Chapter 6
Lena
T he whiskey hit my nose first. Then leather, motor oil, and something deeper—decades of cigarette smoke that had seeped into the very bones of King's Tavern.
The main room had been transformed. Tables pushed together to form one long surface, scarred wood gleaming under the amber lights.
Duke sat at the head like a king holding court—which I guess he was.
The Heavy Kings president patch on his leather cut caught the light as he leaned back, studying me with those calculating eyes that missed nothing.
Thor flanked him, massive and intimidating even at nearly three in the morning. His viking beard looked wilder than usual, like he'd been yanked from bed—which he probably had. Because of me. Because I'd brought my poisonous past to their doorstep.
My stomach churned with fresh shame.
"Sit," Duke commanded, gesturing to an empty chair halfway down the table. Not quite inner circle, but not relegated to the foot either. A careful placement that said I mattered but wasn't one of them.
I started to move, but Tyson's hand settled on my shoulder, warm through the hoodie.
"Here," he said quietly, pulling out the chair.
Always the gentleman, even with his knuckles split and bloody from wherever he'd punched the clubhouse wall after we'd arrived.
I'd heard the impact from the bathroom where I'd been trying not to throw up.
He didn't sit after I did. Instead, he took position behind my chair like a sentinel, radiating barely contained violence.
The other members noticed—I caught the looks exchanged, the raised eyebrows.
Wiz sat across from me, silver-streaked ponytail neat despite the hour.
Dex lounged to his left, deceptively casual.
Others I didn't know well lined the table, patches declaring their loyalty and rank.
All men. All dangerous. All here because of me.
"So." Duke's voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. "Serpents made their move. Psychological warfare using Lena's past." His eyes found mine, not unkind but unflinching. "Question is how we respond without starting a war we're not ready for."
I shrank in my seat, and the photo flashed behind my eyelids—me in that horrible lavender dress, Cruz's manicured hand in my hair. They'd all know soon. Know what kind of fucked up shit I'd been into. Know I wasn't just the mouthy tattoo artist who kept their ink fresh.
"Intel first," Wiz spoke up, voice measured. "How'd they get the photo? This Cruz—he's connected to the Serpents how?"
"Working on that," Tyson said from behind me. "But the message was clear. They know she’s important to us. And they're willing to leverage that."
"First priority is keeping Lena safe," Thor interrupted, his growl filling the space. "Everything else comes second. They threw a fucking brick through her window. Next time might not be a warning."
My throat tightened. Thor had always been protective—the big brother I'd never had. But this was different. This was the Sergeant-at-Arms speaking, the enforcer who'd spill blood for the club. For me.
"Agreed," Duke said. "But we need to be smart. Serpents want us reactive. Want us to come at them half-cocked so they can claim self-defense."
"Fuck their claims," someone down the table spat. "They threatened one of ours."
One of ours. The words settled strange in my chest. I wasn't patched, wasn't an old lady, wasn't anything but the tattoo artist who'd been keeping their ink fresh for years. But here they were, ready to go to war over a photo and a brick.
"We don't respond strong, they'll escalate," Rex said, leaning forward.
"We respond too strong, we give them exactly what they want," Tyson countered. "An excuse to come at us full force while we're still dealing with wedding security."
The debate began in earnest then, voices rising and falling like tide.
I watched it all, fascinated despite my misery.
This wasn't the anarchy outsiders assumed.
This was democracy, outlaw style. Everyone got a voice—from the grizzled veterans to the younger members eager to prove themselves.
Arguments were made, countered, refined.
Duke listened to it all, processing, weighing options.
And through it all, Tyson stood behind me. Steady. Immovable. Every time someone's suggestion might put me at risk, he shot it down with tactical precision. His presence was a furnace at my back, keeping the chill of fear from settling too deep.
"What about you, Lena?" Duke's question cut through the debate. "This is your life we're discussing. What do you want?"
Every eye turned to me. What did I want? To go back three hours and stay in bed. To never have met Cruz. To be someone who didn't drag danger to the people who'd shown me nothing but loyalty.
"I want to not be the reason you go to war," I said quietly.
