Chapter Eight
The compound smelled like engine oil and stale beer.
Becca climbed out of the van and stared at the converted meatpacking plant that apparently served as Wolf headquarters. Brick walls, barred windows, security cameras tracking every angle. A line of motorcycles gleamed in the lot like sleeping predators.
Nothing about this place said flowers.
"Home sweet home," Blast said, appearing at her side with a bucket of roses in each hand. "I know it's not much to look at, but it's secure."
"It's..." She searched for a word that wasn't insulting. "Industrial."
His laugh echoed off the brick. "That's one way to put it."
Brothers emerged from the building as they crossed the lot—hard-faced men in leather cuts who stopped whatever they were doing to watch Blast walk a woman through their territory carrying premium roses like some kind of apocalyptic florist delivery.
One of them—a mountain of a man with slaughterhouse builds and meat hook scars on his forearms—started laughing so hard he choked on his coffee.
"Stockyard," Blast called out. "Help with the buckets or shut the hell up."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Stockyard wiped his eyes, still wheezing. "It's just—you look like you're delivering flowers to a funeral. Your own funeral. Where the deceased requested roses."
"Keep laughing. See what happens."
"What's gonna happen? You gonna blow up my bike?" But Stockyard was already moving, grabbing the third bucket from the van with surprising gentleness. "This the florist?"
"Becca," she said. "Becca Sawyer."
"The woman Dvorak's been trying to burn out." Stockyard's humor faded, replaced by something harder. "Heard about your block. That's rough."
"It's been a week."
"Yeah, well." He hefted the bucket. "You're with us now. Dvorak wants to try again, he can bring his whole crew. See how that works out."
They walked into the compound, and Becca found herself surrounded by a world that couldn't have been further from her flower shop.
Exposed brick and reclaimed wood. A bar that looked like it had seen decades of hard drinking.
Pool tables, worn leather couches, the constant rumble of male voices and motorcycle engines.
Men watched her pass. Some nodded. Others just stared with that flat assessment she was starting to recognize—measuring threat, measuring value, filing her away in whatever mental categories bikers used for civilians.
"Upper floor," Blast said, steering her toward a staircase. "I've got a room for you."
"Your room?"
His grin flashed. "Not yet. But the night is young."
Heat climbed her cheeks despite everything. She followed him up the stairs, past doors that led to spaces she couldn't see, until he stopped at the end of the hallway and pushed open a door.
The room was small but clean. A bed, a dresser, a window that overlooked the lot. Nothing personal, nothing soft, nothing that suggested anyone had ever tried to make it comfortable.
"It's not much," Blast said, setting her roses on the dresser. "But it's yours for as long as you need it."
"Thank you."
He paused at the door, that restless energy humming through him. "I've got to check in with Alpha. Handle some things from tonight. Will you be okay?"
"I've survived worse."
"You've survived arson attempts and armed assaults. This is just a room." His eyes softened. "Rest. Eat something. I'll be back in a few hours."
He left before she could respond, and Becca stood in the middle of the strange room, surrounded by the smell of motor oil and the distant thump of music from somewhere downstairs.
She looked at her roses, wilting slightly from the chaos of the night.
Then she got to work.
The windowsill became her sanctuary.
Becca arranged the roses in the best light, checked their water, trimmed the stems that had started to brown. The familiar work steadied her hands, gave her something to focus on besides the gunfire still echoing in her memory.
Three centerpieces done. Seven more to go before Saturday.
She could do this. She could finish the wedding order from a biker compound while hiding from an arson crew. Stranger things had happened.
Probably.
A knock at the door made her jump.
"It's open," she called, expecting Blast.
Instead, three women walked in.
The first was a redhead with sharp eyes and the kind of presence that commanded attention without trying.
The second was blonde, petite, with a warmth in her expression that immediately put Becca at ease.
The third was darker-haired, carrying herself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd seen things and come out the other side.
"The florist," the redhead said. "I'm Claire. Alpha's old lady."
The president's woman. Becca's stomach tightened.
"Natalie." The blonde smiled. "Razor's mine."
"Molly." The third woman's handshake was firm. "Scout."
