Chapter 8
The Sons compound rose from South Philly's industrial sprawl like a brick fortress designed by men who expected war.
Colleen climbed off Anchor's bike, legs stiff from the ride, and stared up at three stories of converted brewery. Security cameras tracked every angle. A gated lot held two dozen motorcycles lined up like chrome soldiers. The whole place hummed with controlled menace.
She'd just killed two men.
Her hands still weren't shaking.
"Home sweet home," Anchor murmured, his palm finding the small of her back. Guiding. Claiming. Reminding her that she wasn't alone in this madness.
"It's very... fortified."
"That's the idea." He steered her toward the main entrance. "Nobody gets in without being seen. Nobody leaves without permission. Once you're inside these walls, nothing touches you."
She should have bristled at the implication—that she needed walls and armed guards and a biker's constant presence to stay safe. But her apartment door had been kicked in two hours ago. Eight men had died trying to drag her out of a safehouse.
Maybe walls weren't the worst idea.
The main doors opened onto the clubhouse she'd glimpsed during church—long bar, pool tables, Revolutionary War décor mixed with beer signs and club memorabilia. Morning light filtered through high windows, catching dust motes and the lingering smell of last night's whiskey.
Brothers scattered across the space looked up as they entered. Some nodded. Others stared with the assessing gaze she was learning to recognize—measuring her, weighing her, deciding if she was worth the trouble she'd brought to their door.
"Anchor." Patriot emerged from somewhere in the back, cold blue eyes sweeping over both of them. "Heard it got messy."
"Eight down. Garrett's dead."
Something flickered in Patriot's expression. Satisfaction, maybe. Or anticipation.
"Good. Driscoll needed a message." His gaze moved to Colleen. "You held your own?"
"Two of those eight were mine."
Both eyebrows rose. "The tattoo artist shoots straight."
"The tattoo artist was Army before she was an artist." Colleen kept her spine straight, her voice steady. No trembling. No weakness. "I've seen worse than loan shark muscle."
A beat of silence.
Then Patriot smiled—cold, approving.
"Get her settled," he told Anchor. "Room on the third floor's empty. Church meets at noon—we're planning the next move."
"Copy."
Anchor's hand pressed firmer against her back, steering her toward a narrow staircase in the corner. Colleen followed without argument, too exhausted to fight about anything that didn't involve immediate survival.
The third floor was quieter. Worn carpet, closed doors, the faint sound of someone's radio bleeding through thin walls. Anchor stopped at the last room on the left and pushed the door open.
Small but clean. Single bed with a faded quilt, wooden dresser, window overlooking the compound's courtyard. Nothing fancy. Everything functional.
"Bathroom's down the hall," Anchor said. "Shared, but the women's side has a lock. Kitchen's on the ground floor—help yourself to anything that's not labeled."
"Where's your room?"
The question came out before she could stop it.
Anchor's eyes darkened. "Next door."
Of course it was.
"Get some sleep," he said, voice rougher than before. "I'll bring your equipment from the safehouse later. Turnpike's handling the scene."
"The bodies—"
"Gone. Like they never existed." He stepped closer, crowding her against the doorframe. "That's what the Sons do. We make problems disappear."
Her heart hammered. "And me? Am I a problem?"
"You're the opposite of a problem." His hand came up, fingers tracing her jaw the way they had in the safehouse kitchen. Gentle. Possessive. "You're the first thing in years that's made me want something beyond club business."
"Anchor—"
"Sleep." He pressed a kiss to her forehead—soft, at odds with everything else about him. "We'll talk later. Right now, you need rest."
He was gone before she could argue, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Colleen stood in the empty room, blood still crusted under her fingernails, and tried to process everything that had happened since dawn.
Eight dead. Two by her hand. Neil Garrett strangled on a living room floor.
And Anchor, looking at her like she was precious and permanent.
She sank onto the bed, too wired to sleep, too exhausted to think.
A knock at the door startled her upright.
"Yeah?"
