Falcon (Savage Raptors MC #7)

Chapter One

Kane

Football played on my TV, but my brain refused to care who scored.

Sound stayed low enough to fill the room without turning my place into a damn cave.

Noise helped when the compound settled down, when the night stretched long and quiet and a Prospect’s mind started chewing on everything he couldn’t control.

My shoulders still ached from hauling boxes at the shop.

I’d also run errands for patched brothers until my legs felt like dead weight.

Grunt work never stopped. Prospects didn’t earn the right to slow down.

Beer warmed in my hand while the screen flickered in front of me.

I took a swallow anyway. Sleep should’ve grabbed me the second I hit my couch.

Instead, I sat there, elbows on my knees, staring straight ahead while my thoughts drifted to the same place they always went. Do more. Prove yourself. Don’t fuck up.

A Prospect lived inside a narrow lane. He worked hard, kept his mouth shut, learned fast, and didn’t bring trouble to the club’s door.

He didn’t make choices that risked patched men.

He didn’t drag unknown chaos onto club property and hope the President appreciated the surprise. Those rules existed for a reason.

Savage Raptors didn’t hand out patches because a man wanted one.

They handed them out because a man earned one, bled for one, proved he had the spine to carry it without breaking under the weight.

A year of work might not be enough. Two might not be enough.

A single wrong decision could erase everything. No patch. No brotherhood. No family.

I’d wanted this anyway.

My gaze swept over the small house, stirring up a familiar mix of gratitude and impatience.

Four walls inside the compound. One bedroom.

Ugly carpet. Scuffed paint. An abandoned couch.

A mismatched recliner. The coffee table had endured more spilled beer than any furniture deserved to survive.

Whenever I flipped the switch, the kitchen light flickered as though the bulb longed for death but lacked the decency to follow through.

The fridge hummed loud enough to irritate me at night.

Pipes clanked when the water ran cold. Nothing worked perfectly. Nothing looked pretty.

Roof over my head mattered more than pretty.

My phone rested face down on the coffee table. No one would text me this late unless something went sideways, and brothers tended to call when they wanted a Prospect moving fast. I should’ve showered and crashed. Muscles begged for sleep. Mind refused to cooperate.

Patched brothers didn’t pretend. They lived their code, protected their own, and expected the same loyalty back.

I wanted to be one of them.

Setting my beer back onto the table, I leaned against the couch cushion and closed my eyes briefly. The announcer’s voice droned on while crowd noise rumbled through the speakers. My breathing slowed.

A prickle crawled along the back of my neck.

Eyes snapping open, I scanned the room. Nothing had changed.

Shadows remained in their corners. The air felt still and undisturbed.

Despite this, something tightened in my gut -- an instinct impossible to ignore.

That feeling never showed up for no reason.

I turned my head slightly and listened. Fridge hum. The faint tick of the cheap wall clock. A distant engine beyond the fence, somewhere out on the road. Football noise. Nothing else.

My hand slid toward the side table because training lived deeper than logic. Fingers brushed the Glock I kept there. I didn’t grab it yet. I waited, listening harder, making sure my mind didn’t invent problems out of boredom.

A sharp knock hit my front door.

I sat up fast, heart slamming once against my ribs. The knock came again, quick and frantic. Not the steady rap of a brother. Not some drunk brother stumbling around. Desperation lived in those blows.

I snatched the Glock and moved off the couch in one smooth motion. My feet carried me to the door without making noise. I stayed to the side of the frame, not directly in front of it, because I’d learned better than to stand where a bullet might come through.

No voice followed. No footsteps. Only breathing, shaky and uneven, right outside the door. “Who is it?” My voice came low, controlled.

“Kane?”

A woman calling my name at this hour should’ve triggered every alarm bell.

Setup. Trap. Maybe someone testing how a Prospect handles unexpected visitors.

Despite my suspicion, genuine fear resonated in her voice.

Panic carried a distinctive edge -- a tremble impossible to manufacture without having experienced real terror.

With my gun ready, I slid the deadbolt back while keeping the chain secured, then eased the door open enough to peer outside.

Cold air rushed in.

Empty porch.

