Chapter 6
Three days of playing house with a biker, and Colleen was starting to lose her mind.
Not because of the danger. Not because of Warren Driscoll's shadow hanging over everything she'd built.
Because of him.
Anchor moved through the safehouse like he belonged there—cooking breakfast, checking windows, filling the narrow spaces with his presence until she couldn't breathe without inhaling him.
He smelled like leather and motor oil and something darker underneath, something that made her think about things she shouldn't be thinking about.
Like what his hands would feel like somewhere other than the small of her back.
Like whether that patience he wore like armor extended to other areas.
Like how long she could pretend she didn't want to find out.
"You're staring."
Colleen jerked her attention back to the sketch pad in her lap. She'd been working on his piece—the river design she'd promised him, the Delaware and the docks and the work that had built him—but the lines kept blurring when he walked past.
"I'm studying my subject," she said. "It's professional."
"Uh-huh." Anchor's mouth curved as he settled onto the couch beside her. Close. Too close. His thigh pressed against hers, warm through denim. "What have you learned?"
That I'm in trouble.
"That you can't sit still," she said instead. "You've checked those windows eight times in the last hour."
"Nine." He didn't apologize. "Driscoll's people know you're not at your apartment. They're looking."
"Let them look."
"That's the plan." His hand found her knee, casual and possessive. "When they find us, we'll be ready."
Her skin burned under his palm. Three days of touches like this—guiding hands, protective positioning, the constant reminder that she was his to protect. It should have annoyed her. She'd spent six years building a life that didn't need anyone.
Instead, it made her want more.
"The shop's been quiet," she said, forcing her thoughts to safer ground. "Mrs. Kowalski texted that no one's come around asking questions."
"They're regrouping. Garrett was their primary enforcer—without him pushing, the collectors are waiting for orders."
"Good. Let them wait."
Anchor's fingers tightened on her knee. "You really aren't scared, are you?"
"I told you. Four years of field hospitals. Some loan shark's muscle doesn't—"
"That's not what I mean." He turned toward her, his free hand catching her chin, tilting her face until she had nowhere to look but his eyes. Dark. Intense. Searching for something she wasn't sure she wanted him to find.
"You're not scared of this," he said. "Of me. Of what's building between us."
Her heart hammered. "Should I be?"
"Most women would be."
"I'm not most women."
"No." His thumb traced her jaw, featherlight. "You're not."
The moment stretched. Taut. Trembling.
Then his phone buzzed, and the spell shattered.
Anchor pulled back, checking the screen with a frown that deepened as he read.
"What?" Colleen asked.
"Turnpike. He's been tracking Driscoll's movements." He stood, moving to the window with the predator's grace she was learning to recognize. "Garrett found the safehouse."
Ice flooded her veins. "How?"
"Doesn't matter." Anchor pulled back the curtain an inch, scanning the street. "What matters is he's sitting in a car two blocks over with at least four guys, watching the house."
"They're going to hit us?"
"Not yet. Surveillance first. He wants to know what we've got before he moves."
Colleen set down her sketch pad, hands steady despite the adrenaline spiking through her blood. "So what do we do?"
"We wait." He turned from the window, expression hard. "Brothers are coming, but not until morning. Patriot wants this done right—clean assault, no witnesses, no blowback."
"And until then?"
"Until then, we fortify." He crossed to her, took her hands, pulled her to her feet. "You know how to use a gun?"
"Enough to point and shoot."
"That's not good enough." He led her to the kitchen, to the duffel bag he'd stashed under the table their first night. Inside: two pistols, extra magazines, a shotgun broken down into components.
"Jesus," Colleen breathed.
"Welcome to Sons life." He handed her one of the pistols—a Glock, compact and deadly. "Safety's here. Slide's here. You've got fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber."
"I told you, I know the basics—"
"Show me."
Something in his voice brooked no argument. Colleen checked the safety, dropped the magazine, cleared the chamber, reassembled. Her hands didn't shake.
They never shook anymore.
Anchor watched with eyes that missed nothing. When she finished, he nodded once.
"Good. If anyone comes through that door who isn't me or wearing a Sons patch, you put them down."
"What about you?"
"I'll be handling anyone who gets close enough for you to worry about."
The casual confidence should have been arrogant. Instead, it made heat pool in her belly.
"You're sure about this?" she asked. "Waiting for them to make a move?"
"I'm sure about you." He stepped closer, crowding her against the kitchen counter. His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him. "You don't run. You don't break. You stand your ground and fight."
"Anchor—"
"I've watched you for three years." His voice dropped, rough and raw. "Watched you work, watched you build something beautiful out of nothing, watched you tell the whole goddamn world to go to hell when it tried to push you around."
Her breath caught. "That's just survival."
"That's strength." His forehead dropped to hers, their breath mingling. "You've got more of it than half the brothers I ride with. And when this is over—when Driscoll's in the ground and your shop is safe—I'm going to show you exactly what watching you has done to me."
Oh God.
"That a promise?" she whispered.
"That's a guarantee."
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was claim and conquest, his mouth devouring hers like he'd been starving for the taste.
Colleen grabbed his cut, pulled him closer, kissed him back with all the frustration and fear and want that had been building since he'd walked into her shop and refused to let her fight alone.
His hands slid under her shirt, rough palms against bare skin. She gasped into his mouth, arching into the touch, wanting more, wanting everything—
Headlights swept through the kitchen window.
They broke apart, breathing hard. Anchor's eyes were black with hunger, but his hand was already moving to the gun at his hip.
"Stay here," he said.
"Like hell."
He looked at her—really looked—and something shifted in his expression. Respect, maybe. Or acceptance.
"Behind me, then. You see a target, you take it."
"Yes, sir."
His mouth twitched despite the tension. "We'll discuss that later."
He moved to the front of the house, and she followed, Glock steady in her grip. Through the living room, to the window beside the door, where they could watch the street without being seen.
More headlights. Three cars now, circling like sharks.
"They're surrounding us," Colleen said.
"Trying to." Anchor pulled out his phone, sent a rapid text. "Backup's thirty minutes out. Patriot's sending Gallows and Pounder early."
"Will they make it in time?"
"They'll make it."
He said it like faith. Like certainty.
Outside, the cars stopped. Doors opened. Shadows moved in the darkness—one, two, six, eight figures spreading out along the block.
"Neil Garrett," Anchor murmured, spotting the big one directing traffic. "He brought friends."
"He looks pissed."
"He should be." Anchor's smile was cold. "He's about to learn what happens when you corner a Son."
Colleen's pulse pounded, but her hands stayed steady. The gun felt right in her grip—familiar in a way she'd almost forgotten, the muscle memory of a life she'd left behind.
She'd sworn she was done with violence. Done with blood and fear and the desperate calculus of who lived and who died.
But Warren Driscoll had brought violence to her door.
And Colleen Brannigan didn't run from fights.
"They're waiting for something," she said, watching the shadows hold position.
"Waiting for us to panic. To run." Anchor's hand found the small of her back, steadying her even as his eyes never left the threat. "They don't know who they're dealing with."
"Do you know who you're dealing with?"
He glanced at her, something fierce burning in his expression.
"Yeah," he said. "I do. And that's exactly why we're going to win."
Outside, the headlights multiplied. More cars arriving. More muscle gathering.
Anchor rolled his shoulders like a longshoreman about to lift something heavy.
"Dawn's coming," he said. "And so are my brothers."