Chapter 8 Finn
FINN
I woke up before she did.
Dawn was just starting to creep through the blinds, painting stripes of pale gold across the bed. Chloe was curled against me, her auburn hair fanned out across my chest, one hand resting over my heart like she was keeping track of every beat.
I'd had women in this bed before. Not many, but enough. None of them had ever made me want to stay still like this. None of them had ever made me afraid to breathe too loud in case I woke them up.
None of them had ever risked everything for me.
I studied her face in the half-light. The spray of freckles across her nose I'd never noticed before. The way her lips parted slightly when she slept. She looked younger like this. Softer. Not the sharp-tongued fox who'd flirted with me through the bars of a holding cell.
That felt like a lifetime ago now.
My mind was already turning over the problem. Task force. Fax request. Files on the Guardians. We'd known heat was coming—hell, we'd been preparing for it since the Devils went down. But knowing and seeing it in black and white were two different things.
Chloe stirred, and I felt her eyelashes flutter against my skin before she opened those emerald eyes.
"Morning," she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.
"Morning, fox." I pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in weeks." She stretched against me, and I had to remind myself that we didn't have time for what my body was suggesting. "What time is it?"
"Early. You've got time before work."
The word hung between us. Work. The place where she'd just committed a felony for me.
"I should go home and change," she said, but she didn't move. "Can't show up in yesterday's clothes. Margaret notices everything."
"I'll make coffee first."
We sat at my small kitchen table twenty minutes later, mugs in hand, the early morning light turning everything honey-colored. Chloe had her legs tucked under her, still wearing my t-shirt, and something about the image made my chest ache in a way I wasn't used to.
"I need to meet with Pops today," I said. "Get ahead of this before it blows up."
She nodded, wrapping both hands around her mug. "What are you going to tell him?"
"The truth. That the task force is building a file. That we need to be airtight." I met her eyes. "I won't mention your name. Just that I have a source."
"He's going to want to know more."
"Probably. But Pops knows when not to push. He's been in this game longer than anyone."
She was quiet for a moment, staring into her coffee. "Finn... if this goes sideways—"
"It won't."
"But if it does." She looked up at me, and there was something fierce in her expression. "I don't regret it. Whatever happens. I need you to know that."
I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were small and warm in mine.
"It won't go sideways," I said again. "Because I won't let it. Protect thine own—that's the oath. And you're mine now, Chloe. That means you're protected."
Her smile was small but real. "That sounds almost romantic, coming from an outlaw."
"I'm a man of many talents."
She laughed—a genuine laugh that loosened something tight in my chest—and squeezed my hand before letting go.
"I have to go." She stood, and I followed her to the door. She'd changed back into her clothes from yesterday, her hair finger-combed into something presentable. "I'll text you when I know more. If anything changes at the station."
"Be careful today."
"Always am."
I caught her wrist before she could open the door. "Chloe. I mean it."
She turned back to me, and for a moment we just looked at each other. All the things we weren't saying hung in the air between us. Then she rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to my mouth—soft, quick, a promise.
"I'll be careful," she said. "You too."
I watched her walk to her car, watched her pull out of my driveway, watched until her taillights disappeared around the bend. Then I went back inside and called Pops.
We met at his place, not the clubhouse. Too many ears at The Old Moose, and this conversation needed to stay between us.
Pops lived in a old ranch house about ten miles outside town, surrounded by nothing but scrubland and sky. He'd been there since before I was born, since before my father started the club. The man was as much a part of the New Mexico landscape as the mountains themselves.
He was waiting on the porch when I pulled up, a cup of coffee in his gnarled hands, his charcoal eyes sharp as ever despite the wrinkles that mapped his face.
"Finn." He nodded as I climbed the porch steps. "Sounded urgent on the phone."
"It is." I sat in the chair across from him, declining the coffee he offered. My stomach was too knotted for caffeine. "Got word from an inside source. The task force is requesting files on us. Building a case."
Pops's expression didn't change. He'd been through this before—hell, he'd been through worse. Back in '78, when he and my father had outrun Operation Steamboat. Back when the Guardians were just a handful of riders with a dream and a death wish.
"Inside source," he repeated slowly. "This source got a name?"
"Not one I'm sharing."
His eyes narrowed. "Can you trust 'em?"
I met his gaze and held it. "With my life."
Something flickered across Pops's face. Recognition, maybe. Understanding. He'd loved once too, back when he was young and stupid. He'd told me about it once, late one night when the whiskey was flowing—a girl from Albuquerque who'd wanted him to leave the life. He hadn't. She'd left instead.
He didn't push.
"All right." He set his coffee down on the porch railing. "What do you need?"
"Time. My source is stalling the request, but it won't hold forever. We need to make sure there's nothing to find when they come looking."
"The guns are still in Santa Fe?"
"Every last one. Books are clean—Tony and Hoagie made sure of that. As far as anyone can tell, we're just a bunch of guys who like motorcycles and run a legitimate auto shop."
Pops nodded slowly. "Good. We keep it that way. No runs for the next few weeks. No meetings at the clubhouse. Scatter, lay low, don't give 'em anything to look at."
"Agreed."
He was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the desert. The wind kicked up a little swirl of dust in the yard.
"I been hearing things about the Cobras," he said finally. "That new crew out of Roswell. Purple and black colors."
