Chapter 10 #2
I brush hair from her face, careful not to wake her. Sleep's the only peace she's likely to get for a while. No matter how this vote goes, when she wakes up, everything changes for both of us.
I press my lips to her cheek, soft as I can manage. She doesn't stir. Doesn't even twitch.
Then I slide from the bed and dress in silence.
Jeans. Boots. T-shirt. My cut goes on last. Sliding it over my shoulders as I look down on my sleeping woman.
She's curled on her side now, hand tucked under her cheek like a child.
The blanket's slipped down, showing the black marker across her tits. PROPERTY OF DEMON.
If the vote goes wrong, it won't mean much.
I leave, pulling the door closed behind me, and take the stairs slow, each step pulling at the knife-edge pain in my ribs. With all the attention on Savannah, not to mention the drinking and a pain pill that Diesel slipped into one of my shots several hours back now, I actually feel pretty good.
But it's fake, this feeling.
The pain will be back before I know it. Physical pain I can deal with though, losing Savannah this morning would be something else altogether.
Outside, the sky's turning that particular shade of Montana gray that comes right before the sun breaks the horizon. The air smells like dew, and dust, and the leftover exhaust from all the bikes that roared in through the night.
I light a cigarette, inhale deep enough to make my ribs scream, and look at the line of motorcycles against the garage wall. Every patch has been called in. Every fucking one.
Forty-seven bikes. Forty-seven votes.
Men stand in clusters near the church hall, smoking and talking low. They go quiet when they spot me. A few nod. Most just stare, faces blank as prison walls.
They know the rules. No lobbying. No pressure. No buying votes with promises or threats. The church vote is sacred—one of the few things we treat that way.
Doesn't stop the weight of their judgment from pressin’ down on my shoulders like hands trying to force me to my knees.
I finish my smoke and flick the butt into the gravel. Time to face it.
The church hall door creaks when I push it open, like it's warning me to turn back. Inside, Brick, Ledger, Chains, Diesel, Ratchet, Roach, Havoc, and Butch are already moving around, setting up chairs in rows, pulling the long table to the front of the room.
Diesel spots me and breaks off, crossing the concrete floor with his heavy steps that always sound like someone's about to get their skull caved in.
"There he is," he says, slapping me on the back hard enough to make me hiss from the screaming comin’ off my ribs. "Ready for your big moment, brother?"
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. I've never asked for anything from the club. Never stood up and made my case for shit. I took my beatings, did my time, kept my mouth shut, and earned my patch with blood and silence.
Today I'll use my voice.
For her.
There are only three people on this earth I love—Mercy, Destiny, and Savannah. As my sisters, and as long as they are under twenty-one, Mercy and Destiny are automatically protected by the Club now that I’m patched in. Whether they want it or not.
But girlfriends are a whole other matter.
You gotta earn that protection. Because girlfriends, sex partners, even wives—they're very, very different than little sisters. They're risky. A hole in what otherwise might be tightly woven armor.
Did Savannah do enough last night to convince them? Was her submission satisfactory?
That's all that performance was. Submission. Will she follow my orders? Will she do what I tell her to, just because I tell her to?
"You know what you're gonna say?" Diesel asks, lowering his voice so the others can't hear. His eyes are serious under that permanent scowl.
"Yeah," I say, though I don't. Not really. I just know I'll say whatever I have to.
"Make it good," he says, and there's something in his tone that sounds like a warning. "Lots of brothers pretty upset about an Ashby under our roof."
"She's not an Ashby anymore," I say. "She's mine."
Diesel's face splits into a grin. "Yeah, we all saw that last night." He shakes his head. "Girl's got some fire in her, I'll give you that. But this ain't about how good she fucks, Legion. This is about the club."
"I know what it's about."
"Do you?" He steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Because if this vote goes your way, you better be ready for what comes after. The Ashbys, the senator, the cops—they're all gonna come. And they're gonna come hard."
"I hope they do,” I say. Meetin’ his eyes. “They fucked up, Diesel. They fucked up. I will never get theimage of Savannah tied to a bed, drugged and almost naked, out of my head. Not even killin’ those boys would erase it. So let them come. I’ll handle it.”
Diesel studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "That's what I needed to hear." He claps me on the shoulder again. "You bleed for us. We bleed for you. That's the code."
The door opens, and men start filing in. Patches I recognize, some I don't. Older members I've only heard about in stories. Faces hard as stone, scarred from fights, weathered by years on the road.
Diesel gives me one last look before moving back to the table. "It's your show now, brother."
I stand to the side as they take their seats, row by row. The air in the room grows thick with tension and the smell of leather and sweat. This is church—our version of it, anyway. Where decisions are made that change lives.
End them, sometimes.
Brick calls the meeting to order with three strikes of the gavel. The sound echoes off the concrete walls like gunshots.
"Brothers," he says, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "We're here for a Level-One vote. Patch member Legion Kane has called for club protection of a civilian—Savannah Ashby."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some faces darken. Others remain impassive.
"As is our way," Brick continues, "he will present his case, and then we vote. No discussion. No debate. Just your conscience and the good of the club." He turns to me. "Brother Legion, the floor is yours."
I step up to the podium, feeling the weight of every set of eyeballs. My mouth is dry. My ribs ache with each breath. But none of that matters now.
What matters is Savannah, sleeping in my bed, with my mark on her chest and my name on her lips.
I look out at the sea of faces. Some nod encouragingly. Others glare, arms crossed over their chests, judgment already written in the hard lines around their mouths.
I take a breath and begin to speak for the only thing I've ever wanted to keep.