My gaze cut left and right, scanning what I could see past the edge of the house.

Nothing moved near my place. No shadow lingered.

No figure waited. I shut the door and pressed my eye to the narrow side window.

Outside, the walkway stretched toward the guard shack and main road inside the compound, security lights casting yellow pools across the gravel.

Farther down the path stood a figure, half in shadow, half in light.

A woman. Arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched against cold and fear.

Damp tangles of dark hair framed her face.

Purple and ugly, a bruise bloomed along one cheekbone.

From beneath her coat collar crept another mark.

Her eyes darted everywhere, scanning the quiet compound as though expecting an attacker to emerge from the darkness.

Jade. My chest clenched hard. We’d crossed paths a few times in town.

Months earlier, I’d found her stranded near one of the club’s businesses with a flat tire and lug nuts refusing to budge.

Being close enough to help, I did. She’d responded with gratitude so intense it seemed I’d handed her a gold bar instead of basic assistance.

Occasional sightings had followed. Grocery store. Walking into work. Brief encounters. Polite. Never lingering.

Now she stood inside the compound. Someone had let her past the gate. That meant trouble.

Out of habit, I threw on my cut, grabbed my keys, and shoved my phone into my pocket. The Glock slid into the waistband at the small of my back. Surprises weren’t my thing, especially when they arrived wearing bruises.

Cold air slapped my face as the door swung open. Jade whipped her head toward me with such force I felt the panic radiating from her. For a brief moment, relief flickered across her expression -- quick and fragile, as though she couldn’t trust it to last.

“Kane.” My name came out of her mouth on a broken breath. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Stop.” I closed the distance fast, keeping my body between her and the open walkway. “Who let you in?”

Her hands shook as she tried to gesture back toward the guard shack. “I went to the gate. I told them I needed you. I begged. I said --” Her voice cracked. “I said I was scared.”

Anger surged through me, sharp and immediate, not at her. At whatever had put her in a place where begging strangers felt like the best option. “Tinker?” I called out, voice carrying.

The guard shack door opened. Tinker stepped out, bundled in a jacket, face hard and alert. His gaze flicked to Jade, then back to me. “Prez knows.” Tinker didn’t waste words. “Saw her on camera. Called me. Told me not to turn her away. Told me to notify you and keep eyes on the road.”

So Atilla had made the call before I even stepped outside. That eased one knot in my chest, then tightened another. If Atilla knew, the situation already mattered. Presidents didn’t wake up for minor problems.

Tinker’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She’s got marks.”

“I see them.” My jaw clenched. “Did anyone follow her in?”

“Gate camera shows her car only,” Tinker said. “No tail. No slow roll behind her. No second set of headlights. Doesn’t mean nobody watched her leave town, but nobody came through our gate after.”

Jade struggled for each breath, and I could see the terror in her eyes.

“You planning to stand out here all night?” I turned my head slightly, dropping my voice to a gentle rumble. “Or would you rather come inside?”

For several heartbeats she remained frozen. No step toward me. No retreat either. When her gaze finally locked with mine -- wide, bloodshot, desperate -- something beneath my sternum wrenched painfully. She didn’t trust safety anymore.

“Inside,” she whispered.

“Good.” I kept my hand low, not reaching for her. People who’d been grabbed didn’t like sudden touch, no matter who offered it. “Stay close. If anything feels off, you tell me.”

She nodded, small and shaky.

We moved down the walkway toward my place.

Tinker stayed near the guard shack, watching our backs, gaze scanning the fence line and the road beyond.

Security lights threw our shadows across the gravel.

Jade flinched at every sound -- distant engine, wind rattling something metal, even the soft bark of a dog farther down the property.

Her fear didn’t come from imagination. Something had taught her to react.

My front porch light flicked on when we neared.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside first, scanning the room out of habit.

Nothing had changed since I’d sat on the couch.

TV still glowed. Beer still sat on the table.

My place looked normal. I turned toward Jade and stepped back, giving her space to enter.

She crossed the threshold with the caution of someone expecting the floor to collapse beneath her. Inside my living room, her shoulders remained tight while her gaze swept across corners and windows.