Chapter Twelve
Grace had never been inside a room full of men deciding who was going to die.
Church was smaller than she'd expected—a rectangular table surrounded by leather chairs, a wooden gavel at Titan's place, patches on the wall showing decades of brotherhood history. No windows. One door. The kind of space where secrets stayed buried.
She sat in a chair against the wall, the only woman in a room full of warriors. Crash had positioned her there himself, close enough that he could see her from his place at the table but far enough that she wasn't in the line of fire if anything went sideways.
Possessive even in how he arranged the furniture.
"Walsh's trucking yard," Titan said, spreading a map across the table. "Psycho pulled satellite images this morning. Main office here, warehouse here, motor pool here. Best estimate is six to eight men on site at any given time, down from the twelve we eliminated yesterday."
"He'll have called in reinforcements," Blaster said. "Lost his enforcer, his operations manager, and an entire assault team. He knows we're coming."
"Let him." Anvil's voice was a low rumble. "More bodies to bury."
Grace listened to them strategize, absorbing the rhythm of how the club operated. There was hierarchy here—Titan commanding, Blaster advising, the others contributing based on their expertise—but also a kind of democracy. Every voice mattered. Every opinion was heard.
"We're missing something," Wraith said quietly. He hadn't spoken much, just listened with those unsettling eyes that seemed to see through walls. "Walsh is a businessman. He doesn't operate on emotion. If he knows we're coming, he'll have an exit strategy."
"Then we close the exits." Crash's voice cut through the discussion, sharp and certain. "Hit the yard hard and fast, seal the perimeter before he can run. I'll take the breach team through the main entrance while Anvil's squad covers the back."
"You're volunteering for the front door," Titan observed. "That's where the resistance will be heaviest."
"That's where I belong."
Grace felt her heart clench. Of course he was volunteering for the most dangerous position. Of course he was putting himself in the line of fire. That's who he was—the man who went through doors first because someone had to, and it might as well be him.
Titan's gaze moved to her. "Miss Ellison. You've been watching Walsh's operation for months. Anything we should know?"
Every head in the room turned toward her.
Grace stood, refusing to be intimidated by the weight of their attention. She'd organized a block of stubborn business owners. She'd killed a man with her own hands. She could handle a room full of bikers.
"Walsh runs his operation on schedules," she said. "Everything mapped to the minute. His men changed shifts at the same time every day—7 AM and 7 PM. They rotated patrol patterns the same way every week. It's how I knew when to expect them on my block."
"Creature of habit," Blaster said. "That helps."
"More than that." Grace moved to the table, pointing at the map.
"I watched his vehicles for weeks. The black SUVs always came from this direction"—she traced a route—"and always returned the same way.
If he has an escape plan, it'll be this road.
It's the only one that leads to the highway without going through downtown. "
Wraith leaned forward, studying the route she'd indicated. "She's right. That road connects to the interstate four miles out. Quick access, minimal visibility."
"Then we put someone on that road," Titan said. "Cut off his exit before we breach."
"I'll take it." Maverick spoke up, his leg bandaged but his eyes sharp. "Can't run the assault with this leg, but I can damn sure block a road."
The planning continued, Grace contributing details she'd gathered during months of being hunted. License plates she'd memorized. Faces she'd photographed on her phone. The rhythm of Walsh's operation laid bare by a woman who'd refused to stop watching even when watching terrified her.
By the time they finished, Grace understood why Crash had wanted her in this room. Not just because she was his—though that possessive claim radiated from every look he gave her—but because she was useful. Her information was valuable. Her observations were filling gaps in the club's intelligence.
She wasn't just being protected anymore. She was contributing to the war.
Titan stood, and the room fell silent.
"Walsh came for our territory," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Sent men to threaten a woman under our protection. Attacked our compound. Killed none of us, but not for lack of trying."
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table.
"Tonight we end it." Titan's gaze swept the room, landing on each brother in turn. "We ride on Walsh's operation, and we don't stop until he's in the ground. This is a full commitment. No half-measures. No mercy for the man who brought war to our doorstep."
He lifted his fist.
"Vote."
Every hand in the room went up. No hesitation. No dissent. A brotherhood united in their commitment to violence.
Grace watched Crash's hand rise with the others, watched the fierce certainty in his expression. This was who he was. Who they all were. Men who solved problems with blood and fire, who protected their own with absolute dedication.
