Samuel
They don’t make me leave the room. That’s how I know it’s serious.
The table is crowded, every patched man is seated like a jury that already knows the ending. Smoke hangs in the air. The lights buzz faintly overhead. My ribs throb with every breath, but I sit still, hands flat on my thighs, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth.
Jon stands at the head of the table.
He’s not the president anymore. But his presence, his words, still hold gravity.
Knox stands rigid on his right. His eyes are fixed on a point past my shoulder like he’s no longer able to look at me.
“Wolf. Is there anything else you want to say before we decide?”
“I lied,” I say. “To all of you. Every day I kept my mouth shut, I lied.”
A few men shift.
“But I didn’t lie about who I am to this club,” I continue. “I didn’t sell you out. I didn’t put you in the ground. I didn’t run my mouth to anyone outside these walls.”
My gaze flicks to Knox. He still won’t look at me.
“I love Raven,” I finish. “And I’m done hiding it.”
The silence that follows is brutal.
Jon nods once, like he expected nothing less. “Motion,” he says, looking around the table.
Bishop clears his throat. “Wolf stays patched. But he’s benched.”
Diesel goes next. “Probation. No runs. No votes. No decisions. Not until trust is rebuilt.”
“And he’s out of the sleeping hall. He doesn’t get to bring this mess into our walls again,” Red adds, flat and final.
My chest tightens, but I don’t flinch.
Jon looks at Knox. “That enough?”
Knox's hands curl into fists on the table. When he speaks, the fury has given way to hurt. “He's my VP. He's supposed to be my brother.”
He finally looks at me then, eyes blazing. “And he’s lucky I don’t kill him.”
“We vote. All in favor of the motion,” Jon says, voice carrying. “Wolf stays patched. But he’s benched. Probation. No runs, no votes, no decisions. Out of the sleeping hall.”
Hands lift. One after another.
My stomach drops.
Jon’s gaze goes to Knox last.
Knox stares at his own hands as if they belong to someone else. For a second, I think he won’t raise it. Then, slowly, he lifts his hand.
The room stays silent.
“All opposed?”
No hands.
Jon nods once. “Motion carries.”
My breath leaves me in a rough exhale.
Jon’s eyes lock on mine. “You keep your cut,” he says. “You keep your patch. You’re still one of us. But hear me,” he adds, voice turning lethal. “You don’t get to fracture this club again. You don’t get to make your brothers choose between blood and loyalty.”
He points a finger in my direction. “And you don’t ever put my daughter in the crossfire of club business.”
“I won’t.”
Jon holds my gaze like he’s weighing my soul. Then he says, quieter, “You’re benched until Knox says otherwise.”
Knox doesn't argue.
Jon pushes back from the table. “Church is over.”
Boots hit the concrete floor as men stand and file out without looking at me.
Knox is the last one to leave. He stops at the door, his hand tightening on the frame. For a second, I think he's going to turn around. Say something. Do something. Instead, he shoves through the door and disappears down the hallway.
I stay seated for half a heartbeat longer, staring at the table where I used to belong.
I’m still patched.
Still breathing.
Still a brother.
But I’ve never felt more alone in my life.