Thor's expression softened. "That's not on you, kid. Serpents have been pushing for months. This is just their latest excuse."
Maybe. But it was my photo they'd used. My past they'd weaponized. My fault Tyson had bloody knuckles and everyone was losing sleep.
"Safe house outside town," Wiz suggested, tapping the table with one oil-stained finger. "Got that cabin up near Morrison Ridge. Isolated, defensible, one road in and out."
The words had barely left his mouth before Tyson was shaking his head. "No."
"No?" Wiz raised an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate, Sergeant?"
"Isolation makes her vulnerable. And we don’t have a great track record when it comes to safe houses.
Tough enough to manage the Serps, and now the Cartel is involved, there’s lots of faces we don’t know.
" Tyson's voice was pure tactical assessment, emotion locked down tight.
"Serpents could siege indefinitely. One road means one escape route—they block that, she's trapped.
No cell service up there either. She screams, no one hears. "
The clinical way he described my potential death made me shiver.
"Fair point," Wiz conceded. "What about in town then? Keep her close."
"My apartment's available," Rex offered, leaning back in his chair. "Got that reinforced door from my paranoid phase. Plus I'm barely there—mostly crash here anyway."
I knew Rex's place. He'd had me over once to touch up an old tattoo. Nice enough, secure, in a decent part of town. For a second, hope fluttered.
"Your neighbors include three gossips and a Serpent sympathizer," Tyson countered, crushing that hope flat. "Mrs. Peters in 4B can't keep her mouth shut. Jake in 4D went to high school with two Serpent prospects—still drinks with them. Intel would leak within hours."
How the hell did he know all that? The man had apparently memorized the tenant list of every potential safe house.
"Jesus, Monroe," someone muttered. "You got a computer in your head?"
"I pay attention," Tyson said flatly. "It's kept us alive this long."
"Okay, Rex’s place is out," Duke said, fingers steepled. "What about a rotation? Different brother each night, vary the location—"
"Inconsistent protection protocols." Tyson’s words came out clipped, each one a bullet point.
"Different guards mean different skill levels, different threat assessments.
Takes time to learn someone's patterns, their tells, their panic responses.
By the time one brother figures out her rhythms, it's someone else's shift.
Gaps in coverage. Mistakes in handoffs. Too many variables. "
"Could post up at her place," Dex suggested. "She keeps her apartment, we add security—"
"Her building has four entry points, a fire escape that connects to three others, and a basement that links to the whole block through old coal tunnels.
" Tyson rattled off the building specs like he was reading a blueprint.
"Would need minimum six brothers to cover it properly.
Can't spare that many with the wedding coming up. "
Each rejection came faster now, his tactical mind finding flaws in every plan. The table's frustration was palpable—jaw clenches, heavy sighs, fingers drumming impatiently. But no one could argue with his logic. Every point was valid, every weakness real.
"What about the club itself?" a younger member suggested. "Set her up in one of the back rooms—"
"First place Serpents would expect. Plus she needs to maintain her life, her work. Can't run the tattoo shop from a clubhouse bunk."
I noticed how his voice got tighter with each suggestion, like something was winding tighter and tighter inside him. The muscle in his jaw hadn't stopped jumping since we'd sat down.
Duke watched it all with those calculating eyes, letting the debate run its course. But I caught him studying Tyson, noting the same things I was—the white knuckles, the rigid control, the way he shot down every option that would put distance between us.
"Seems like you've thought through every possibility," Duke said finally, voice mild. Too mild. "So what's your solution, Sergeant?"
Tyson was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "There isn't a perfect solution. Every option has vulnerabilities."
"But some have less than others." Duke leaned forward. "Your place is compromised—whole town knows where the Heavy Kings' tactical officer lives. But hers is off their radar. Small building, but manageable. You know the neighborhood, the vulnerabilities. You're the best equipped to protect her."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. I felt Tyson go absolutely still behind me.
"You move in with her," Duke continued, each word deliberate. "Tonight. Non-negotiable."
"Duke—" he started.
"It's logical," Duke cut him off. "You've already proven you know her building inside and out. You're the only one who can provide consistent, professional protection. Unless there's some reason you can't?"