The door opened to reveal two women—one blonde with sharp cheekbones and assessing eyes, one darker with a practical ponytail and the kind of build that suggested she worked with her hands.
"Colleen, right?" The blonde stepped in without waiting for an invitation. "I'm Grace. Patriot's old lady."
"And I'm Kate." The other woman followed, carrying what looked like a first aid kit. "Turnpike's."
Old ladies. The claimed women who belonged to officers.
Colleen had heard the term in church, understood it in theory. Seeing it in practice—women who moved through this violent world with the ease of long familiarity—hit differently.
"We heard you had a rough morning," Grace said, settling onto the edge of the dresser like she owned the place. She probably did, in a sense. "Figured you could use some company. Or supplies."
Kate held up the kit. "Sometimes the boys forget that bullets leave more than bodies. You hurt anywhere?"
"I'm fine."
"That's what they all say." Kate crossed to the bed, unzipping the kit with efficient movements. "Sit. Let me check."
Colleen should have argued. Should have insisted she didn't need mothering.
Instead, she sat.
Kate's hands were gentle as she cleaned the scrape on Colleen's elbow—shrapnel from the banister, probably, she hadn't even noticed. Grace watched with eyes that saw too much.
"Two kills," Grace said. "Your first?"
"No." Colleen kept her voice flat. "I was Army. Field medic."
"That explains the steady hands." Grace nodded slowly. "Most civilians freeze the first time. You didn't."
"I haven't been a civilian in a long time."
Something passed between the two women. Understanding, maybe. Or acceptance.
"Anchor's been different since you started working on his ink," Kate offered, pressing a bandage to Colleen's elbow. "Quieter. More focused. We noticed."
"We're not—" Colleen stopped. What were they, exactly? Client and artist? Protector and protected? Something messier, something that felt like the beginning of a fall she couldn't stop?
"You don't have to explain." Grace's voice softened. "These men don't do things by halves. When they decide someone's theirs, that's it. Heaven and earth move before they let go."
"I'm not his."
Kate snorted. "Honey, the way he looked at you when he brought you in? You're absolutely his. The only question is whether you've figured that out yet."
Heat crept up Colleen's cheeks. "I've known him three years. He's my client."
"And now he's your shadow, your protector, and the man who just strangled an enforcer for threatening you." Grace shrugged. "Things change fast in this life. You adapt or you break."
"I don't break."
"Good." Grace stood, smoothing her jeans. "Because Warren Driscoll isn't going to stop at one assault. He's going to hit back, hard, and you need to be ready."
"I'm always ready."
"Then you'll fit in fine." She moved toward the door, Kate following. "Get some sleep. There's food in the kitchen when you're hungry, and one of us is always around if you need anything."
"Why?" The question escaped before Colleen could catch it. "Why are you being nice to me? I'm not—I'm nobody. Just a tattoo artist who pissed off the wrong loan shark."
Grace paused, hand on the doorframe.
"You're someone Anchor cares about," she said simply. "That makes you family. And family takes care of each other—that's how this works."
The door closed behind them.
Colleen sat alone in the quiet room, surrounded by unfamiliar walls and the lingering scent of gun oil and leather.
Family.
She hadn't had family since her father died. Had built Independence Ink precisely because she didn't need anyone else—just her hands, her art, her stubborn refusal to depend on anything she couldn't control.
Now she was in a biker compound, under the protection of men who killed without hesitation, claimed by a man who looked at her like she was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking.
Everything had changed in a week.
Everything.
She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and let exhaustion finally win.
Her last thought before sleep claimed her was Anchor's face—those dark eyes, steady hands, the way he'd kissed her forehead like she was something sacred.
When had her client become something more?
When had she started wanting him to be?
The questions followed her into dreams, and for the first time in weeks, Colleen slept deep and dreamless, safe behind walls that nothing could breach.
Armed men stood between her and Warren Driscoll's empire.
And somewhere in the room next door, Anchor waited.
Watching over her.
Always.