Chapter Seven
The compound felt different this time.
Josie climbed off Anvil's bike and stood in the gravel lot, Diesel pressing against her legs, trying to understand what had changed.
The buildings were the same—converted mine headquarters, industrial heating, the particular architecture of a place built to survive Minnesota winters.
The brothers moving through the space were the same, nodding at Anvil, assessing her with eyes that had seen violence and decided she wasn't a threat.
But something had shifted.
Maybe it was her.
"Come on." Anvil's hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the main building. "Permafrost wants to debrief, but after that, I'll get you settled."
"Settled how?"
"You'll see."
The main room was warm, a fire crackling in a massive stone hearth, the smell of coffee and wood smoke filling the air. Permafrost sat at a long table with Tundra, both of them looking up when Anvil walked in with Josie at his side.
"The safehouse situation is handled," Anvil said without preamble. "Weeks is dead. Eight of his men with him. Brogan's down his distribution coordinator and a good chunk of his muscle."
"Good." Permafrost's cold eyes moved to Josie. "You held up."
It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "I did what I had to do."
"She did more than that." Anvil's voice carried an edge she hadn't heard before. "She mapped escape routes, identified friendly properties, held a weapon and was ready to use it. She's not a liability."
Something flickered in Permafrost's expression—surprise, maybe, or reassessment.
"Good to know." He stood, signaling the debrief was over. "Get her settled. We'll talk strategy tomorrow."
Anvil nodded and guided Josie back out into the main space, his hand still warm against her back.
"That was the debrief?"
"Permafrost doesn't waste words. You impressed him."
"I didn't do anything impressive."
"You didn't fall apart. Around here, that counts for a lot."
They moved through the compound, and Josie found herself the subject of more attention than she'd expected. Brothers nodded as they passed, some offering gruff words of acknowledgment, others just watching with eyes that had clearly heard what happened at the safehouse.
Then the women appeared.
Three of them emerged from what looked like a kitchen area, moving with the particular confidence of people who belonged in this space completely.
The first was blonde and curvy, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
The second had dark hair and the no-nonsense posture of someone used to dealing with emergencies.
The third was shorter, with flour dusted across her apron and a measuring look in her eyes.
"So this is the farrier." The blonde stepped forward first. "I'm Maren. Permafrost's."
"Linnea," the dark-haired one added. "Tundra's."
"Astrid." The one with the flour smiled. "I run the bakery in town. You look like you could use some coffee and about six pastries."
Josie blinked. "I—thank you. I'm Josie."
"We know." Maren's eyes swept over her, taking in the borrowed clothes, the callused hands, the exhaustion that Josie could feel pulling at her bones. "Anvil's been talking about you since he brought you in. First time he's talked about anything that wasn't club business in years."
"I—" Josie glanced at Anvil, who had gone very still beside her. "He has?"
"Don't embarrass the man." Linnea's voice was dry but not unkind. "Come on. Let us get a look at those hands while you eat something. I heard you lost your tools in the fire—I want to see how much damage you've been doing to yourself without proper equipment."
Before Josie could respond, she was being shepherded toward the kitchen, Diesel trotting beside her like he'd decided these women were worth following. Anvil stayed behind, watching them go with an expression she couldn't quite read.
The kitchen was warm and smelled like fresh bread. Astrid pressed a mug of coffee into Josie's hands while Linnea took her other hand and examined the calluses and cuts with professional efficiency.
"You've been working through injuries." It wasn't a question. "These blisters should have been treated days ago."
"Haven't exactly had time for first aid."
"You do now." Linnea released her hand. "I'll bring a kit by your room later. Nothing serious, but infection's no joke when you're using your hands to make a living."
Josie stared at her. "You don't have to—"
"These men will move heaven and earth for the women they claim." Maren settled into a chair across from her, coffee in hand. "And the rest of us look out for each other. That's how it works here."
"I'm not—Anvil hasn't claimed me. I'm just someone he's protecting."
The three women exchanged glances that carried entire conversations.
"Honey," Astrid said gently, "that man killed eight people this morning to keep you safe.
He volunteered to guard you personally when any prospect could have done it.
He brought you to church and argued for the entire club to go to war on your behalf.
