Chapter 17 #2
"It’s my fault,” he sighed, before flicking ash onto the sidewalk.
“Sometimes I enforce rules just for the sake of it.
And it leads to secrets like this. And I get why he lied.
Protecting you, protecting the club, trying to do the right thing.
That's Tyson. Always carrying the world on his shoulders. "
"It’s all my fault. Rico and Johnnie."
"Stop." His voice was firm but not unkind, carrying the same tone I'd heard him use with younger brothers who needed guidance. "You didn't pull those triggers. You didn't declare war. You're just the excuse Cruz is using."
He turned to face me then, and I saw past the presidential mask to the man underneath. Tired, hurting, but resolute. This was a man who'd lost brothers before, would lose them again, and had learned to carry that weight without breaking.
"Question is," he continued, studying me with those sharp eyes, "you staying? Because after last night, things get darker. I know you’ve been a part of our family for a while, but this is the first time anything like .
. . this has happened to you. This life, it's not romantic.
It's blood and brotherhood and burying friends too young. "
The fairy tale was definitely over, if it had ever existed at all.
"I love him," I said simply, meeting Duke's gaze without flinching. "He loves me. Everything else . . . we'll figure it out."
"Christ, you're both idiots," Duke muttered, but there was fondness there, the same tone he'd used talking about Tyson's terrible whistling. "Fine. You're under official protection now. Where you go, a brother goes. Non-negotiable."
The words should have made me feel safer. Instead, they felt like another chain, another way my presence put targets on backs.
We walked back into the waiting room to find Tyson exactly where I'd left him, but his entire body was coiled with tension. The relief in his eyes when he saw me was almost painful.
I sank back into my chair, and Tyson immediately took my hand, examining me like Duke might have damaged me with words alone.
"What did he say?" he asked quietly.
"That he's known about us for weeks. That you whistle off-key when you're happy. That I'm under official protection now."
Tyson's expression cycled through surprise, embarrassment, and finally settled on resignation. "My whistling is fucking first rate."
"Apparently dogs howl."
"One time. One dog. And it was already howling." But his thumb was stroking over my knuckles, and some of the tension had left his shoulders. "You're really okay with this? The protection detail, the lack of privacy, the target it paints?"
I thought about Duke's words, about family and sacrifice and the weight of belonging.
About the women inside who'd welcomed me without question, who cleaned blood from my hair like it was normal Tuesday activity.
About two young men who'd died protecting strangers because that's what brotherhood meant.
"I'm okay with it," I said, and meant it. "We'll figure out the rest as we go."
T he clubhouse felt different with death hanging in the air—all the usual noise and chaos muted under black drapes that covered every mirror.
It was only a couple of days after the party, but someone had already set up the memorial—two empty chairs at the long table, Rico's and Johnnie's cuts draped over the backs, their patches catching the overhead light.
I wasn't supposed to be here. Church was sacred, members only, prospects by invitation.
The wives and girlfriends waited outside, understanding the boundary.
But Tyson's hand on my back had guided me through the doors, and Duke hadn't protested.
After last night, normal rules seemed to matter less than the blood drying on our souls.
"Sit," Tyson said quietly, pulling out a chair near the back. Not at the table—that would have been too much, even now—but against the wall where I could see everything without being officially part of the proceedings.
The brothers filed in with none of their usual rough humor.
Tank's head was bandaged, white gauze stark against his dark skin.
Thor's arm was strapped to his chest, immobilized but not enough to hide the way his whole body vibrated with barely contained violence.
Others showed their own battle scars—stitches, bandages, the thousand-yard stare of men who'd watched brothers fall.
Duke took his position at the head of the table, moving like every breath hurt. Which it probably did, with those cracked ribs. But he sat straight, presidential, carrying authority like armor.
"We all know why we're here," he began without preamble. "Two prospects died protecting innocents. The Serpents, backed by Cruz and his cartel connections, attacked a yacht full of civilians. They've crossed every line we've held sacred."
"We hit them back hard and fast," Thor growled, his good hand clenched into a fist that made his knuckles white. "Find their cook houses, their safe houses, burn it all down. Make them regret ever hearing the Heavy Kings name."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. The anger was palpable, testosterone and grief mixing into something combustible. These men wanted blood for blood, and they wanted it now.
