Chapter Four
~ Liam ~
I stayed perfectly still behind those tires, my fingers still wrapped around Rooster's thick wrist. The contact should have sent warning signals firing through every nerve in my body—touch meant danger, meant vulnerability—but instead, something inside me quieted.
My inner lynx, usually so alert and ready to flee, purred with contentment. The sensation was so foreign I almost pulled away from pure shock.
Rooster didn't try to break free of my grip. He stayed crouched beside me, his breathing steady despite the tension radiating from his massive frame. I could feel his pulse beneath my fingertips—strong and surprisingly calm considering the armed men in our yard.
Bear's voice boomed across the open space again. "I said on the ground! Face down, hands behind your heads!"
The intruders complied with practiced movements, too smooth to be their first time surrendering. Their composure unsettled me. These weren't desperate thieves or random troublemakers. They were professionals—the kind who only surrendered when it served their purpose.
I'd seen men like this before, back when I was younger and less careful about my hiding places. Men who worked for organizations that hunted shifters for sport or profit. Men who knew how to wait for the perfect moment to strike.
My suspicion was confirmed when the taller intruder's eyes flicked toward the gate. A signal.
"More coming," I whispered, the words scraping my throat from disuse.
Rooster's head snapped toward me, surprised by my voice, but he didn't question me. Instead, he immediately typed another message on his phone, trusting my warning without hesitation.
The back door of the clubhouse slammed open as three more MC members rushed out to help Bear and the others. The yard was now filled with leather-clad bikers pointing guns at the kneeling intruders.
No one noticed the gate slowly swinging open.
Four men slipped through, weapons already drawn. Unlike the first two, they didn't bother with stealth—they charged forward with the confidence of those who knew they had the advantage of surprise.
"Behind you!" Rooster bellowed, already rising to his feet.
The yard erupted into chaos. The kneeling intruders sprang up, tackling the nearest bikers. Gunshots cracked through the night air, bullets splintering wood and shattering the clubhouse windows. The new attackers spread out, moving with coordinated precision that spoke of military training.
I tugged desperately at Rooster's wrist, trying to pull him deeper into the shadows. We needed to run, to hide, to get as far from this firefight as possible. Every survival instinct I'd developed over years on the streets screamed at me to flee.
But Rooster wasn't moving. His eyes were locked on his brothers fighting for their lives. "I have to help them," he said, voice tight with urgency.
I shook my head violently, pulling harder on his arm. The safety I'd felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by cold dread. I couldn't let him go out there, couldn't watch him get hurt or worse.
The realization hit me like a physical blow—I cared what happened to this man. This stranger who'd fed me for months without asking anything in return. This cook with flaming red hair who'd taught me how to use a fork with endless patience.
Rooster looked down at me, his expression softening despite the battle raging yards away. He gently extracted his wrist from my grip and, to my shock, cupped my face with his massive hand.
"I have to help my brothers, baby boy. I'll be careful. I promise."
His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, the gesture so tender it left me frozen in place. No one had touched me with such gentleness in more years than I could remember.
Before I could react, he was gone, charging into the fray with a roar that sounded more bear than human. My chest tightened as I watched him barrel into one of the attackers, sending the man sprawling.
I should run. This wasn't my fight. These weren't my people.
But my eyes wouldn't leave Rooster.
He moved with surprising grace for his size, landing a solid punch on one attacker before spinning to help a club brother struggling with another. The MC members were outnumbered but fighting fiercely, their brotherhood evident in the way they covered each other, moved as a unit.
Then I saw him—a man circling around the edge of the fight, baseball bat raised, eyes fixed on Rooster's back.
My warning died in my throat as the bat connected with a sickening crack against Rooster's skull. He stumbled, disoriented, before crumpling to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.
Something snapped inside me.
The world narrowed to a single point: the man standing over Rooster with the bat raised for another strike.
I didn't decide to move—I was simply in motion, a blur of rage and protective fury. I hit the attacker with the full weight of my body, my momentum carrying us both to the ground.
My claws extended and found purchase in around his throat—not killing, not yet, but making it clear I could. He screamed, the bat falling from his hands as he tried desperately to dislodge me.
