Chapter Nine
Becca couldn't sit still.
Two days in the compound, and the walls of her small room were starting to close in. She'd finished six centerpieces, reorganized her supplies twice, and stared at the ceiling until she'd memorized every crack in the industrial plaster.
By the third morning, she was done waiting.
She carried her supplies down to the common room at seven a.m., before most of the brothers were awake. The space was rough—exposed brick, worn leather, a bar that had seen better decades—but it had good light from the high windows and enough table space for a proper workshop.
Within an hour, she'd transformed a corner of the Wolf compound into a flower studio.
Buckets lined the wall beneath the windows. Her tools spread across a table she'd commandeered from the poker area. Greenery, ribbon, wire, and tape organized in neat rows that would have made her suppliers proud.
The smell hit the common room like a wave—roses and lilies and baby's breath, cutting through the permanent undertone of engine oil and stale beer.
Stockyard was the first brother to wander in, drawn by the scent of fresh coffee and the sight of a woman surrounded by flowers in the middle of their clubhouse.
"What the hell?"
"Good morning to you too." Becca didn't look up from the arrangement she was building. "Coffee's on the bar if you want some."
"You made coffee?"
"The pot was empty. I fixed it."
He stood there for a long moment, clearly unsure how to process a civilian woman who'd taken over their common room and started a catering operation. Then he poured himself a cup, settled into a chair at a safe distance, and watched her work like she was some kind of exotic animal.
"You know this is a biker compound, right? Not a wedding venue?"
"I'm aware." She tucked a spray of baby's breath between two roses. "But my shop is a crime scene, the safehouse got shot up, and I have a bride expecting ten centerpieces on Saturday. This was the only option."
"You could have worked in your room."
"I need space. And light." She finally looked up, meeting his skeptical gaze. "Is that a problem?"
Stockyard's mouth twitched. "Nah. Just... unexpected."
"I'm full of surprises."
More brothers filtered in over the next hour.
They gave her workspace a wide berth at first, circling the flower operation like it might explode if they got too close.
Becca ignored them, focused on the arrangements, letting her hands find the familiar rhythm that had sustained her through four years of building a business.
"Gotta admit," Stockyard said eventually, "the place smells better than it has since it was a meatpacking plant."
"High praise."
"I mean it." He refilled his coffee and actually approached her table, examining a finished centerpiece with something like respect. "These are good. Like, actually good."
"Thank you."
"My ma used to do flowers. Church stuff, mostly. Said it was like painting, except the paint was alive." He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed by the confession. "Never really got what she meant until now."
Becca smiled despite herself. "Your mom sounds like she understood the craft."
"She understood a lot of things." His expression softened briefly, then hardened back into its usual lines. "Anyway. You need anything, just ask. The brothers won't mess with your setup."
"I appreciate that."
He walked away, and Becca felt something shift in the room. The wariness was still there, but it had thinned. She wasn't just Blast's woman taking up space—she was someone who did real work, created real things, earned her keep even when she was hiding from arsonists.
It shouldn't have mattered so much. But it did.
Lakeshore found her at noon.
The man was quieter than the others—tall, weathered, with eyes that looked like they'd seen too much cold water. He approached her table without speaking and stood there for a full minute, studying her arrangements.
"These for a wedding?" he finally asked.
"Saturday. If I can finish in time."
He nodded slowly. "You do other stuff? Not just weddings?"
"Funerals, quincea?eras, corporate events, hospital visits, apology bouquets, anniversary arrangements..." She shrugged. "If it involves flowers, I do it."
"What about bars?"
Becca looked up. "Bars?"
"There's a place. Belongs to someone I know." His voice was careful, like he was testing the words. "It's dark. Depressing. Could use... something."
"Something like flowers?"
"Something like color." He met her eyes. "Think you could help with that?"
"I think I could manage something." She smiled. "Once I'm not hiding from people who want to burn me alive."
His mouth curved—the first hint of warmth she'd seen from him. "Fair enough."
He left, and Becca went back to her centerpieces, but something warm had settled in her chest. These men—these hard, dangerous men who solved problems with violence—were starting to see her as more than just a complication.
She was becoming part of the landscape.
The old ladies arrived after lunch.
Claire led the group, with Natalie and Molly close behind. They settled into chairs around Becca's workspace like they belonged there, which—she was starting to realize—they did.
"Need help?" Natalie asked.
"You know flowers?"
"I know ribbon work." She grabbed a spool from Becca's supplies. "Show me what you need."
They fell into a rhythm—Becca building the arrangements while Natalie handled the finishing touches and Claire and Molly offered commentary that ranged from helpful to hilarious. The common room filled with women's laughter for what might have been the first time in the building's history.
"He's never brought anyone here," Claire said during a lull. "Blast, I mean. Three years with the Wolves, and you're the first woman he's claimed."
Becca's hands faltered on a rose stem. "He hasn't claimed me."
"Honey." Molly's voice was dry. "He moved you into the compound. He's got brothers on rotation making sure you're safe. He nearly killed a man for looking at you wrong yesterday—"
"What?"
"One of the prospects made a comment about your ass." Claire's smile was sharp. "Blast explained, very calmly, that comments like that would result in very uncalm consequences."
"I didn't know."
"You weren't supposed to. That's how these men work.
" Claire leaned forward, her expression serious.
"They don't announce their feelings. They demonstrate them.
Every threat neutralized, every comfort provided, every small thing that makes your life easier—that's them saying what they can't put into words. "
Becca thought about the smoke detectors. The flower buckets carefully loaded into the van. The way Blast had touched her cheek and promised she'd be safe.
"His energy," she said slowly. "The constant motion. Is that... normal?"
"For him? Yes." Natalie's voice was gentle. "The brothers say he's always been like that. Loud, fast, never still for more than a few seconds."
"It keeps most women at arm's length." Molly finished tying a ribbon and reached for another. "Hard to get close to someone who never stops moving."
"But you're still here." Claire's eyes were knowing. "Still working. Still adapting. That says something."
Before Becca could respond, movement at the edge of the room caught her attention.
Blast had walked in.
She watched him move through the compound—greeting brothers, checking something on his phone, laughing at a joke someone made near the bar. Always in motion. Always that crackling energy radiating off him like heat from a furnace.
Then he turned toward her workspace.
Their eyes met across the room, and something shifted in his expression. The manic energy dimmed, replaced by something softer. Something almost... still.
He walked toward her, weaving between tables, and stopped at the edge of her flower operation. His gaze dropped to the arrangement she was building—peonies this time, soft pink and white, delicate as butterfly wings.
He stood there. Watching her work.
Not moving. Not joking. Just... present.
The quiet on his face lasted exactly three seconds.
"You know what those need?" he said, his grin snapping back into place. "Blast-resistant coating. Never know when someone's going to lob a grenade at your centerpieces."
The old ladies laughed. Becca rolled her eyes.
But her heart was pounding, because she'd seen it—the man underneath the noise. The stillness he hid behind explosions and jokes and constant motion.
Three seconds of silence, and she'd glimpsed something real.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said dryly. "In case the bride requests military-grade flower arrangements."
"You laugh now. But when the zombie apocalypse hits, you'll be grateful for blast-resistant bouquets."
"I think I'll take my chances."
He grinned—that sharp, bright expression that lit up his whole face—and disappeared back into the compound's chaos.
Becca watched him go, her hands still holding the peony she'd been positioning.
Three seconds.
It wasn't much. But it was enough to know that underneath all that noise, Blast was paying attention.
And for reasons she couldn't quite explain, that mattered more than anything else.