" She shrugged. "Call it what you want. But the rest of us know what that looks like. "
Josie's chest tightened.
She wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that this was temporary, that she'd be leaving as soon as Brogan was dealt with, that she didn't belong here and never would.
But the coffee was warm in her hands, and Diesel had settled at her feet, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, no one was asking her to leave.
"I don't know how this works," she admitted quietly. "I've never... belonged anywhere."
"Neither did I, before." Maren's voice softened. "Most of us came from places that didn't want us. Found our way here because these men saw something worth keeping." She leaned forward. "They don't make that decision lightly. And they don't change their minds."
The kitchen door opened, and a fourth woman stepped in—tall, with grease under her fingernails and the build of someone who did physical work for a living.
"This the farrier?" She crossed to Josie and stuck out her hand. "Tessa. I run the mechanic shop in town. Coldstart's."
"Josie."
"I heard about your forge setup. Coldstart's been dying to talk to you about metalwork." Tessa's grip was strong, her eyes appraising. "Said you had a custom portable rig that he's been trying to figure out how to replicate."
"I designed it myself. Built most of it from salvage."
"Yeah?" Something lit up in Tessa's expression. "We should talk. When you're ready to rebuild, I mean. I've got access to equipment and scrap metal that might be useful."
Josie felt something crack in her chest—the wall she'd built around herself, the one that kept everyone at arm's length because close meant vulnerable and vulnerable meant pain.
These women didn't know her. Had no reason to help her. But they were offering anyway, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Thank you," she managed. "That's—I appreciate it."
"Don't thank us yet." Maren smiled. "You haven't seen what it's like when these men decide to throw a party. You'll need all the allies you can get."
The door opened again, and this time it was Anvil. His eyes found Josie immediately, scanning her face like he was checking for damage he might have missed.
"Everything okay?"
"We're just getting acquainted." Linnea waved a hand. "Take her to her room before she falls over. That woman needs about twelve hours of sleep."
Anvil nodded and held out his hand. Josie took it without thinking, letting him pull her to her feet.
"Nice to meet you all," she said to the room.
"You too." Maren's eyes crinkled with something that might have been approval. "Welcome to the chaos."
The room Anvil led her to wasn't the same one she'd stayed in before.
This one was larger, with a real bed instead of a cot, a window that looked out at the pine forest, and a small bathroom attached. Someone had left fresh clothes on the dresser and a dog bed in the corner that Diesel immediately claimed as his own.
"This isn't temporary," Josie said.
"No." Anvil stood in the doorway, watching her take in the space. "It's not."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're staying. As long as you need to. As long as you want to." He paused. "As long as this takes."
Josie turned to face him, her heart pounding harder than it had during the firefight.
"What if I don't want to stay?"
"Then you don't stay." His voice was steady, but something in his eyes flickered. "But you've got nowhere else to go, nobody else watching your back, and a meth operation that wants you dead. So maybe think about it before you decide."
"That's not—" She stopped, frustrated. "I don't know how to do this. Accept help. Depend on people. Let someone else decide I'm worth keeping."
Anvil crossed the room in three strides, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"Then learn."
"It's not that simple."
"Yeah, it is." His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a gentleness that made her breath catch. "You stay. We protect you. When this is over, you decide what comes next. But right now, you're safe, you're fed, and you've got a room that's yours for as long as you want it."
"And you?"
"I'll be around."
The words carried weight she wasn't ready to examine. But she didn't pull away, and he didn't step back, and for a long moment they just stood there, breathing the same air.
"Get some sleep," he said finally. "Tomorrow's going to be long."
He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Josie stood in the middle of her new room—her permanent room—and tried to make sense of what was happening.
She'd spent her entire adult life building independence. Proving she didn't need anyone. Making sure that when people inevitably let her down, she'd have somewhere else to go.
Now she had nothing. No truck. No tools. No safety net.
And a man who looked at her like she was worth fighting for. Worth killing for. Worth keeping.
Diesel whined from his bed in the corner, tail thumping against the floor.
"I don't know either, buddy."
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pine trees through the window, and realized she didn't know how to feel about someone deciding she was worth keeping.
But for the first time in her life, she was willing to find out.