Chapter Fifteen
~ Rooster ~
I stood in the kitchen doorway as the first light of dawn spilled across what remained of our compound. The destruction looked worse in daylight, stark evidence of how close we'd come to losing everything.
My hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white against splintered wood, as I counted our blessings among the ruins. We'd survived. Liam had survived.
And somehow, in the chaos of gunfire and blood, my mate had found something he'd lost fifteen years ago—his voice, even if just for one primal roar that still echoed in my memory.
Glass crunched beneath my boots as I stepped outside, surveying the full extent of the damage. Bullet holes peppered the walls like deadly constellations, their trajectories telling the story of last night's firefight.
Blood had dried in rusty patches across the concrete, some ours, some Victor's men. Shell casings glinted in the early light, scattered like malicious confetti. The picnic table where I'd first left food for Liam months ago had been reduced to splinters.
It should have felt devastating. Our home had been violated, our security breached, our people wounded. But as I stood amid the wreckage, what filled my chest wasn't despair but a fierce, protective relief. We were still here. My found family. My mate.
Liam.
The memory of his transformation flashed through my mind—the fluid grace as he'd shifted from cautious human to predatory lynx in the span of heartbeats. The way he'd launched himself at the operator threatening our prospect, all golden fur and righteous fury.
But it was what came after that kept replaying in my mind. His roar—primal, powerful, profound—breaking fifteen years of silence.
He hadn't spoken since. Hadn't needed to. That single sound had said everything necessary about who he was choosing to become.
"Hell of a mess."
I turned to find Butch picking his way through the debris, his usually impeccable appearance marred by dirt and dried blood. A bandage covered a graze wound on his forearm, but otherwise he seemed intact. His eyes were sharp despite the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face.
"Could've been worse," I replied, stepping aside as he joined me in the doorway. "How's the prospect? Sammy, right?"
Butch grunted. "Kid's throat needed a few stitches, but he'll live. Might even learn something from this—like not following armed men into a fucking ambush without backup." His expression softened slightly. "He's been telling anyone who'll listen about how your mate saved his ass."
My mate. The words sent a warmth spreading through my chest despite the morning chill. Liam had earned that title last night, not through any traditional claiming ritual, but through his choice to fight at my side when he could have run.
"And Victor's men?" I asked.
"Three dead, two wounded badly enough they won't be going anywhere soon. The rest scattered." Butch's face hardened. "We've got the communications specialist locked down in the basement. Bear's been having a chat with him."
I nodded, understanding exactly what kind of "chat" that would be.
"No sign of Victor himself though," Butch continued, scowling.
"Slippery bastard must have hung back, letting his men take the risks.
" He surveyed the destruction around us, then straightened his shoulders with the air of a man who'd rebuilt from ashes before.
"I need a final perimeter sweep before we start cleaning this mess up.
Make sure none of those fuckers are still hiding on our property. "
"I'll do it," I volunteered immediately.
"Take someone with you. No one moves alone until we're sure the compound is secure."
I hesitated only briefly. "I'll take Liam."
Butch's eyebrow rose slightly. "You sure that's wise? Kid's been through enough already."
"He's not staying here alone," I said, my tone brooking no argument. "And he sees things the rest of us miss. He knew about the hidden passages, remember? Found all those surveillance devices."
I didn't add that the thought of letting Liam out of my sight made my bear pace restlessly beneath my skin, claws scraping against my control.
Something in Butch's expression shifted as he studied me—a knowing recognition of the protective instinct that had taken root in my soul. He nodded once. "Fair enough. Get it done and report back."
"Liam?" I called, turning toward the back room where I'd left him sleeping just an hour earlier. The makeshift bed I'd arranged in the pantry—the only room with no windows and only one entrance, the kind of space where Liam felt safest—had been empty when I'd checked on him last.
For one heart-stopping moment, old fears surfaced. Had he fled in the night? Decided the danger of staying outweighed whatever tentative connection we'd formed?