"With what intel?" The voice came from the corner, and I recognized Eddie. I remembered him from the other church meeting I had attended. Tyson had nearly throttled him when he suggested using me as bait in a trap. Tyson clearly had an issue with him, I could see it in the way he tensed beside me.
"We don't know where they're holed up," Eddie continued, voice reasonable despite the tension. "Cruz has gone to ground. The Serpents have pulled back to defensive positions. We go in blind, more brothers die."
"So we find them," Tank said, like it was that simple.
"How? Our usual sources have gone quiet. The streets are locked down. Even the cops don't know where Cruz is hiding." Eddie stood, addressing the room with the confidence of someone who'd survived decades in the life. "We need actionable intelligence, not just rage."
"We know Cruz is behind it," another brother argued. "That's enough."
"Is it?" Eddie's gaze swept the room before landing on me. I felt Tyson stiffen, already reading where this was headed. "We know why he attacked. Who he was really after."
"Don't." Tyson's voice was low, dangerous, a warning that made the hair on my neck stand up.
But Eddie pressed on, either brave or stupid. "She's already a target. That's established fact. Why not use that? Controlled situation, our terms—"
"No." The word cracked like a gunshot.
"That was before two brothers died," Eddie countered, not backing down. "Before they showed they'll hit us anywhere, anytime. Before they proved they have cartel backing and military-grade weapons. The equation's changed."
"My answer hasn't." Tyson was on his feet now, body positioned between Eddie and me even though we were across the room.
"Maybe it should." Eddie turned to address the broader room, playing to the audience.
"She's already marked. Clearly Cruz is important to the Serpent’s Prez. Enough that he he’s happy to risk all-out war.
So we give him a shot—controlled, planned, on our terms. Draw him out, end this before more brothers bleed. "
The room erupted in voices—some agreeing, others violently opposed. I sat frozen, watching the brotherhood fracture along the fault line of my existence. Some looked at me with sympathy, others with calculation, weighing my life against their brothers'.
"She's not bait," Thor rumbled, surprising everyone. "Girl's family now. Duke said so. We don't sacrifice family."
"We don't let family get us killed either," Eddie shot back. "How many more members you want to bury, Thor? How many more women you want to see widowed?"
That hit home. Thor's face darkened, but he didn't have an immediate answer. None of them did. The math was brutal in its simplicity—one life against many, a controlled risk against ongoing war.
Tyson moved before anyone could react, crossing the room in three strides. He slammed Eddie against the wall hard enough to rattle the memorial photos, forearm across his throat.
"Suggest using her as bait one more time—"
"Enough!" Duke's roar filled the space, presidential authority cracking like a whip. "Tyson, release him. Now."
For a moment, I thought Tyson might disobey. That this time he wouldn’t back down. His whole body shook with rage, muscles corded with the effort of not crushing Eddie's windpipe. Then, slowly, he stepped back, though his fists remained clenched.
"Eddie, drop it," Duke continued, voice brooking no argument. "We're not sacrificing family for vengeance. That's final."
Eddie straightened his cut, fingers smoothing the leather with practiced dignity. But his eyes . . . his eyes held something dangerous. Humiliation mixed with calculation, the look of a man who'd been publicly shut down twice now over the same issue.
"Just trying to save lives, Prez," he said quietly. "More brothers will die if this drags out. Their blood's on all our hands."
"Their blood is on the Serpents," Duke corrected firmly. "On Cruz. Not on her, not on us. We'll find another way."
The meeting continued, brothers throwing out ideas ranging from practical to borderline insane.
Increase security at all businesses. Reach out to allied clubs for support.
Put bounties on Serpent members. Torture captured enemies for information.
Each suggestion was debated, refined, accepted or discarded.
Someone even suggested cancelling the wedding.
I felt the undercurrent of division. Eddie wasn't alone in his thinking—I could see it in the glances, the body language, the way some brothers carefully didn't look at me.
They'd die for me because Duke ordered it, because the code demanded it.
But they'd also do the math and wonder if one woman was worth a war.