Chapter 36
Grim
The clubhouse still smelled like smoke.
Not the sharp kind, the old kind. The kind that clung to walls and memories. The kind that settled into your bones.
Grim parked his bike beside Sophia’s car and watched her climb out slowly, carefully, like every movement cost her something. She wrapped her arms around herself as she looked at the building: the blackened siding, the boarded windows, the piles of debris stacked along the fence line.
Her breath hitched.
Grim stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that she could feel him there.
“You don’t have to go inside,” he murmured.
Sophia swallowed hard. “I want to see it.”
He nodded once. “Okay.”
They walked across the gravel together. The crunch under their boots sounded too loud in the quiet yard. The Saints were scattered around the property: Brick hauling lumber, Ghost sweeping debris, Vandal sorting through salvageable tools. All three paused when they saw Sophia.
Not staring. Not pitying. Just softening.
Lacey spotted her first.
“Sophia!” she called, jogging over with a blanket still draped around her shoulders. Her eyes were glossy, her smile trembling. “Come here.”
Sophia didn’t hesitate. She stepped into Lacey’s arms, letting the other woman hold her tight. Lacey smelled like strawberry lotion and laundry detergent, warm, familiar, safe.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” Lacey whispered.
Sophia’s voice cracked. “Me too.”
Grim looked away, jaw tight. He wasn’t used to seeing Sophia held by anyone else. It did something to him, something he didn’t have a name for yet.
Lacey pulled back, brushing Sophia’s hair behind her ear. “Come sit with me. You don’t need to be around all this noise.”
Sophia nodded, letting Lacey guide her to a bench near the clubhouse wall, far enough from the chaos, close enough to feel included.
Grim watched her settle, watched her tuck her legs under herself, watched her eyes track every sound like she was cataloging threats.
He hated it. He hated what they’d done to her. He hated that he couldn’t take it from her.
Stone’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Calling Church.”
Grim tore his eyes from Sophia and followed the others inside.
The meeting room was half-gutted: scorch marks on the walls, a missing section of the floor, the table covered in ash. But the chairs were still there. The gavel. The patches on the wall.
The heart of the club was still beating.
Stone took his seat at the head of the table. Grim sat to his right. Havoc, Rook, Fish, and Ledger filled the rest as the other members followed in.
The room felt different now, quieter, heavier. Not with uncertainty, but with the weight of what they’d done. What they’d lost. What they still had to face.
Stone didn’t waste time.
“We need to talk about what comes next.”
The words settled over the table like dust.
Rook leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We hit them. Hard. Spider’s dead. Half their crew is gone. They won’t recover from that.”
Havoc’s jaw flexed. “Switchblade got his justice.”
A low rumble of agreement moved through the room, not loud, not triumphant, just honest.
Fish’s voice was quieter. “Justice doesn’t mean the threat’s gone.”
Ledger tapped a folder on the table. “He’s right. The Reapers weren’t running this alone. They don’t have the manpower or the brains. Someone else is backing them.”
Grim’s jaw tightened. “Viper.”
Ledger shook his head. “Viper’s part of it. But he’s not the top. He’s too sloppy. Too impulsive. Someone bigger is pulling strings.”
The air shifted, not explosive, but cold. Focused. The kind of tension that came after bloodshed, not before it.
Stone exhaled slowly. “Switchblade died protecting family. We avenged him. But this isn’t over.”
Rook growled. “So we keep hunting.”
Stone nodded. “We hunt smart.”
Havoc scoffed. “Smart doesn’t keep our people safe.”
Stone’s gaze hardened. “Smart keeps us alive long enough to finish this.”
Silence.
Ledger slid a grainy photo across the table, a black SUV, no plates, no markings. But the silhouette of the driver was unmistakable.
Viper.
“He’s running,” Ledger said. “And he’s not running alone.”
Grim’s hands curled into fists. “I want him.”
