Chapter 8 #5
I don’t wait. My weapon is already in my hand. The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, but I don’t flinch. One clean shot, center mass. His body jerks once, then goes still.
Butcher and Demon move in perfect synchronization, their shots coming within milliseconds of mine. Three bodies slump in their chairs, the zip ties now redundant.
The echo fades, leaving behind the acrid smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. I holster my weapon, my movements mechanical.
“Clean this up,” I tell Demon, who nods, already pulling out his phone to call the prospects who handle disposal. “Make it disappear.”
“And the car?” Butcher asks, checking the pulse of the Reaper closest to him. A formality, nothing more.
“Strip it for parts, then burn what’s left,” I reply, already moving toward the door. “I need to get back to the clubhouse. To Xavier.”
“I’ll handle it,” Butcher assures me, his hand briefly squeezing my shoulder. A father’s understanding of a son’s priorities.
We take turns in the small bathroom at the back of the warehouse, washing blood spatter from our hands and faces. The cold water does little to clear the fog of violence from my mind, but it’s necessary. I can’t return to Xavier with another man’s blood on my skin.
I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror, thrilled to have some more of these fuckers dead.
Twenty minutes later, we’re back on our bikes, the warehouse locked behind us, no evidence of what transpired inside. The ride back to the clubhouse clears my head, the wind scouring away the last traces of the warehouse’s atmosphere.
The parking lot is busier than when I left, more bikes, more cars, more people seeking safety in numbers. I spot Xavier immediately, sitting at one of the picnic tables with Livie and Tiana, his head thrown back in laughter at something one of them has said.
The sight of him relaxed, smiling, and alive settles something in my chest. This is why I do what I do. This is what I protect.
He notices me approaching, his smile widening in a way that makes my heart stutter. How he can look at me like that with such open affection after knowing what I am, what I do, still amazes me.
“Hey,” he says, standing as I reach them. “Everything okay?”
I nod, not trusting myself to elaborate with the others present. “Handled,” I say simply, my hand finding the small of his back in what has become our customary greeting.
Livie and Tiana exchange knowing glances but say nothing. Xavier studies my face, those perceptive doctor’s eyes seeing more than I’m comfortable with.
“You need a drink,” he decides, his hand sliding into mine with a casual intimacy that still feels new. “Come on.”
I let him lead me toward the clubhouse, grateful for his understanding, for the way he doesn’t push for details I’m not ready to share. As we approach the door, a young woman I don’t recognize steps out, her eyes widening at the sight of our joined hands.
She’s wearing the tight clothes and excessive makeup of a club hanger-on, someone looking to catch a member’s attention. Her gaze flicks from me to Xavier, then back again, her lip curling in obvious disapproval.
“So it’s true,” she says, voice pitched low. “Slaughter’s got himself a boyfriend.”
Xavier tenses beside me, but I tighten my grip on his hand, silently urging him to let it go. The girl isn’t worth the energy.
She doesn’t take the hint. “You know he’ll never be a real old lady, right?” she continues, addressing me now as if Xavier isn’t standing right there. “Can’t be part of the family when he’s not even the right gender. It’s pathetic.”
Something cold and dangerous unfurls in my chest, the same darkness I’d channeled in the warehouse, but for a different reason now. I step forward, placing myself between her and Xavier, my voice dropping to a register that has made grown men tremble.
“Who the fuck are you to speak about what makes family?” I ask, the question soft but carrying an unmistakable threat. “And who invited you into our clubhouse?”
The girl’s confidence falters for just a second before she straightens her shoulders, tossing her over-processed blonde hair. “I’m Nikki! The gate was left open and I just walked in the clubhouse. I see Sons of Anarchy and know how it works.”
I feel Xavier shift behind me, his hand still in mine but his body tensing further. I squeeze his fingers once, a silent reassurance, before releasing him to step fully into this woman’s space.
“Let me explain something to you, Nikki,” I say, my voice deadly quiet. The background noise of the clubhouse seems to fade as people notice the confrontation. “This club doesn’t have hangers-on. We don’t have groupies. We have family, and we have enemies.”
Her eyes widen slightly, mascara-heavy lashes fluttering as she takes an instinctive step back.
“And right now,” I continue, “you’re making it very clear which category you fall into.”
