Bonus Scene #1
Willow
The clubhouse smells like leather, whiskey, and the faint tang of motor oil that never quite washes out of anything here.
It's Friday night, and the Fallen Souls are in full swing.
The music thumps low through the speakers, laughter rolls across the main room like thunder, brothers slapping backs and clinking bottles.
I'm perched on a stool at the bar, wearing the black sundress Diesel picked out last weekend because he said it made my legs look "fucking gorgeous. "
I still blush thinking about how he said it, rough against my ear while his hands were already sliding up my thighs.
The memory sends a warm flush through me, and I shift on the stool, crossing my legs to ease the sudden ache.
It’s been three weeks since he slipped that slim silver band on my finger at the overlook.
Every day feels like I'm living in a dream, and I never want to wake up.
I grew up around bikers. My uncle ran with a small crew back when I was a kid, garages full of bikes, women in leather cuts laughing too loud at barbecues, the word "old lady" thrown around like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I knew exactly what it meant: claim, loyalty, family.
Not a wife in the legal sense, but something deeper, more binding in this life.
The patch wasn't just fabric. It was protection, respect, a line in the sand that said: "Touch her and die.
" I never thought I'd wear one, never thought I'd want to, until Diesel.
Princess slides onto the stool next to me, her own "Property of Havoc" cut slung over her shoulders like armor.
The leather's worn soft from years of wear, the white lettering faded but proud.
She's been the best since the “incident”. She’s always checking in, bringing me coffee when I'm working the front desk at the garage, teaching me the finer points of club life without making me feel like an outsider.
She knows I grew up around this world, so she doesn't explain the basics. She just makes sure I feel included.
"You look nervous," she says, bumping my shoulder with hers. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and her eyeliner is smudged just enough to look intentional. "First big party since the ring?"
I laugh, but it's shaky. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to people who know what it's like to wait for your patch.
" She nods toward the far corner where Diesel's talking to Hawk.
Diesel's got his back to me, but I can see the tension in his shoulders even from here.
He's been weird all day, distracted, checking his phone, disappearing into the garage twice for "quick calls.
" Every time I asked, he just kissed my forehead and said, "Later, little fox. "
Princess leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Word is he's got something planned. Havoc's been smirking like he knows a secret all week."
My stomach flips. I know what she's implying. "My cut?"
She shrugs, grinning wide. "You'll see. Just breathe. Whatever it is, it's good. Diesel doesn't do half-measures."
Before I can press her for more, the music cuts abruptly.
The room quiets fast, conversations drop mid-sentence, bottles pause mid-air, and even the clink of glasses fades.
Heads turn. Diesel turns too, eyes finding mine across the crowded room like he's got a direct line to my heartbeat.
The intensity in his gaze steals my breath.
He starts walking toward me.
My pulse hammers in my ears. He's in his usual black tee that stretches tight across his chest, cut slung over one shoulder like he couldn't be bothered to put it on properly, jeans low on his hips, that slow, predatory stride that still makes my thighs clench even after months of this.
The brothers part for him without a word, creating a path straight to the bar.
He stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They're an intense stormy gray, the way they get when he's serious. My hands grip the edge of the bar to steady myself.
"Stand up, little fox."
His voice is low, but it carries. The room's dead silent now.
I slide off the stool on shaky legs, the sundress swishing against my thighs. Diesel reaches into the inner pocket of his cut, pulls out something folded—black leather, small but heavy-looking. My breath catches when he shakes it out with a flick of his wrist.
It's a cut. Just like his, but tailored to fit me.
The back patch is bold: Property of Diesel arched in thick white letters over the Fallen Souls emblem, the one with the jagged wings and flaming eyes.
On the front left, a small bottom rocker simply says "Willow".
This feels more permanent than the ring on my finger.
He holds it out to me.
The room erupts with whistles, cheers, and boots stomping on the floorboards hard enough to rattle the bottles behind the bar.
Someone yells, "About fucking time!" and laughter ripples through the crowd like wildfire.
Havoc's deep chuckle cuts above the noise, and I catch Princess wiping her eyes out of the corner of my vision.
Diesel doesn't smile. He just watches me, waiting, the cut extended between us.
I swallow hard, my hands trembling as I take it from him.
The leather's soft, broken in, and smells faintly of him—like smoke from campfires and that warm, masculine scent that's pure Diesel.
Safety wrapped in danger. I slip my arms through, and it's heavier than I expected, like armor and a promise all at once.
It settles on my shoulders perfectly, hugging my frame without swallowing me.
I know exactly what this is. Respect. Protection. Belonging. The patch means you're claimed, you're family, you're untouchable. My hands shake because this isn't just leather, it's him saying I'm his in every way that matters in this world. And God, I want it more than I ever thought I would.