Stone didn’t look away. “You’ll get him. But not blind. Not rushed. Not until we know who he’s working with.”
Grim’s breath shook, barely, but enough for Stone to notice.
“We’ll get them,” Stone said quietly. “All of them.”
Grim nodded once.
But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
Not until Viper was dead. Not until the ring was destroyed. Not until Sophia never had to look over her shoulder again.
Stone lifted the gavel.
“This club stands for its own. Switchblade died a Saint. Sophia was taken from our home. We answered that. Now we finish it.”
The gavel hit the table with a sharp crack.
“Church dismissed.”
The men rose slowly, chairs scraping against scorched concrete. No one spoke. No one needed to.
They’d buried a brother. They’d spilled blood for him. They’d brought Sophia home. And the man who started it all was still out there.
Stone rested a hand on the table, fingers brushing the ash-stained wood. “We stay sharp. We stay ready.”
Grim didn’t look up. He didn’t have to. The promise was already carved into him.
The Saints filed out one by one, boots echoing through the ruined hall.
The sun dipped low as the club gathered near the fence line. A small table had been set up, Switchblade’s cut folded neatly on top, his name patch beside a single candle. Someone had cleaned it, but the smell of smoke still clung to it.
Sophia stood with Lacey, wrapped in her blanket, eyes shining with exhaustion and grief.
Grim’s chest tightened.
Stone stepped forward, clearing his throat. His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.
“Alexander Parker,” he began, “Switchblade… wasn’t your typical prospect.”
The yard went still.
“He was older than most who come to us. A veteran. A man who’d already lived through a war once and still chose to stand between danger and the people he cared about.”
Havoc bowed his head. Rook crossed his arms, jaw tight. Ledger stood rigid, eyes fixed on the cut.
Stone continued, voice thickening. “He didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. When Switchblade spoke, you listened. When he nodded, you knew he meant it. When he took a job, you didn’t worry about it again.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the club.
“He was weeks away from patching in,” Stone added quietly. “He earned that patch ten times over.”
Sophia’s breath hitched.
“He died protecting our family,” Stone said. “Protecting Sophia. Protecting all of us.”
Grim’s hand found hers — slow, careful — and she didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled around his, trembling.
Havoc stepped forward first. “He didn’t say much,” he muttered. “But when he did, it was usually something smart. Or something that shut me up. Which… yeah. Impressive.”
A few soft chuckles broke the tension.
Havoc stepped back from the table, but he didn’t rejoin the others. He stayed there a moment longer, staring at Switchblade’s cut like he was trying to memorize it. His jaw flexed once, hard. Not anger — something heavier. Something Havoc never let anyone see.
Grim caught the way Havoc’s fingers curled at his sides, like he needed to hit something just to breathe. But he didn’t. He just stood there, shoulders tight, eyes burning with a grief he didn’t have words for.
Havoc finally exhaled — one sharp breath, the kind a man takes when he’s holding too much inside — and stepped back into the line of brothers, expression locked down again.
Rook nodded. “He watched everything. Saw things the rest of us missed. Saved my ass more than once.”
Fish spoke quietly. “He was solid. The kind of man you trusted without thinking about it.”
Ledger’s voice was low, but it carried. “He died brave. The way he lived.”
Fish didn’t step forward like the others. He stayed a few paces back, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on Switchblade’s cut. Not staring. Not frozen. Just… holding the moment in that quiet way of his.
When the others finished speaking, Fish lifted his chin once — a small, precise nod. Respect. Grief. A promise. It was the kind of gesture Grim had seen him give over fallen brothers overseas. Simple. Final. Heavy.
Then Fish shifted his stance, scanning the perimeter again, like guarding the memorial was the only thing keeping him steady.
Sophia stepped forward slowly and placed a small white flower beside the candle. Her hand shook.
“He helped me,” she whispered. “I won’t forget him.”
Grim stepped up beside her, placing his hand over hers on the table.
“We won’t either,” he said.
