Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Vance
The message comes during a regular club meeting.
A fucking severed crow's head in a box, delivered to our front gate.
Subtle, the Nighthawks are not. But the meaning is clear enough.
They've heard about my new wife, and they're letting me know they see my weakness.
Ten years I've been the Devil's president.
Ten years of being untouchable because I had nothing to lose.
Now I've got everything to lose, and our enemies know it.
I stare at the bloody warning and feel something I haven't felt in years—cold, primitive fear. Not for myself. For Wynter.
"Nighthawks don't have the balls to come at us directly," Diesel says, leaning back in his chair at the table. The club officers are all present—President, VP, Treasurer, Sergeant at Arms, and me, the president.
"They might if they think they've found our Achilles' heel," Snake counters, nodding toward me.
All eyes turn my way. They're thinking what I'm thinking. I've made myself a target by bringing Wynter here. By claiming her so publicly. By making it clear she matters.
"Let them come," I say, voice deadly calm despite the storm raging inside me. "I'll stack their bodies at the gate as a warning to anyone else who thinks they can touch what's mine."
Our enforcer, a grizzled veteran named Blade who's led the Devil's Claim for fifteen years, studies me carefully. "Your wife changes things, brother. We need to talk strategy."
For the next hour, we discuss security measures, patrol schedules, reinforcements to call in from allied clubs.
I absorb it all with cold precision, compartmentalizing my rage to fuel later action.
But beneath the tactical planning, a more primitive part of me is howling to grab Wynter and run, to hide her away where no one could ever find her.
The irony doesn't escape me. A week ago, I was a free man with nothing to tie me down. Now I'm chained by something stronger than any steel—love for a woman who fell into my life by what she thinks is chance but I know was fate.
"Double the guards at all entrances," I instruct as the meeting winds down. "No one gets within a mile of this compound without us knowing."
"And your wife?" Blade asks. "She stays inside at all times now."
It's not a question. I nod anyway. "I'll explain the situation to her."
"Make sure she understands the danger," he says, not unkindly. "Civilian women aren't used to our kind of problems."
That's putting it mildly. Wynter is from a world where the biggest threats are parking tickets and rude customers.
My world deals in blood and territory and power.
I've dragged her from safety into danger because I couldn't resist claiming her.
The guilt of that sits heavy in my gut, but not heavy enough to make me regret making her mine.
After the meeting, I pull Diesel aside. "I need you to watch her when I can't. You're the only one I trust completely."
He nods, no questions asked. That's loyalty earned through years of having each other's backs. "No one touches her, brother. I swear it."
I clap him on the shoulder, the closest I get to showing gratitude.
The warning from the Nighthawks isn't just talk. Three days later, our perimeter sensors catch movement—four riders approaching from the east, not bothering to hide their colors. A scouting party, testing our defenses. Testing me.
I lead a group of five to intercept them before they get too close to the compound.
Wynter doesn't know I've gone—she's back in our quarters, thinking I'm in another meeting.
Better that way. Better she doesn't see this side of me yet, though I know she's piecing it together from what she's overheard.
We catch the Nighthawks at the edge of our territory. They're armed, but not looking for a full confrontation today. Just delivering a message in person.
Their leader, a wiry bastard with a face like a rat, grins when he sees me. "The legendary Vance. Heard you got yourself domesticated."
My expression doesn't change. "You're trespassing."
"Just passing through," he says, feigning innocence. "Wanted to see if the rumors were true. Devil's most feared president, taken down by some sweet little pussy."
The rage that floods me is instant and overwhelming, but I keep it leashed. For now. "You've got ten seconds to turn around and ride out. After that, you leave in body bags."
He laughs, but there's uncertainty in his eyes. Good. He should be afraid.
"Your old man know you're here?" I ask casually. The Nighthawks' president is a calculating man, not prone to stupid provocations. These young hotheads are acting on their own, I'd bet my life on it.
The flicker in Rat-face's eyes confirms it. "Just delivering a friendly warning. Your protection is spread thin with a civilian to worry about. Might be time to reconsider some of those territorial boundaries."
"Here's my counter-offer," I say, stepping closer. "You tell your president that if I see Nighthawk colors within fifty miles of my wife, I will personally dismantle your entire club, starting with his head on a pike. Clear?"
"Big talk from—"
I don't let him finish. My fist connects with his face, the satisfying crunch of cartilage like music to my ears. He falls off his bike, blood spurting from his broken nose.
What follows isn't a fight so much as a message written in pain. I don't kill him—that would force a full-scale war we don't need right now—but by the time I let him crawl back to his bike, he'll carry my warning in every breath he takes through his shattered face.
His buddies don't interfere. Smart. They know they're outmatched, outgunned, and that I'm just looking for an excuse to unleash the full extent of my rage.
"Ride back to your president," I tell them as they help their bloody leader onto his bike. "Tell him what happens to messengers who disrespect my wife."
They leave in a cloud of dust, their bravado gone. But this isn't over. It's just beginning.
I take a hit during the confrontation—nothing serious, just a gash across my knuckles from connecting with teeth and a split lip from the one lucky punch Rat-face landed.
Blood has soaked the front of my shirt, making it look worse than it is.
I don't bother cleaning up before heading back to the compound.
The sight of my blood will reinforce the message to my brothers—we're at war now, even if shots haven't been fired yet.