I frowned. "What kind of things?"
"Sloppy things. Dealing too close to the schools. Getting loud at the wrong bars. Word is they hit a liquor store last week and left a witness." He shook his head. "Amateurs. No discipline. No respect for the game."
"You think the task force knows about them?"
"If they don't, they will soon." Pops turned to look at me, and there was something calculating in his expression. "Task force needs a win, Finn. They need to justify their budget, show results. If the Cobras keep being stupid..."
I understood. "They become the bigger target."
"Exactly. We stay quiet, stay clean, let those idiots draw all the heat. By the time the task force is done with them, they'll have moved on to the next shiny object. And we'll still be here, same as always."
It was smart. It was patient. It was everything my gut was screaming against—I wanted to hit back, to show them they couldn't come after my family without consequences. But Pops had taught me better than that.
Cool heads prevail. That's what he'd told me after my father died, when I'd been ready to burn the whole world down. He'd been right then. He was right now.
"I'll spread the word," I said. "Radio silence. Nothing that can tie back to us."
"Good." Pops picked up his coffee again, took a long sip. "Your source—they know the risks?"
"They know."
"And they're still helping us."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yeah. They are."
Pops studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile crept across his face.
"Your father would be proud of you, brother. The way you've stepped up. The way you protect your own." He reached over and squeezed my shoulder, his grip still strong despite his age. "He'd be real proud."
I didn't trust my voice enough to respond, so I just nodded.
I left Pops and went to check on Jessica.
The hospital smelled like disinfectant and artificial air, that particular sterile scent that always made my skin crawl.
I'd been here too many times in my life—when my father was shot, when my mother had her gallbladder out, when one of the prospects wiped out on a wet road and broke his collarbone.
Now I was here for my cousin.
I'd gotten the call yesterday. She was awake. Responsive. The doctors said it was nothing short of a miracle—the swelling in her brain had gone down faster than expected, and she'd opened her eyes three days ago. They'd kept it quiet until they were sure she was stable.
I pushed open the door to room 412 and stopped.
She looked small in that hospital bed. Fragile in a way I'd never associated with my cousin, who'd always been fire and sass and trouble.
Tubes snaked from her arms. Machines beeped softly in the corner.
Her dark hair was limp against the pillow, and her skin had that pale, papery quality of someone who hadn't seen sunlight in too long.
But her eyes were open. And when she saw me, she smiled.
"Finn." Her voice was barely a whisper, rough from the tube they'd had down her throat.
"Hey, Jess." I crossed to the bed and pulled up a chair, taking her hand in mine. Her fingers felt like bird bones—delicate, breakable. "How you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." A ghost of her old humor flickered in her eyes. "Oh wait. I did."
I tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. "Jess..."
"Don't." She squeezed my hand weakly. "Don't do the guilt thing. I can see it all over your face."
"I should have protected you. I should have—"
"You came." She cut me off, her voice thin but steady. "That's what matters. You came for me."
"Of course I came. You're family."
Her eyes glistened, and she blinked hard. "Shank?"
The name sent a spike of cold fury through my chest, but I kept my voice even. "Locked up. Him and Savage both. They're not coming back from this."
"Good." A tear slipped down her cheek, but she was smiling. Relief. Pure, bone-deep relief. "Good."
I reached over and wiped the tear away with my thumb. "He's never going to touch you again, Jess. None of them are. I swear it on Dad's grave."
She nodded, too tired to speak. Her eyes were already starting to droop—the doctors had warned me she'd fade in and out, that her body needed rest to heal.
"Get some sleep," I said, standing. "I'll come back tomorrow. And the day after that. Every day until you're out of here."
"Finn." Her voice caught me at the door. I turned back.
"Thank you." It was barely a breath, but I heard it clear as a bell.
I nodded once, not trusting my voice, and stepped out into the hallway.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I walked toward the elevator.
My throat was tight. My eyes burned. I'd been carrying Jessica's broken body in my mind for weeks now—the image of her hooked up to machines, the sound of Pops telling me she might not make it.
All that helpless rage, building up inside me with nowhere to go.
And now she was awake. She was going to be okay.
I stepped into the elevator and jabbed the button for the ground floor. The doors slid shut, and I was alone.
That's when I let out the breath I'd been holding for weeks.
The rage was still there—it always would be, probably. But something else was there too now. Something lighter. Hope, maybe. For Jessica. For the club.
For me and Chloe.
I pulled out my phone as I walked through the hospital lobby, squinting against the bright New Mexico sun as I pushed through the doors.
Jessica's awake. She's going to be okay.
Three dots appeared. Then:
That's amazing. I'm so happy for you.
I stared at the little heart emoji, and something in my chest cracked open.
Talked to Pops. We have a plan. Stay safe today, fox.
Always. See you tonight?
Count on it.
I pocketed my phone and headed for my bike, lighter than I'd felt in months. The task force was still coming. The Cobras were still a wildcard. And Chloe was still sitting in the middle of a powder keg, one wrong move away from losing everything.
But Jessica was awake. The club was solid. And I had a woman who'd chosen me over her whole damn life.
My father used to say the Guardians were forged in fire. That every challenge, every enemy, every brush with destruction just made us stronger.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe we were about to prove it.