Chapter Seven #2
Dylan gave a slow nod. “Yeah, okay.” But her eyes stayed fixed on the glowing sign as if it might blink out and leave her in the dark again.
Opening his door first, Josh scanned the street one last time before stepping out. Dylan slowly followed, but her anxiety was spiraling. The wind pulled at her jacket as they crossed the street toward the tattoo shop.
Josh opened the shop door and the sound of a motorcycle revving growled overhead.
The smell of ink and antiseptic hung thick in the air.
The walls were lined with black-framed tattoo designs, each piece more intense and expressive than the one before it.
Dylan heard the low hum of a tattoo machine vibrating from the far corner where a gorgeous young woman with vivid purple hair worked over a client’s arm, steady and focused.
She didn’t look up. “We’re not open yet unless you’ve got an appointment,” she said coolly, not missing a beat with her needle.
But someone else stepped into view, tall and broad-shouldered with nearly black hair framing his face in loose waves. The man had calculating blue eyes and the unmistakable bearing of a man who’d led through fire.
Josh knew him, approaching him with a nod. “Outcast.”
Recognition hit. A flicker of surprise crossed Outcast’s face, followed immediately by suspicion as he turned those bright blue eyes on her.
“Vendetta,” Outcast said, his voice low. “I knew you’d be calling sooner or later.”
Vendetta? Was that Josh’s club name now? Given what he’d been through, it was fitting.
Behind him, two more men stepped into view.
One was tall and blond, handsome like the leading man in a movie.
Dylan had to smile because his patch said “Hero.” The other had long silver hair framing his face, the same silver streaking his beard, and the kind of stillness that demanded respect.
His patch said “Razor,” and she remembered Josh saying he was the club president.
Deva finally looked up, wiping her gloved hand on a rag. Her gaze moved from Outcast to Josh and then to Dylan. “He’s not alone.”
Josh stepped back so they could all see her, keeping his voice calm but firm. “She’s the reason I’m here. This is Dylan Crizer. Eli’s niece.”
If the floor could have just swallowed her up right there, Dylan would have been just fine with it.
Anything to escape the sudden pressure of being the center of attention in a room full of rough, dangerous-looking bikers.
She felt the weight of their gazes, sizing her up, measuring risk.
And she knew they saw Eli Crizer’s blood.
The niece of the man they had every reason to hate.
It was Hero who looked at her the longest, his blue eyes narrowed with open skepticism. Like he was trying to decide if she was a threat, or just another problem they didn’t need. She couldn’t blame him.
Dylan straightened her shoulders anyway, even though her stomach churned. She wasn’t there to cause trouble. But part of her still wasn’t sure she belonged.
Razor took a single step closer, his presence cutting through the room like a blade. “Why’d you bring her here?”
“She’s in danger,” Josh replied. “From her own fucking uncle. Eli tried handing her off like she was property to one of those men from Sinister Skin. And I couldn’t allow that. She’s mine.”
Dylan’s breath caught. She’s mine.
The words should’ve felt possessive or territorial, even.
And maybe coming from someone else, they would have.
But not from Josh. When he said it, his voice cracked slightly, like the claim came from a place of desperation, not the need to dominate.
It felt like he’d been holding the words back too long, and the only way to protect her now was to make it clear to everyone, including himself, that she wasn’t just a pawn.
Heat flushed her cheeks, but not from embarrassment. She glanced toward the Hounds, aware of the judgment in Hero’s gaze, the way Outcast’s jaw tensed, and the way Razor stood still as stone. But none of it mattered at that moment.
Josh had said she’s mine, and she didn’t feel owned. She felt chosen. And God help her, part of her needed that right now more than anything.
Then Razor spoke, his hazel-eyed gaze on her. “You vouch for her?”
Josh nodded. “With everything I’ve got.”
Outcast didn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased.
From the far corner of the shop, Deva wiped her hands on a clean towel and stood, the purple locks of her hair catching the overhead light as she crossed the floor.
The hum of the tattoo machine faded as her client leaned back, clearly understanding this moment wasn’t about him.
When Dylan looked closer, she realized the man in her chair was wearing a Hound cut too.
Deva glanced at Dylan with a quiet, assessing look. “Razor,” she said gently, coming to stand beside him. “Look at her. She’s scared to death.”
