Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Hawk
I’m halfway through explaining the new run routes when the noise starts.
At first, it’s just the usual background chaos of the clubhouse—music thumping, laughter ringing out, and glasses clinking together. It’s the sound of a good time, the kind of atmosphere that usually makes my job feel a little less burdensome.
But then the yelling cuts through it.
Sharp.
Angry.
The kind of yelling that makes every man in the room sit up and take notice.
I pause mid-sentence, pen hovering over the map spread across my desk, the ink smudging slightly as my focus shifts.
Diesel glances toward the door, his brow furrowing.
Riot, leaning back in his chair, snorts. “Sounds like someone’s getting their feelings hurt.”
That’s when another shout echoes down the hallway—louder this time, more intense.
I lean back in my chair slowly, feeling the tension coil in my gut.
“Ghost,” I say, my voice low and steady.
He’s already on his feet, adrenaline kicking in.
“Diesel. Riot.”
They all turn to look at me, their expressions shifting from casual to serious.
“Go handle it.”
Diesel cracks his knuckles, a familiar look of determination crossing his face as he heads for the door. “On it.”
Ghost follows him out, Riot trailing behind, and I’m left staring at the map.
We’ve got three possible routes for the next shipment, and I want this shit finalized tonight.
But the yelling is only getting louder, more chaotic.
Then I hear Diesel’s voice, booming and authoritative. “Knock it the fuck off!”
That’s when I stand.
Because Diesel doesn’t raise his voice unless something real is happening.
I shove my chair back and head for the door, my heart pounding in sync with the escalating tension.
The moment I step into the main room, the scene hits me like a brick wall.
Ghost and Diesel are holding someone back—a big bastard in a cut from our sister chapter. I recognize him instantly.
Road name: Grinder.
He’s drunk off his ass, swaying slightly as he tries to break free from their grip.
Meanwhile, Riot stands behind Emma, arms wrapped around her waist, keeping her secure.
My chest goes cold as I take in the sight.
“What the fuck is going on in here?” I demand, my voice cutting through the noise like a knife.
The room goes dead quiet, all eyes snapping to me.
Emma turns her head, and a smile breaks across her face—sweet and disarming—like she’s not standing in the middle of a goddamn bar fight.
Fuck.
My eyes drag over her before I can stop them.
Her hair is curled to perfection, framing her face beautifully, and her makeup is spot-on. That burgundy top clings to every curve of her body, the deep neckline making it hard to focus on anything else. And those jeans…
Christ.
I force my eyes away before I embarrass myself in front of fifty men.
I walk straight toward Grinder, my jaw tight with barely contained rage.
Diesel and Ghost still have him pinned between them, but he’s grinning stupidly, the scent of whiskey wafting off him like a noxious cloud.
“You wanna explain why my clubhouse sounds like a fucking zoo?” I ask, my voice low but filled with authority.
Grinder laughs drunkenly, a sound that grates on my nerves. “Your girl’s got a mouth on her.”
My jaw tightens, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “Did you fucking touch her?”
He mutters something slurred under his breath, and I can’t even make it out.
That’s when I punch him.
Hard.
My fist slams straight into his gut, the impact reverberating through my arm as the air explodes out of him in a choking gasp.
He doubles over, and I don’t even wait.
I turn and walk straight to Emma.
Riot releases her immediately when I get close, and I can see she’s still breathing hard—her chest rising and falling rapidly. But she’s not scared.
She’s pissed.
Her eyes are bright and sharp as they meet mine, the fire within them igniting something primal in me.
I take her in again—the outfit, the curls framing her face, the perfume I can smell even over the whiskey and smoke.
Jesus Christ, she looks good.
My voice comes out rough, almost gravelly. “Did that man fucking touch what’s mine?”
Her eyes narrow instantly, and I can see the determination etched on her face. “Shrimp dick over there grabbed my arm,” she says, jerking her chin toward Grinder. “Looked like he was about to hit me.”
The room goes silent, the gravity of her words sinking in.
Something hot and violent detonates in my chest.
I turn slowly, my gaze locking onto Grinder, who’s still coughing and trying to stand upright again.
Bad decision.
I cross the room in three quick strides, my fists clenched and my mind racing with the need for retribution.
Then I hit him.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
My fist cracks across his jaw hard enough that his head snaps sideways, the sound echoing in the silence of the clubhouse.
Someone in the room curses, but I don’t care.
Grinder tries to swing back, but he’s too drunk, too slow.
I slam another punch into his ribs, and he crumples halfway to the floor, gasping for breath.
The rage in my chest isn’t fading; it’s building, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.
No one touches what’s mine.
No one.
I grab him by the front of his vest and slam him into the wall, the impact sending a shockwave through my arm.
My fist comes down again.
And again.
Blood sprays across the floor, a stark contrast against the worn wood.
“Hawk!” Ghost barks, his voice urgent.
Diesel grabs my shoulder, trying to pull me back. “Enough!”
I shove them off, my vision narrowing as adrenaline courses through my veins.
They drag me back anyway, their grip firm and relentless.
Because if they don’t…
I might actually kill him.
Grinder collapses to the floor, barely conscious, and I stand over him, my chest rising and falling hard with exertion.
The entire clubhouse is dead silent, every eye on me.
Good.
I look around the room slowly, letting them see the fury etched on my face.
Let them understand.
Then I point toward Emma. “No one,” I say coldly, my voice slicing through the tension, “touches what’s mine.”
The room doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
“If I find out any of you fuckers lays a finger on her…”
My voice drops lower, a growl that resonates with every man in the room. “You’re dead. She’s. Fucking. Mine.”
No one laughs.
No one argues.
Because they all know I mean it.