Stone added quietly, “He died a Saint. And the man who killed him paid for it.”
Stone lifted Switchblade’s cut with both hands, reverent. “We honor him today. We thank him. And we carry him with us.”
The club bowed their heads.
The candle flickered. The yard fell silent. And Switchblade’s memory settled over them like a weight, heavy, sacred, unbreakable.
Brick lingered after the others stepped back, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. He wasn’t looking at the cut or the candle; he was looking at the ground, jaw tight, throat working like he was swallowing something sharp.
Grim watched him shift his weight, favoring the side that had taken the worst of the damage. He shouldn’t have been on his feet this long. Hell, he shouldn’t have been out here at all. But Brick had insisted. Said Switchblade deserved it.
Brick finally lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed but dry. He gave the cut a small nod; not the loud, eager kid he used to be, but a quieter version of himself. Older. Changed.
When he turned away, Grim caught the faint tremor in his hand. Not fear. Not weakness. Just the weight of surviving when someone else didn’t.
Brick met Grim’s eyes for half a second, something raw flickering there — guilt, grief, determination — then he looked away fast, wiping his nose on his sleeve like he hoped no one saw.
Grim caught the flicker in Brick’s eyes — that raw, shaken look a man gets the first time death hits close. Brick wasn’t the loud kid tonight. He wasn’t trying to prove anything. He was just standing there, hurting, trying to breathe through it.
And Grim felt it — that shift. Not hardening. Not toughening. Just… growing up the way no one should have to.
Vandal hovered near the back of the group, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders tight. He wasn’t talking. Not cracking jokes. Not nudging Ghost or Brick like he usually did. He just stared at Switchblade’s cut, jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.
When Brick stepped away, Vandal’s eyes followed him; something sharp and pained flickering there before he dropped his gaze fast, like he didn’t have the right to look.
Grim almost called him over, but Vandal shook his head once, barely noticeable, and took a step back instead. Not out of disrespect. Out of something else. Something Grim couldn’t name.
Vandal scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard, then turned away from the table like he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.
Grim filed it away — the tension, the silence, the way Vandal couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes — but he didn’t push. Everyone grieved differently.
When the others drifted away, Grim stayed where he was, staring at the cut on the table.
He scanned the yard again, even though he’d already done it twice. His eyes tracked every shadow, every shift of wind, every creak of the fence. Nothing was wrong. Nothing moved. But his muscles stayed tight, coiled, ready.
He hated it, the way his mind replayed the night she was taken, the way silence felt like a threat now. He hated that he couldn’t shut it off.
He wasn’t afraid of the Reapers. He was afraid of failing her again.
His throat felt tight. His chest felt too small. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He didn’t hear Sophia approach.
He only felt her hand, small, warm, and trembling, slip into his.
“Maddox?” she whispered.
He swallowed hard. “He was supposed to patch in next month.”
Sophia’s breath caught.
“He was steady,” Grim said, voice rough. “Quiet. Reliable. The kind of man you want at your back. And he died because of me.”
Sophia stepped closer. “No.”
Grim’s jaw clenched. “I should never have left you. I should’ve gotten to you faster. I should’ve—”
“Stop.” Her voice cracked. “You saved me. He tried to keep me safe. You both did what you could.”
Grim shook his head, eyes burning. “I can’t lose anyone else.”
Sophia’s fingers tightened around his. “You didn’t lose me.”
That broke him.
A single, sharp breath escaped him — half sob, half exhale — and he bowed his head, shoulders shaking once, hard.
Sophia stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He froze, then folded around her, burying his face in her hair, breathing her in like she was the only thing keeping him upright.
“You’re allowed to hurt,” she whispered. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”
Grim’s voice was a rasp. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re doing it,” she murmured. “With me.”
He held her tighter.
For the first time since he’d carried her out of that cage, Grim let himself lean.
And for the first time since she’d been taken, Sophia held him up.