Wynter is in our kitchen when I walk in, making coffee. She turns with a smile that freezes when she sees the blood.
"Oh my God!" She drops the mug she's holding, ceramic shattering on the floor as she rushes to me. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
The genuine concern in her voice does something to me—softens something that's been hard for so long I'd forgotten it could bend.
"I'm fine," I say, catching her hands as they flutter over my chest, searching for wounds. "Not my blood. Mostly."
Her eyes widen. "Mostly? Vance, what's going on?"
I shouldn't tell her. Should protect her from the reality of what's happening. But the questions in her eyes deserve honesty.
"Warning from a rival club. The Nighthawks. Nothing to worry about." The lie tastes bitter.
She's smarter than that. "You're bleeding. That seems like something to worry about."
I sigh, guiding her to the couch where I sit, pulling her onto my lap. "There's been a development. The Nighthawks know about you. They see you as…leverage against me."
Fear flashes in her eyes, quickly followed by determination. My brave little wife. "What does that mean for us?"
"It means you stay inside the compound. No exceptions. Always with me or someone I trust." My arms tighten around her. "It means I keep you safe, no matter what."
She's quiet for a moment, processing. Then she surprises me by standing up. "Let me clean those cuts first."
She retrieves a first aid kit from the bathroom and returns to kneel between my legs. There's something unbearably intimate about her gentle hands cleaning the blood from my knuckles, dabbing antiseptic on the split in my lip. This woman who should fear me, caring for my wounds.
"You fought because of me," she says softly, not a question.
"I'd kill for you," I respond simply. "Without hesitation."
Her hands pause in their work, eyes lifting to meet mine. What I see there isn't fear or disgust—it's something darker, more primal. Something that matches the beast inside me.
"Does that scare you?" I ask, voice dropping lower.
"It should," she whispers. "But it doesn't. What does that say about me?"
"That you're mine." I capture her wrist, pulling her hand to rest against my heart. "That you were made for me."
The air between us changes, thickens with sudden tension. Her pupils dilate, breath coming quicker. The adrenaline from the fight is still humming in my veins, seeking release.
I don't wait for permission. Don't need it. I pull her up and into my lap, my mouth crashing down on hers with bruising force. She responds instantly, arms wrapping around my neck, body melting against mine.
The kiss tastes like blood and need and fear transformed into hunger. I stand, lifting her with me, only to lower us both to the floor. The couch is too small, the bedroom too far for what I need right now.
"Vance," she gasps as I tear at her clothes, too impatient for finesse.
"Need you," I growl, ripping her shirt open, buttons flying. "Need to be inside you."
She doesn't protest, helping me strip the clothes from her body until she's naked beneath me on the hardwood floor. I shed my own jeans and blood-stained shirt, my cock already rock hard and leaking.
"Please," she whimpers, spreading her legs in invitation.
I settle between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging at her entrance. She's already wet, ready for me. The sight of her like this—open, wanting, mine—nearly breaks me.
"No one will ever hurt,” I snarl, pushing into her in one powerful thrust that makes her cry out. "No one."
I set a brutal pace, driven by primal need to claim, to mark, to possess. Each thrust is a statement, a promise, a warning to anyone who would dare try to take her from me.
"Mine," I growl, gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, back arching as I hit that perfect spot inside her. "I'm yours, Vance."
"Again," I demand, slowing my thrusts torturously.
"I'm yours!" she cries out, desperation in her voice. "Please, Daddy, don't stop!"
The word ignites something even more primitive in me. I hook my arms under her knees, pushing them back toward her chest, opening her completely to my invasion.
"That's right, little girl," I praise, driving into her with renewed force. “Oh god, you’re gonna kill me baby. Not gonna be able to last long in this sweet thing.”
Her nails dig into my shoulders, adding more pain to the mix of sensations driving me toward the edge. The floor must be hard on her back, but she doesn't complain, meeting me thrust for thrust, as consumed by this feral need as I am.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I demand, my release pending, body half crazed with lust. “Need to hear it when I nut in you.”
Her eyes lock on mine, pupils blown wide with pleasure and something deeper. "I'm yours, Daddy. Always."
That's what breaks me. With a roar, I bury myself to the hilt and explode, pumping her full of my seed. "Mine to hold, baby doll," I gasp against her neck. "Feel Daddy breeding you—no one else gets this. No one else gets you."
The possessive words send her over the edge, her body clenching around me as she comes with a cry of my name. I grind against her, prolonging her pleasure, making sure my seed stays deep where it belongs.
Afterward, I gather her close, suddenly aware of how rough I've been. The hardwood floor must be uncomfortable, her skin marked with evidence of my possession—fingerprints on her hips, a bite on her shoulder I don't even remember leaving.
"Did I hurt you?" I ask, gentler now that the beast is temporarily sated.
She shakes her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "Not in any way I didn't like."
Relief floods me. This perfect woman understands me, accepts even the darkest parts of me. I scoop her up, carrying her to our bedroom where I can take proper care of her.
As I lay her on the bed, I make a silent vow. Nothing will take her from me. Not rival clubs, not her past, not her own doubts. I found her, claimed her, and I will kill anyone who threatens what we're building.
Because now I have something worth protecting. Something worth dying for.
Something worth killing for.