29. Saints Outlaws
TWENTY-NINE
SAINTS OUTLAWS
NEVAEH
The cursor blinks at the bottom of the screen like it’s waiting to judge me. One last sentence.
What happened here wasn’t a turf war. It wasn’t a gang dispute. It was a warning—about what loyalty means when violence comes from the shadows and the people sworn to stand with you decide to sell your skin for their own survival.
I stare at the line for a long time. The truth is bigger than one article, bigger than me. There’s more buried under it. Names, bloodstains, choices that can’t be unmade with a clever turn of phrase.
I sit back in the chair and read the sentence again. And again. It’s not enough. not for everything we just lived through, but it’s the truth. The part of it I can tell, at least.
The rest belongs to the Saints Outlaws.
They bled and buried one of their own. They dragged me out of the dark and put me on my feet again. And when the whole world might’ve called me collateral damage, they called me theirs. That kind of loyalty deserves silence just as much as it deserves truth.
I could write every name. I could drop Duke’s initials in the first paragraph and burn his world down from the safety of a headline.
I could aim the spotlight straight at every brother standing around the fire pit last night, and watch the entire city draw their own weapons.
Because the real truth is bigger than one article.
Bigger than me. There are names buried in it.
Blood soaked into warehouse concrete. Choices that can’t be unwound with clever wording or public sympathy.
But I won’t.
Not the Saints. Not after what they’ve already lost and what they still have to fight.
They’ve earned their silence.
My finger hesitates above the key. There’s a part of me that’s still bruised, still tied to the floor of that van, that wants to scream the whole truth into every headline until Duke chokes on it.
But then I see Crusher’s hands shaking when he cut me free.
I hear Rock murmuring, ‘owe you one,’ like it meant everything.
And I know… this isn’t my truth to tell. It’s ours.
I breathe in, and let the last line stand exactly as it is.
Then I press Publish.
The screen flashes white, half a heartbeat of digital silence, before the headline slides into place.
“THE PRICE OF BETRAYAL — SURVIVING THE SILENT WAR IN MOUNT PLEASANT”
No club names.
No officer titles.
No map drawing arrows to the Saints’ door.
Just a warning wrapped tight in truth. Someone sold their family out. And somebody paid for it. If the world is smart, they’ll read between the lines because the Saints Outlaws ride out again soon.
I close the laptop and let the silence settle over me. Our house, where I moved in with Crusher permanently, is still, but my pulse isn’t, like some part of me is already back at the clubhouse, feeling the weight of every stare and shoulder-clasp and unspoken vow that came after the fire.
I run my thumb over the fresh patch on my cut, still not used to the feel of it. It’s small. Just a strip of leather stitched with Erik’s name and the club’s colors. But God, it feels heavy. Like armor. Like purpose.
I grab my keys, lock the door behind me, and head back to the place that stopped being dangerous and started being home.
The clubhouse hits me with its usual wall of sound. Engines turning in the yard, the scrape of chairs, brothers calling to each other, but underneath all of that, something’s shifted. It’s not just noise anymore. It’s belonging.
City is sitting on the bar, boots planted on an overturned crate, flipping a butterfly knife open and closed like it’s muscle memory. He looks up when I walk in and offers a short, sharp chin lift. Not the teasing smirk I used to get, but respect. Real and solid.
“Article dropped?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, sliding onto the nearest stool. “Kept it clean. Nobody’s colors on it.”
City gives a low grunt of approval and flicks his eyes to Crusher on the far side of the room. “He saw it?”
“Not yet.”
Honor walks past, sets a fresh cup of coffee in front of me without looking. “Good writing,” he says quietly, like a secret. It hits harder than any compliment I’ve ever gotten in a newsroom.
Across the main room, Crusher’s deep in conversation with Steel, Rock, Draft, Throttle, Hurricane, and Rampage, looking over one of the big maps taped to the wall. There are red circles along the eastern side of Mount Pleasant. Iron Cross territory. Duke’s side of the line.
Steel’s voice carries across the room. Not loud, but sharp. “He’s not gonna lay off. One failed grab doesn’t end this. It escalates it.”
Rock taps a finger against the map. “If he wants a war, we set the field. We pick the ground.”
Rampage cracks his knuckles. “Been waiting to bury that fuck since Jordan went down.” He didn’t know Jordan personally, but he does know what Jordan’s death did to Crusher and how it changed him. All his club brothers know about Jordan’s death.
Crusher doesn’t say anything right away.
Just stands there in full cut, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring at the map like he’s already in the fight.
When his eyes finally lift, he looks straight at me.
And in front of every man in this room, he reaches out and hooks a finger, crooking it in that come here, you’re mine kind of way.
I walk over without hesitation. He doesn’t pull me aside, he pulls me into the circle.
“Nevaeh saw the Iron Cross coming before we did,” he says, looking around at the brothers. “She saw Niko slipping when a few of us didn’t. She earned her place at this table.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
Every head turns toward me. Months ago, that would’ve made my pulse spike. Now, it just anchors me. I don’t shrink. I don’t apologize. I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the men who pulled me from the dark, and I swear I’ll help put Duke back in it.
Steel gives me one of those hard, unreadable looks and nods. Throttle’s head dips. Rock gives the smallest nod imaginable. Even Hurricane meets my eye and flicks two fingers against his chest, the closest thing to a blessing I’ll ever get from him.
City grins. “Shit, long as her intel keeps getting us ahead of Duke, I’ll let her sit in my chair.”
“Nobody wants your chair,” Rampage mutters. Laughter cracks through the tension like a pressure valve opening, quick and rough, and for a moment, I forget there’s still a war coming.
Crusher’s hand settles at the small of my back, anchoring me to the only place I want to be. His voice is low near my ear. “You stay close. We’re gonna end this.”
My pulse steadies, even as the map in front of me blurs with threats and lines of fire. I should be scared, but all I feel is ready.
“Then let’s end it,” I whisper back.
And when every head turns back toward the map, toward Duke, the Iron Cross, the real war still waiting at the edge of this city, I stay exactly where I am.
Right beside him.
Right where I belong.