Old ladies. The women who belonged to these men, who'd earned their place in this world through whatever trials had brought them here.
"Becca," she managed. "I'd offer you something, but I don't actually have anything except roses."
Claire's mouth curved. "The roses are why we're here. Stockyard couldn't stop talking about Blast carrying flowers through the lot like a lovesick teenager."
"He was helping me transport my wedding order."
"Mmm." Claire moved to the windowsill, examining the arrangements with an appraising eye. "These are beautiful. Professional work."
"I own a flower shop. In Pilsen." The words caught in her throat. "Owned. I don't know anymore."
"You still own it." Natalie's voice was gentle. "The building might be damaged, but the business is you. Your skill. Your reputation."
"Hard to maintain a reputation when you're hiding from arsonists in a biker compound."
"You'd be surprised what you can maintain from a biker compound." Molly settled onto the edge of the bed. "Trust me."
Becca looked between the three of them, trying to read what they wanted. Assessment, obviously—the women checking out the new arrival, deciding whether she belonged. But there was something else in their expressions. Something that looked almost like welcome.
"You're evaluating me," she said.
Claire didn't deny it. "Blast has never brought a woman here. Not once in three years. Whatever's happening between you two, it's serious enough that he pulled club resources to protect you."
"I didn't ask him to—"
"You didn't have to." Claire's eyes were knowing. "These men don't do anything halfway. When they decide something matters, they move mountains. When they decide someone matters..." She shrugged. "You're seeing it firsthand."
"I barely know him."
"Sometimes that's all it takes." Natalie moved to stand beside Claire, both of them studying Becca with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. "The question is whether you can handle what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"The violence. The loyalty. The reality of loving a man who solves problems with his fists and worse." Molly's voice was matter-of-fact. "It's not for everyone. Some women can't handle it. Some women thrive."
"Which are you?"
The question hung in the air. Becca thought about the gunfire outside the safehouse. About Blast coming to her room smelling like cordite, blood on his clothes, that grin still on his face. About the way he'd touched her cheek in her shop and promised he'd never be a threat to her.
"I don't know yet," she admitted. "But I'm still here. That has to count for something."
Claire smiled—a real smile, warm and approving. "It counts for a lot."
The tension in the room shifted, softening into something more comfortable. Natalie sat on the bed beside Molly while Claire claimed the room's only chair, and suddenly it felt less like an interrogation and more like a conversation.
"The common room could use some color," Natalie said. "It's been industrial gray since they converted the building."
"I could do arrangements." The offer came out before Becca could think it through. "For the common room. Something that might survive the... atmosphere."
"You'd do that?"
"I need to work." Becca gestured at her roses. "I've got a wedding order to finish, but after that—I can't just sit here. I'll go crazy."
"That's the spirit." Molly grinned. "Fair warning, though. The brothers are going to give you hell about it. Flowers in a biker compound isn't exactly on-brand."
"Neither is a florist dating an explosives expert, but here we are."
The women laughed, and something loosened in Becca's chest. She wasn't alone here. These women understood what it meant to fall for dangerous men, to build lives in the shadow of violence, to find belonging in places that shouldn't make sense.
"We should let you rest," Claire said, standing. "But we're here if you need anything. The compound takes some getting used to, but you'll find your feet."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank us yet." Claire paused at the door. "Dvorak's not going to stop because we wiped one crew. This is just the beginning."
The women left, and Becca sat on the bed surrounded by the compound's industrial noise—the rumble of engines, the thump of music, the distant sound of men's voices arguing about something she couldn't make out.
She thought about Blast. About his scarred hands and his manic energy and the way he'd looked at her like she mattered. About the violence that lived under his cheerful surface, and the care he took testing smoke detectors to make sure she'd have warning if the worst happened.
A man who built explosions and a woman who arranged flowers.
It shouldn't make sense.
But sitting here in his world, surrounded by his brothers and his life and the chaos he seemed to thrive in, Becca thought maybe sense wasn't the point.
Maybe the point was finding someone who saw you—really saw you—and decided you were worth protecting.
Worth fighting for.
Worth everything.
She picked up her wire cutters and went back to work on the wedding centerpieces.
Saturday was coming, whether the arsonists liked it or not.