Diesel steps closer, fingers brushing my collarbone as he zips it up slowly, deliberately. The rasp of the zipper is loud in the hush that falls again. "Turn around."
I turn slowly, and the room gets its first full look at the back. His claim, bold and permanent.
More cheers explode.
Diesel's hands settle on my hips from behind, pulling me flush against his chest. His mouth finds my ear, voice rough and low just for me. "You're mine, Willow."
Tears burn my eyes. I blink them back fast because I refuse to cry in front of the whole club, but God, the weight of it hits me like a freight train.
For the first time, it's not something I watched from the outside.
It's mine. I belong here, not just to him, but to this messy, loud, dangerous family he's chosen to share with me.
The brothers who risked their lives to get me back.
The women who've welcomed me like I've always been here.
I turn in his arms, rise on my toes, and kiss him hard. The room whoops again, but it's background noise. His hands fist in the leather at my back, holding me as if he'll never let go. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, possessive, and I melt against him.
When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard. "Love you, little fox."
"Love you more," I whisper.
He smiles, the rare, slow one that makes my knees weak. "Not possible. You're stuck with me now, old lady."
Princess is there suddenly, hugging me tight, her cut pressing against mine. "Welcome to the family, girl. Officially. Knew you'd look good in one."
The night blurs after that. Brothers come up one by one. First, Havoc, who claps Diesel on the back hard enough to make him grunt, then pulls me into a bear hug that smells like cigar smoke.
"Proud of you, kid. You're tougher than you look,” he says with a smile.
Others slap Diesel's shoulder, tell me I'm "stuck with the grumpy bastard now," and offer toasts with whiskey I sip carefully.
Next, everyone gets on the dancefloor. A party at the clubhouse hardly ever has dancing, but Diesel knows how much I love it. I’m sure this is his doing.
Diesel pulls me onto the makeshift floor in the center of the room, hands on my hips, grinding against me like we're alone. The cut shifts with every move, leather warm against my skin. His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing.
"You look so fucking good in this," he murmurs. "Can't wait to see you in nothing but it later."
I laugh, breathless, spinning in his arms. "Tease."
"Not teasing." His hand slides lower, squeezing my ass through the dress.
Hours pass in a haze of music, laughter, and stolen kisses. My feet ache from dancing in heels, but I don't care. Every time someone calls me "Diesel's old lady" or nods respectfully, something inside me settles a little more.
When the party's winding down, most people drift to the rooms, bikes, or the fire pit outside. Diesel tugs me toward the hallway. His hand is firm in mine, thumb stroking my knuckles.
We're barely through his door before he's on me, backing me against the wall, hands shoving under the cut, under my dress, finding bare skin.
"Been dying to fuck you in this all night," he growls against my throat, teeth scraping my pulse point.
I laugh breathlessly, fingers already tugging at his belt. "Then do it, Daddy."
He groans deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through me. He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me to the bed. He doesn't take the cut off, just pushes my dress up around my waist, yanks my panties aside with a rough tug that makes me gasp.
He frees himself, thick and hard, and thrusts in deep with one hard stroke.
I cry out, nails digging into his shoulders through his tee. The stretch is perfect, filling me completely, the cut's weight on my shoulders grounding me even as pleasure rockets through my body.
He fucks me slow at first—savoring every inch, every gasp—then faster, harder, hips snapping against mine. His mouth is everywhere. Against my neck, my collarbone, and whispering filthy praise against my skin. "Look so fucking good in my cut. My Old Lady. Mine. Say it."
"I'm yours," I moan, arching into him. "All yours, Daddy. Always have been."
He growls, hand slipping between us to circle my clit with rough precision. I shatter hard, clenching around him, crying his name as waves crash over me. He follows right after, burying deep, groaning my name, pulsing inside me.
We collapse together, sweaty, tangled, the cut still zipped up, leather warm between us.
He kisses my temple, soft now, reverent. "Never taking this off you."
"Good," I murmur, already half-asleep against his chest, fingers tracing the patch on his own cut. "Because I'm never taking it off."
He chuckles low, rolling us so I'm draped over him. His hands stroke up and down my back under the leather, soothing. "You okay? That was a lot."
I lift my head, meeting his eyes. They're softer now; the storm calmed. "It was perfect. I knew what it meant growing up—saw it on other women, watched how it changed things. But wearing one myself? With you? I feel like I belong. Not just to you, but to all of this."
"You do." He cups my face. "Always did. Tonight just made it official."
We talk quietly for a while, about the future, the garage job I love, maybe expanding the cabin for more space someday.
We make love again. It’s slower this time, tender, his hands worshipping every inch like I'm something precious.
He keeps the cut on, whispering how beautiful I look, marked as his.
When we finally drift off, tangled and sated, the cut still on me like a second skin.