Dylan felt her throat tighten. She wasn’t trying to look scared. But her whole body was still humming with leftover adrenaline, fear, confusion, and heartbreak, so much that she couldn’t hide if she tried.
Razor’s sharp gaze moved back to Dylan. The man radiated power, but at Deva’s words, his expression shifted just enough to feel like just maybe, she wasn’t walking into the lion’s den completely alone.
“You’re safe here,” Razor said to her.
Dylan’s voice barely worked to answer, “Thank you.”
Behind her, Josh exhaled loudly.
Razor nodded, his focus back on Josh. “We’ll talk at the clubhouse. I want the full rundown. Everything you’ve seen. Everything you’ve got.”
“You’ll get it,” Josh told him.
Razor turned toward the others. “Mount up. Let’s move.”
Outcast clapped Hero on the back, already headed for the door. Deva returned to her client with a pat on Dylan’s shoulder as she passed.
Back in the van, Dylan waited quietly as Josh started the engine. Her nerves hadn’t eased, but something about being around Deva, her calm and confidence, made her feel just a little less like an outsider. She still wasn’t sure she belonged, but they hadn’t shoved her out yet, either.
The drive to the clubhouse was mostly silent, save for the rumble of bikes ahead and behind them. Josh kept checking the mirrors, ever watchful. Dylan didn’t ask where they were going. She figured she’d find out soon enough.
When they arrived, the building loomed in front of them like a fortress dressed in weathered brick and quiet history. It didn’t feel threatening. It felt… safe.
“This used to be Mercy’s sheriff’s station,” Josh explained. “My grandmother lived over here when I was a kid. I remember it.”
The building still looked the part from the outside.
It was solid brick with reinforced windows and a front stoop that had once welcomed lawmen instead of outlaws.
The Hounds hadn’t bothered to strip the bones of the place.
They’d just reshaped its purpose. The front desk was now a check-in point for club prospects and guests.
The briefing room, where deputies once gathered for morning updates, looked like it now served as the club’s meeting room, the Hounds’ patch hanging on the wall where a county seal used to be.
Despite the rough edges, the space felt lived-in and secure. The kind of place you could hole up in when the world outside got ugly. And right now, that was exactly what Dylan needed.
Razor directed his men to the meeting room while Josh led Dylan down a quiet hallway. He opened the door to a simple but clean spare room with a bed, dresser, and lamp. Soft light filtered in from a nearby window.
“You’ll be okay here,” Josh said, his voice softer now. “Get some rest. I’ll check on you in a bit.”
“Thanks, Vendetta.”
He started to close the door, then paused, smiling. “You don’t like it?”
She gave the faintest smile. “It’s perfect.”
He closed the door behind him, and Dylan sat on the edge of the bed, finally letting out a slow breath. For the first time in days, maybe longer, the danger wasn’t right outside the door. Maybe a nap was in order.
* * *
Vendetta
It was his first time in the Mercy Hounds’ clubhouse, and the room smelled faintly of familiar things. Coffee, leather, sweat, and whiskey. They all sat at a long table with dusty blinds covering the windows. The crazy energy in the room was coming from all the Hounds.
He stood at one end of their table, his hands braced on the cold surface in front of him.
Razor sat at the head of the table opposite him, quiet but watching with eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing.
To his right, the VP leaned back in a chair, arms crossed, his gaze sharp.
He had solid white hair, but he wasn’t old; he couldn’t have been out of his thirties.
Identical twins, enforcers no doubt, sat together near the door, murmuring to each other in low voices until Razor shot them a look.
Vendetta tried not to make it obvious that he was reading patches, but the names made him feel like less of a stranger.
Crash, Beast, Player… every man there was a brother forged by battle, betrayal, or blood.
He could feel them sizing him up, because he doubted that most of them knew what he was really doing there in their midst.
Razor sat forward, resting his forearms on the table. His voice was low but carried like gravel on steel. “Most of you remember that this isn’t the first time we’ve had bad blood with Sinister Skin.”
A few heads nodded. Beast scowled. Outcast stared at the table like he was watching old blood dry.
“They tried to come through Mercy not too long ago,” Razor continued. “They tried to push their filth under the radar here. Leaning on us to let ‘em ‘expand.’ When that didn’t work, they set their sights on the people around us. They tried to shut down No Mercy Ink and came after Deva and Outcast.”
Razor wasn’t trying to sway sympathy. He laid out facts.