She should have been terrified. Instead, she felt something close to pride.
"Church dismissed," Titan said. "Gear up. We ride in two hours."
The brothers dispersed with controlled urgency—checking weapons, gathering equipment, preparing for the assault. Grace stayed where she was, watching the organized chaos of men getting ready for war.
Crash appeared at her side, his hand finding her hip with automatic possession.
"You did good in there," he said. "That information about the escape route—Wraith would have figured it out eventually, but you saved us time."
"I spent months being afraid of Walsh's men. Might as well put that fear to use."
His expression shifted, something warm breaking through the warrior's focus. "You're not afraid anymore."
"I'm terrified," Grace admitted. "But I'm more angry than scared. And I'm done letting Walsh control any part of my life."
"That's my woman." He pulled her close, and Grace went willingly—pressing against him, breathing in the leather and steel scent that had become home. "After tonight, you won't have to be afraid again. Walsh dies, and you get your bookstore back. Your life back."
"And you?" She looked up at him, needing to know. "What do you get?"
"You." The word was simple, absolute. "I get you, and the club gets peace, and Walsh gets what he's had coming since he sent men to threaten a woman who was brave enough to fight back."
Grace reached up to touch his face, tracing the hard line of his jaw. In a few hours, he'd be walking through a door into gunfire. Into violence. Into the thing he was built for but that she was still learning to accept.
"Come back to me," she said. "Whatever happens tonight—come back."
"I always come back." He kissed her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Haven't you figured that out yet? I'll always come back to you."
"Promise me."
"I promise." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, and Grace saw the absolute certainty there—the same certainty he brought to everything. "By morning, the bookstore will be yours again. Walsh will be dead. And I'll be right here, claiming what's mine."
She kissed him then. Hard and fierce and full of everything she couldn't say—the fear, the love, the desperate hope that he was right about all of it.
He kissed her back with equal intensity, his hands tight on her hips, his body pressing hers against the wall of the chapel like he was trying to memorize the shape of her.
"Crash." Blaster's voice came from the doorway. "Time to gear up."
They broke apart reluctantly. Crash's eyes stayed on her for a long moment, drinking her in like he was storing the image for later.
"Stay at the compound," he said. "Jenna and Sydney will be here. Psycho's running communications from the tech center. You'll know what's happening."
"I'll know when you're safe."
"When Walsh is dead and we're riding home." He stole one more kiss—quick and hard and full of promise. "Wait for me."
Then he was gone, striding toward the armory with the other brothers, leaving Grace standing alone in the chapel where the club had just voted to end a man's life.
She should have felt conflicted. Should have questioned whether this was justice or vigilantism, whether Walsh deserved execution without trial.
But she'd seen what Walsh's justice looked like. Threats and violence and men sent to hurt her in her own stockroom. He'd had every opportunity to operate within the law, and he'd chosen to terrorize instead.
The Sentinels were giving him the ending he'd earned.
Grace walked to the tech center, where Psycho was already hunched over multiple monitors showing camera feeds and communication equipment. Sydney was there too, coordinating with the women who were staying behind.
"They'll be okay," Sydney said, reading Grace's expression. "This isn't their first assault, and it won't be their last."
"I know." Grace settled into a chair where she could see the monitors, could track the operation as it unfolded. "I just want it to be over."
"Soon." Sydney squeezed her shoulder. "By morning, this will all be a memory. And you'll be rebuilding your bookstore with a very possessive biker who won't let you out of his sight for the next year."
Despite everything, Grace laughed. "Probably accurate."
"Definitely accurate." Sydney smiled. "These men love hard. Once they claim you, there's no going back. You're his now, for better or worse."
"For better," Grace said softly. "Definitely for better."
Outside, engines roared to life—a dozen motorcycles firing up in unison, the sound rolling across the compound like thunder. Grace watched through the window as the Sentinels rode toward the gate, Crash at the front of the formation with Titan and Blaster.
He looked back once. Found her in the window. Raised his fist in a gesture that meant both goodbye and promise.
Then they were gone.
Grace sat in the tech center with Sydney and Psycho, watching the monitors, waiting for word.
Tyler had promised her the bookstore would be hers by morning. Promised he'd come back. Promised Walsh would pay for everything he'd done.
She believed him.
Because he'd never once failed to show up when it mattered, and she didn't think he was about to start now.