Then I heard the soft scrape of boots against tile and he appeared in the hallway. My breath caught at the sight of him. He still moved with the cautious grace of someone accustomed to remaining unnoticed, but something fundamental had shifted in his demeanor.
His hood was pulled back, exposing his scarred face and golden eyes to the morning light. His shoulders weren't hunched defensively around his ears.
And when his gaze met mine, he held it for three solid seconds before looking away—an eternity compared to the fleeting, skittish glances of before.
"We need to check the perimeter," I explained, keeping my voice gentle despite the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. "Make sure none of Victor's men are still hanging around. Will you come with me?"
I phrased it as a question rather than an order, giving him the choice I'd promised him in the garden. For a long moment, he simply studied me, his golden eyes unreadable. Then he gave a single, decisive nod and moved to my side.
Not behind me, as he would have before. But beside me, close enough that our sleeves nearly brushed. Close enough that I could smell his unique scent—pine needles and wild things and something uniquely Liam that called to my bear nature.
Butch observed this subtle shift with silent approval. "Be careful out there," he said, his eyes moving between us. "We'll start gathering materials to patch up this mess."
As we moved toward the door, another club member emerged from the common room—Razor, our treasurer, sporting a makeshift bandage across his cheek. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Liam walking openly beside me instead of skulking in my shadow.
"Hey," Razor greeted, nodding to me before his gaze flicked curiously to Liam. "Good work last night. Both of you."
What happened next nearly stopped my heart. Instead of shrinking away or staring at the floor, Liam met Razor's eyes directly and inclined his head in acknowledgment. A simple gesture that spoke volumes about the transformation taking place inside him.
When we stepped outside into the morning light, Liam's hand brushed against mine so briefly it might have been accidental, except that nothing Liam did was ever without purpose.
I resisted the urge to grab his fingers and hold them, to anchor him to me with physical touch. Instead, I let him set the pace as we moved across the debris-strewn compound to begin our search.
My feral kitten was finding his courage. And I would give him all the time and space he needed to discover just how brave he truly was.
We moved around the compound in silence, Liam and I, checking familiar corners now made strange by bullet holes and bloodstains. He matched my pace step for step, no longer trailing behind me like a shadow afraid of the light.
Instead, he moved with deliberate purpose, his golden eyes constantly scanning, missing nothing. More than once, he diverted our path to check something I would have overlooked—a disturbed patch of earth beneath a window, shell casings partially hidden by debris.
The feral kitten had become something else overnight—still cautious, still vigilant, but now channeling his survival instincts toward protecting what was his.
I watched him crouch to examine a boot print pressed deep into the mud near our fence line. His fingers hovered above the impression without touching it, his head tilting slightly as he studied the direction and depth.
Without speaking, he pointed northwest, toward the dense tree line where several of Victor's men had fled during the chaos.
"You think some might still be out there?" I asked softly.
He shook his head, then held up two fingers before making a walking motion with them, followed by a gesture indicating departure. Two men had escaped in that direction, but they were long gone.
"How can you be sure?"
His response was to tap his nose, then point to the mud where rain had started to fill the boot prints. The tracks were old, at least several hours. His certainty was oddly comforting, this quiet confidence in his abilities that he no longer tried to hide.
We completed our circuit of the main buildings with no sign of lingering threats. The garage had taken heavy fire but remained structurally sound. The clubhouse walls were peppered with bullet holes, windows shattered, but the damage was repairable. We'd rebuild, stronger than before.
Only Gearhead's workshop remained unchecked—a large corrugated metal structure. Gearhead himself was still at Henry's clinic, having taken a bullet to the shoulder while evacuating the wounded. I pushed open the side door, which creaked ominously on damaged hinges.
"Last stop," I said, stepping into the familiar space of oil-soaked concrete and tool-lined walls.
Weak sunlight filtered through dusty windows, casting long shadows across workbenches and half-completed motorcycle projects.
The air smelled of gasoline, metal, and something else, something that didn't belong.
Liam's hand shot out suddenly, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. I froze mid-step, trained by years of survival to trust warning signs without question. His entire body had gone rigid beside me, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air.