Chapter 9
Three days at the compound, and Dana had discovered something unexpected.
Bikers were slobs.
She stood in the storage room behind the main clubhouse, surveying the chaos with the same critical eye she brought to estate sales.
Boxes stacked haphazardly, their contents spilling onto the floor.
Old motorcycle parts jumbled with holiday decorations that looked like they'd been thrown in here sometime during the Reagan administration.
A perfectly good leather armchair buried under a mountain of oil-stained rags.
It was a disaster. It was also, somehow, exactly what she needed.
"Nobody's touched this room in years," Grace said from the doorway, arms crossed, amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. "Patriot calls it the graveyard. Anything that doesn't have an immediate use gets dumped in here and forgotten."
"It's not a graveyard." Dana was already mentally cataloging, sorting, finding the bones of a system underneath the mess. "It's a treasure trove. Half this stuff is still usable—it just needs someone to see it."
"That's your thing, right? Seeing value in things people throw away?"
"That's my thing." Dana grabbed a box of tangled Christmas lights and started testing them, methodical and patient. "You mind if I reorganize? It'll give me something to do besides pace holes in my floor."
Grace's expression softened. "Honey, if you want to tackle the graveyard, you're officially my favorite person in this building. Just don't throw anything away without checking with one of the guys—some of that junk has 'sentimental value.'" She made air quotes with her fingers.
"Translation: they're emotionally attached to broken things."
"You catch on fast."
Grace left her to it, and Dana lost herself in the work.
It felt good to have a purpose again. Three days of doing nothing had nearly driven her crazy—three days of waiting for news, of jumping at shadows, of trying not to think about Ray Stoltz and what came next.
The brothers had been kind but distant, treating her with the careful respect of men who weren't sure yet whether she'd stick around.
Only Forge treated her like she already belonged.
He appeared periodically throughout the morning, checking on her without saying he was checking on her. The first time, he leaned against the doorframe and watched her untangle a box of power tools.
"You don't have to do this."
"I want to." She didn't look up, didn't want him to see how much his presence affected her. "Sitting around makes me crazy."
"Fair enough." He stayed for another minute, then disappeared back into the clubhouse.
The second time, he brought coffee. Set it on the workbench beside her without a word, close enough that their fingers brushed when she reached for it.
"Thank you."
"You skipped breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry."
"Eat something." It wasn't a request. "I'll have the kitchen make you a plate."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." His eyes held hers, steady and certain. "Eat anyway. For me."
He was gone before she could argue, and Dana found herself smiling at the dusty boxes like a fool.
For me. Two words. Simple. Loaded with everything he wasn't saying.
By afternoon, she'd cleared a third of the room and discovered treasures she couldn't wait to show someone who'd appreciate them.
A vintage Harley fuel tank, dented but salvageable. A box of old photographs from what looked like the club's early days. A leather jacket that had probably been beautiful once, before someone had stuffed it in a corner and forgotten it existed.
She was sorting through a crate of motorcycle magazines when she heard voices from the main room—Forge and several brothers, their conversation carrying through the thin walls.
"—can't keep waiting forever." That was Gunner, the VP, his voice aggressive even in normal conversation. "Ray's regrouping. We hit him now, while he's still reeling from losing Tanner—"
"We hit him when we're ready." Forge's voice was calm, steady. The opposite of Gunner's fire. "Rushing gets people killed."
"Since when are you Mr. Patience?"
"Since I spent five years learning what happens when you move too fast."
A beat of silence. Dana held her breath, eavesdropping shamelessly.
"He's got a point." That was Gallows, the Sergeant at Arms. "Kovac's still running logistics for Ray. We take him out first, the whole operation falls apart. But we need intel on his location."
"I'm working on it." Forge again. "I've got contacts from inside. People who owe me. Give me a few more days."
"A few more days is a few more chances for Ray to figure out where Dana is."
Dana's stomach clenched at the sound of her name.
"Ray's not getting near her." Forge's voice had shifted—something darker underneath the calm. "Not while I'm breathing."
"Brother, nobody's questioning your commitment." Gunner sounded almost amused now. "Just saying, the faster we end this, the faster your woman can stop hiding in our storage room."
"She's not hiding. She's reorganizing."
"Same thing."
"It's not the same thing." Forge's voice was sharp. "She's not a victim waiting to be rescued. She's building something, making herself useful, because that's who she is. Don't talk about her like she's baggage."
The silence that followed was different—heavier, loaded with meaning Dana couldn't quite parse. Then Gallows: "You claimed her yet?"
"Not officially."
"Might want to get on that, brother. Way you're talking, everyone already knows."
Footsteps moved away, conversation shifting to other topics, and Dana sat frozen in the storage room with her heart hammering in her chest.
Way you're talking, everyone already knows.
She should be terrified. Should be running from a man who'd just declared to his brothers that he'd die before letting anyone touch her. From a world where "claiming" was a thing that happened, where women belonged to men in ways that shouldn't make her pulse race.
Instead, she felt something warm unfurl in her chest.
Forge defended her. Saw her as someone building, not hiding. Refused to let his brothers talk about her like she was a problem to be solved.
