Chapter Nineteen
TOWN ALWAYS FELT different when you rode in wearing your cut.
Eyes followed. Always. Some narrowed, like knives cutting across the distance. Some lingered too long before sliding away, pretending they hadn’t been staring. Didn’t matter. I’d been getting those looks half my life. They didn’t bother me anymore.
What bothered me was what we were here for.
Warden and I had split, he’d gone into the courthouse to dig through deeds, trying to figure out who owned that stretch of ranch where we’d found Wren.
I’d hit the department store a block down to pick her up some clothes, something that wasn’t borrowed from Elara or stretched thin with wear. Something that was hers.
We’d keep it short. Grab what we needed. Head back. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Or so I thought.
When I stepped back into the sun, heat rising off the asphalt in shimmering waves, my eyes went straight to my bike parked at the curb.
And froze.
Something white stood out against the black leather of the seat.
A note.
Not a flyer, not some scrap blown by the wind. Deliberate. A torn piece of lined paper, taped down, black ink scrawled heavy enough to nearly rip through the sheet.
My chest tightened as I yanked it free, fingers already curling hard before my eyes even hit the words.
Get rid of the girl. Or die with her.
For a second, the world went quiet.
The heat pressed down like a hand, the sound of traffic faded, even the chatter of people walking past dimmed to nothing but a dull hum in the distance. All I could hear was the rush of my own pulse.
Wren.
They knew. Someone had seen her. Someone knew she was at our clubhouse. And now they were coming for her.
My jaw locked, heat surging fast through my veins. I crushed the note into my fist, the paper crinkling, veins pulsing against my skin.
I forced my breathing slow, scanning the street.
Ordinary people passed by. Mothers pushing strollers. A man hauling groceries. Kids darting between parked cars, laughter high and careless.
Nothing out of place.
And yet everything was.
Because someone had been close enough to touch my bike. Close enough to leave me a message meant to cut straight to the bone. And I hadn’t seen a damn thing.
The rage coiled hot in my gut.
Warden came out a minute later, a stack of papers tucked under his arm. He paused mid-step when he saw my face, his eyes narrowing to hard slits.
“What is it?”
I didn’t answer. Just handed him the crumpled note.
His gaze flicked over it once. Then again, slower. His jaw went hard as granite, his hand tightening until the paper nearly tore in two. He looked up at me, his voice low, clipped. “This stays between us for now. No reason to stir the whole clubhouse until we know who the hell wrote it.”
I shoved the note into my cut, the weight of it burning against my chest like a brand.
Whoever left it had made one thing clear.
They wanted Wren gone.
Dead.
And they didn’t care if I burned with her.
I looked back at the bike, the street, the desert horizon beyond. My teeth ground together, the promise already carved deep into my bones.
Well, fuckers—here I am standing.
Come try me.
***
THE RIDE BACK to the clubhouse didn’t do a damn thing to cool me off. The note still burned in my cut like it was seared to my skin. Every mile I ate up, the fury pressed sharper.
Someone had to have been following me today in order to leave a message on my bike. And the only men who might’ve known about her were Fire Dragons.
I hadn’t said it out loud, not to Warden, not yet, but the suspicion chewed at me the whole ride home. Someone over there had loose lips or a grudge, and now Wren had a target on her back.
I pulled through the clubhouse gates, the roar of engines and easy laughter outside feeling like a lie. Nothing about this was safe anymore. Not with that note burning a hole in my pocket.
By the time I pushed through the clubhouse doors, my chest was tight enough to snap.
The air inside hit me hard, beer, cigarette smoke, leather, fried food lingering from the kitchen.
The place was alive with noise, music low from the speakers, pool balls cracking, laughter carrying from the couches.
And there she was.
Wren.
She sat at one of the tables, shoulders drawn tight but her hands moving slow and precise, paper birds scattered between her and Throttle like fragile white secrets. Throttle leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his stare steady on her like he belonged right there.
What the hell. I’d told Jewel to keep an eye on her.
Heat slid low through my gut. Wren wasn’t his to look after.
The room felt too small. Too many people watching her like she was some curiosity they hadn’t figured out yet.
Maul and Rex were at the pool table, arguing over a shot, but their eyes flick her way.
Holly walked through from the room with a tray of mugs, giving Wren a quiet smile as she passed.
Even the prospects hanging by the wall had their eyes flicking between her and me.
My boots hit hard against the wood as I crossed the room. The noise dimmed, or maybe I just stopped hearing it. I set the bag from town down in front of her.
Her head lifted fast, eyes wide. Relief flickered across her face, and then—fuck—she smiled at me. Small, soft, and real. It made something warm ache inside me, and some of the fury I’d been carrying since that note eased, just for a moment.
“Where’s Jewel?” I asked, the words out before I could stop them.
“She had shit to do and I didn’t,” Throttle said, voice calm but edged. He gave me a look, hard as steel, warning me not to make a scene.
I took it, because Wren was still too fragile to watch me tear into one of my brothers over who got to sit across from her.
“Picked you up a few things,” I said, pushing the bag closer.
Her fingers curled around the handles, careful, almost reverent. She peeked inside—clothes, a brush, a couple of books I’d grabbed without thinking but figured she’d like. Small things, but hers. For the first time, hers.
Color rose high in her cheeks. Her lips parted, and her eyes warmed over with more than gratitude. Something in the way she looked at me rooted me to the spot. I couldn’t look away if I tried.
A loud bang shattered the moment.
Glass hit the floor near the couches, splintering across the wood.
“Just slipped from my fingers,” Roxy called out, her voice bright and edged enough to slice. She bent low to scoop at the mess, her arm draped over Wreck’s shoulders like a monkey hanging on a tree. Her laugh rang false, her eyes harder than the shards glittering on the floor.
She straightened, leaning into Wreck with a kiss that was all teeth, her gaze slicing across the room to me.
Her smile faltered when she saw Wren clutching that bag like it was treasure. Then it came back jagged, brittle around the edges, before she buried her face against Wreck’s neck, staking a claim I couldn’t care less about.
I turned back to Wren. Her shoulders had gone tight again, her fingers locked white-knuckled on the bag.
I held out my hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to your room.”
She stood without hesitation, slipping her hand into mine. Small. Warm. Trusting.
The room had gone quiet around us, just enough that I knew every set of eyes was watching. Scyth leaned on his cue stick, Hex smirking beside him. Jewel had appeared from the hallway, pausing mid-stride to give Wren a smile, and a once over to make sure she was alright.
And Warden.
He caught my eye from where he leaned against the far wall with Elara, his stare unwavering, unreadable. A look that said we needed to talk. Soon.
I gave him a short nod, the only promise I could make right now.
Then I guided Wren out of the common room, her bag clutched to her chest like it was a bag filled with money.
And to her maybe it was.