Chapter 13 #3
"Yes." Grace's voice is steady. "And I'm telling you right now—you're not getting me. Shadow will kill you. My father will kill you. You're a dead man, Venom. Just like your sons."
The silence on the other end is deadly.
When Venom speaks again, his voice is ice. "You're brave, girl. I'll give you that. But bravery won't save you. Forty-eight hours. Bring her to Houston, or I bring hell to your quaint little town."
The line goes dead.
No one speaks for a long moment.
Then Phantom slams his hand on the table. "Fuck his ultimatum. We're not giving him Grace. We're going to Houston. And we're ending this."
We spend the next two hours planning.
Maps of Houston spread across the table.
Intel on the Copperhead Kings clubhouse—location, layout, security.
The plan is simple: overwhelming force. Hit them hard, hit them fast, kill Venom.
Grace insists on going. "He wants me. Use that. I'm the bait that draws him out."
"Absolutely fucking not." I'm not even entertaining this. "You're not bait."
"Why not? It's smart. It makes sense."
"Because I almost lost you once. I'm not risking it again."
Phantom backs me up. "Grace, I understand what you're saying. But Shadow's right. You stay protected."
We compromise—Grace comes to Houston, but she stays in an armored truck, far from the actual assault. Protected by Blaze and Blight. Doors locked, engine running, ready to escape if needed.
I hate it, but it's better than leaving her here.
Plus, we all know what our women will do when we tell them no.
They’ll do it anyway.
Stubborn girls.
We all agree that we’ll leave tomorrow morning.
It’s a three-hour drive to Houston and we’ll hit the clubhouse tomorrow night, ending this permanently.
That night, back at the house, it's just Grace and me.--
Charlie's snoring on the couch. The house is quiet. Safe.
But tomorrow we ride into war.
Grace is in the shower, and I'm pacing the bedroom, unable to sit still.
When she emerges—hair damp, skin flushed, wearing one of my t-shirts—I cross to her immediately.
"Shadow—"
I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. Claiming.
Tomorrow I might die.
Tomorrow she might be in danger again.
Tomorrow everything could go to shit.
But tonight, she's mine.
I back her toward the bed, my hands in her hair, on her body, needing to touch every inch of her.
"I need you," I growl against her mouth.
"Then take me."
I strip the t-shirt off her, and there it is—my name tattooed on her ribs in cattle brand letters.
Still healing, still bandaged, but visible.
I trace the letters carefully, reverently. "You're really mine."
"I'm really yours."
I kiss down her neck, her collarbone, between her breasts.
Worshiping her body, claiming every inch.
When I reach her ribs, I press my lips to the bandage covering my name. "Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. Mine to love."
"Yours," she whispers. "Always yours."
I strip off my own shirt, and Grace's hands immediately go to my ribs where her name is tattooed.
"Mine too," she says, tracing the letters. "You're mine, Shadow. Don't you forget it."
"Never."
I lay her back on the bed, settle between her legs, and take my time.
Kissing every inch of her. Tasting her. Making her gasp and moan and beg.
When I finally slide inside her, we both groan.
Perfect. Home. Where I belong.
I move slow at first, savoring her, the way she feels wrapped around me.
But Grace digs her nails into my back, urging me faster, harder.
"Don't hold back," she gasps. "I need all of you."
So, I give her everything.
Pounding into her, possessive and claiming and desperate.
My name on her ribs.
Her name on mine.
Our bodies marked and bound together.
"Mine," I growl. "Say it."
"Yours!" Grace arches beneath me. "I'm yours, Shadow. Always yours."
"Good girl."
I feel her start to shatter, her body tightening around me, and I follow her over the edge.
We come together, tangled and gasping and completely consumed by each other.
After, we lie there in the dark, sweaty and spent and perfectly content.
Grace traces patterns on my chest, her touch gentle now. "Promise me you'll come back tomorrow."
"I promise."
"Shadow—"
"Grace." I tip her face up, make her look at me. "I'm coming back. We're ending this, and we're coming home."
Dawn comes too soon.
I'm up before Grace, getting dressed, checking weapons, preparing for what's coming.
Grace wakes, watches me from the bed. "It's time?"
"Yeah."
She gets up, gets dressed, and we head to the compound together.
Charlie stays with Jolene and Dakota—no way we’re bringing her into this mess.
Saying goodbye to Charlie is harder than I expected.
The dog whines, knows something's wrong, and tries to follow Grace.
"I'll be back, baby girl," Grace murmurs, hugging her. "I promise. Be good for Grandma."
Jolene hugs Grace. "Come home safe."
"I will."
Dakota hugs her next. "Kick their asses."
"We will."
Then it's time.
Brothers are gathered in the compound—Shotgun Saints and Reapers Rejects, ready to ride.
Phantom stands at the front, his voice carrying. "Today we end this. Today we ride to Houston. Today the Copperhead Kings learn what happens when they threaten our club. For Grace. For family. For the club."
"For the club!" the brothers roar back.
I help Grace into the truck—passenger seat, protected—and Banshee slides into the driver's seat.
The convoy forms. Trucks and bikes, and plenty of armed brothers.
Toward Houston.
Toward Venom.
Toward the end.
Grace's hand finds mine across the console. "You ready?" she asks.
"No. But we're doing it anyway."
Grace squeezes my hand. "Then let's end this."
I nod, and Banshee starts the engine.