I ripped into him, my rational mind submerged beneath waves of primal rage. My claws tore through his jacket, drawing blood in long, ragged lines. He bucked beneath me, howling in pain and terror. The scent of his fear only fueled my attack.
Only when he stopped fighting—when he lay whimpering and bleeding on the ground—did I release him. I backed away, a warning growl rumbling through my chest, daring him to move again.
He didn't.
Turning, I padded quickly to where Rooster lay motionless on the ground. My heart hammered painfully against my ribs as I nudged his face with the back of my hand.
Relief flooded me when he groaned, eyes fluttering.
Without conscious thought, I positioned myself over his body, straddling his massive form with my considerably smaller one. I bristled with anger as I surveyed the chaos around us. The fight was winding down, the attackers either subdued or fleeing, but I didn't care.
Let anyone—friend or enemy—try to approach Rooster now. I would protect him with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The realization should have terrified me—I'd never felt this kind of attachment to anyone. Never risked myself for another person. Never chosen to stay when I could have run.
But as I stood guard over the red-haired cook who had shown me nothing but kindness, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years.
I felt like I'd found something worth fighting for.
The fight died down around us, but I remained crouched over Rooster's body, my body throbbing with adrenaline and my heart still racing with the lingering ferocity.
Blood—not mine—had dried under my fingernails, and the taste of that man's fear lingered in my mouth.
Rooster groaned beneath me, his eyes fluttering open then squeezing shut against the pain. A dark bruise was already forming where the bat had connected with his temple, the skin split and bleeding sluggishly.
"Kid?" he mumbled, trying to focus on my face. "You okay?"
Typical. He was the one bleeding from a head wound, and he was asking if I was alright.
I nodded quickly, my eyes never leaving his face. The yard around us was a battleground of groaning bodies and cursing bikers. Several of the attackers lay motionless on the ground while others were being zip-tied by club members. The scent of blood, gunpowder, and adrenaline hung heavy in the air.
The clubhouse door swung open, and a lean man with short brown hair stepped out, carrying what looked like a medical bag. Unlike the others, he wore no leather vest, just a rumpled button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Doctor. The word popped into my head immediately.
"I need to check injuries!" he called out, his voice crisp with authority. "Priority to anyone bleeding or unconscious!"
His eyes swept the yard, assessing the situation with clinical detachment. Several bikers pointed toward us. The doctor started in our direction, and I felt my muscles tense, ready to defend Rooster if necessary.
"It's okay," Rooster whispered, reading my posture. "That's Henry. He's Gunner's mate. Doc's good people."
I wasn't convinced. Everyone was dangerous until proven otherwise. That's how I'd survived this long.
But Rooster needed help. The blood from his head wound was soaking into his beard, staining the red hair an even darker crimson. My protective instincts warred with my ingrained distrust of strangers.
Rooster's need won.
I rose to my feet in one fluid motion and approached the doctor, who stopped short, eyeing me warily. Smart man. I probably looked feral, wild-eyed and blood-spattered. Without speaking, I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him toward Rooster, my intention clear.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," he said, allowing himself to be led. "Is that Rooster down? How bad is it?"
I didn't answer, just pulled him faster.
When we reached Rooster, the doctor—Henry—immediately knelt beside him, setting down his bag and pulling out a penlight. I hovered nearby, muscles tense, ready to intervene if he caused Rooster any pain.
"Pupils equal and reactive," Henry muttered, shining the light into Rooster's eyes. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three," Rooster answered, trying to sit up. "I'm fine, Doc. Just a love tap."
"You're not fine," Henry countered, pushing him gently back down. "That's a nasty concussion at minimum. You need a CT scan to rule out a skull fracture or intracranial bleeding."
Rooster waved him off. "No hospitals. You know the drill."
"At least let me clean and stitch that cut," Henry insisted, already pulling supplies from his bag. "And you're staying under observation tonight. No arguments."
I watched the exchange with growing frustration. Rooster clearly needed more help than he was willing to accept. Stubborn man. I found myself wondering if all bear shifters were this hardheaded or if it was just him.