Nothing too broken to salvage, she thought. People especially.
Maybe that went both ways.
She found him in the garage an hour before sunset.
He was bent over a motorcycle—his own, she recognized the worn leather of the saddlebags—doing something mechanical that she didn't understand but appreciated anyway. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders as he worked, forearms flexing, prison ink moving with every motion.
He looked up when she appeared in the doorway. Didn't seem surprised to see her.
"Storage room break?"
"I needed air." She crossed to the workbench, leaning against it a few feet from where he was crouching. Close enough to talk. Far enough to maintain the illusion of distance. "And I found something you might want."
She held out the leather jacket she'd rescued from the crate—cleaned up now, conditioned with supplies she'd found in the bathroom. It was a classic cut, worn soft with age, the kind of thing that cost nothing at an estate sale but meant everything to the right person.
Forge straightened slowly, wiping his hands on a rag. His expression shifted as he recognized the jacket.
"Where did you find that?"
"Buried under about ten years of motorcycle magazines. It was just sitting there, forgotten." Dana handed it to him, watching his face. "Seemed like something worth saving."
He took it carefully, running his fingers over the leather with an expression she couldn't quite read. "This was mine. Before Graterford. I thought someone threw it away while I was inside."
"Nobody threw it away. They just... misplaced it."
Forge looked at her then—really looked, with those steel eyes that saw too much and demanded too much and made her feel like she was standing at the edge of a cliff.
"You cleaned it."
"It deserved better than a box of old rags."
Something cracked in his expression. The armor shifting, letting her glimpse the man underneath.
"You keep doing that," he said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Finding things worth saving. Looking at broken shit and seeing what it could be instead of what it is." He stepped closer, jacket forgotten in his hands. "First the store. Then me. Now a jacket I figured was long gone."
"It's what I do."
"I know." He was close enough now that she could feel the heat of him, could smell motor oil and leather and the clean scent underneath. "It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
Dana laughed, startled by the admission. "Cleaning a jacket is sexy?"
"Seeing value in discarded things is sexy.
Building something from nothing is sexy.
" His free hand came up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face with devastating gentleness.
"Watching you reorganize a storage room like it's your kingdom to conquer is so fucking sexy I've been hard since I brought you coffee this morning. "
Her breath caught. Heat flooded through her, pooling low and insistent.
"Forge—"
"I know." His hand dropped away, and she saw the restraint in the set of his jaw, the way he was physically holding himself back. "Not yet. Not until you're sure. But I figured you should know what you do to me. In case you were wondering."
"I wasn't wondering."
"Liar."
She couldn't help the smile. "Maybe a little wondering."
His answering smile was devastating—a crack in the steel, a glimpse of warmth she wanted to chase with her fingers, her mouth, her whole body.
"Good." He stepped back, putting distance between them that felt like miles. "Now get out of my garage before I do something we'll both regret."
"Would we regret it?"
The look he gave her was pure fire. "I wouldn't. But you're not ready.
And when you are—" His voice dropped, rougher now.
"When you are, it's not going to be a quick fuck against a workbench because we couldn't wait anymore.
It's going to be slow, and thorough, and you're going to know exactly what you mean to me before I'm done. "
Dana's knees went weak. She gripped the workbench for support, suddenly understanding why women in romance novels swooned.
"That's a hell of a promise."
"I keep my promises." He turned back to his bike, dismissing her even as every line of his body said he wanted her to stay. "Now go. Before I change my mind."
She went. Not because she wanted to, but because she understood what he was doing—protecting her, even from himself. Giving her space to be sure.
The walk back to her room felt endless. Every nerve in her body was singing, every inch of her skin alive with wanting. She closed the door behind her and pressed her back against it, breathing hard, trying to calm the storm he'd ignited.
Slow and thorough. Know exactly what you mean to me before I'm done.
God help her, she was in so much trouble.
That night, Dana lay awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling.
Three days. Three days at the compound, and her entire world had shifted on its axis. She'd gone from fearing for her life to reorganizing storage rooms. From running from a monster to falling for a man who might be more dangerous than any threat she'd faced.
Forge wasn't safe. Nothing about this life was safe. The violence was real, the danger constant, the rules alien to everything she'd known.
But when she thought about going back—about a life without him in it—something in her chest refused to cooperate.
He'd been raw iron when he walked into Graterford. Five years had beaten him, broken him, reshaped him into something harder. He'd come out steel—forged in fire, tempered by pressure, stronger than what he'd been before.
But steel could still be cold. Still be sharp. Still cut you if you weren't careful.
Dana thought about his hands on her face, gentle despite what they'd done. His voice saying for me like she was someone worth asking. His promise—slow and thorough, know exactly what you mean.
The transformation had cost him something. She could see it in the way he watched rooms, tracked exits, kept part of himself always ready for violence. Prison had taken pieces of him that he was still learning to live without.
But it hadn't taken everything. The warmth was still there, buried under the steel. The capacity for gentleness. The ability to see her—really see her—in ways no one had before.
Nothing too broken to salvage, she thought again.
Maybe that was true for both of them.