The clubhouse doors open again, and Greyson steps out, flanked by Butcher and several other patched members. The cavalry has arrived, drawn by the tension crackling in the air.
“Problem?” Greyson asks, his voice carrying the weight of his authority as president.
I turn slightly, making sure Xavier is visible beside me. “Just educating our visitor about family values,” I reply, the double meaning clear to everyone who matters.
Greyson’s eyes flick from me to Nikki to Xavier, understanding the situation immediately. His jaw tightens imperceptibly.
“Family values,” he repeats, moving to stand beside me. “Important topic.”
Nikki’s bravado is crumbling now, her eyes darting around at the growing circle of leather-clad men and women forming around us. Even the prospects have emerged, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
“I was just saying,” she begins, her voice higher than before.
“I heard what you were saying,” I cut her off. My hand finds Xavier’s again, our fingers interlacing deliberately. “Now you’re going to hear what I’m saying.”
I pull Xavier forward until we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. The simple act of bringing him to my side rather than keeping him behind me is significant, a statement to everyone watching.
“This man,” I say, my voice carrying across the suddenly silent parking lot, “is Xavier Blane. He’s a doctor who saves lives every day, including the lives of our brothers and sisters.” I pause, letting that sink in. “He’s also mine. My man. My partner.”
Xavier’s hand tightens around mine, his breath catching audibly. I don’t look at him—I can’t, or I might lose my focus—but I feel the weight of his gaze on my profile.
“Anyone who has a problem with that,” I continue, my eyes sweeping across the assembled crowd before landing back on Nikki, “has a problem with me. And trust me, sweetheart, that’s the last thing you want.”
The silence stretches, heavy with meaning. Then Greyson steps forward, his expression unreadable to most, but I catch the slight curl at the corner of his mouth.
“Slaughter speaks for the club on this,” he announces, his voice carrying the finality of presidential decree. “Xavier is family. Anyone who can’t respect that isn’t welcome here.”
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd. I see Livie’s fierce grin, Tiana’s approving nod, and my father’s subtle thumbs-up from the back of the group.
* * *
Xavier
I’ve never been so turned on in my life listening to Zach claim me in front of the whole club.
Heat rushes through my body, pooling low in my stomach as his words echo in my ears.
“This man is mine. My man. My partner.” The possessive declaration, spoken without hesitation in front of everyone, sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with desire.
I’m barely aware of what happens next. Nikki is escorted off the property by two prospects, her protests fading into the background as blood rushes in my ears.
All I can focus on is Zach’s hand in mine, the heat of his body beside me, the way his voice dropped to that dangerous register that makes my knees weak.
When I finally look up at him, his eyes are already on me, dark with an intensity that steals my breath. There’s a question there, a vulnerability beneath the enforcer’s mask, seeking confirmation that his public declaration was welcome, that he hasn’t overstepped.
I answer without words, squeezing his hand and leaning slightly into his side.
The tension in his shoulders eases, almost imperceptibly unless you know what to look for.
But I do know. I’ve learned to read the subtle shifts in his body language, the microexpressions that betray his carefully controlled exterior.
“Well,” Greyson says, breaking the moment with deliberate timing, “now that that’s settled, we’ve got business to discuss.” He claps Zach on the shoulder, his expression serious despite the warmth in his eyes. “Chapel in fifteen.”
The crowd begins to disperse, the excitement of the confrontation giving way to the regular rhythms of clubhouse life. Several members nod at me as they pass, a few offering fist bumps or shoulder claps, silent acknowledgments of my newly confirmed status.
“You okay?” Zach asks quietly, leading me away from the dispersing crowd and toward a quieter corner of the parking lot.
“I’m more than okay,” I admit, my voice coming out huskier than intended. I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how affected I am by his public claim. “That was… unexpected.”
A smile plays at the corner of his mouth, small but genuine. “Which part? The homophobic groupie or me announcing to the entire club that you’re mine?”
“Both.” I laugh, the sound slightly breathless. “But especially the second part.”
His eyes darken, tracking the flush I can feel spreading up my neck to my cheeks. “Had to be said,” he murmurs, stepping closer until our bodies nearly touch. “Should have been said sooner.”
“Zach,” I start, not entirely sure what I want to say, just knowing I need to express the storm of emotions swirling inside me.