weigh me, burn me down to the bone.
Finally, North nods. Slow. Solid. “Then she’s under our cut. Saints protection. Forever.”
The tension in my chest cracks. Air floods back in.
Colt exhales sharp, a grin flicking up. “Well, fuck me. Our joker’s serious now.”
“World’s sideways.” Soul shakes his head, a ghost smile tugging.
Iron just gives me one of those looks—measured, like he’s seeing the part of me I never say out loud. Then he nods. Small, but it hits like a hammer.
North lifts his beer, deliberate, steady. “To Julie Walker. To Storm. A Saint’s woman.”
Glasses clink, dull thuds against scarred wood.
And it’s done.
Julie Walker belongs to the Saints now.
She belongs to me.