Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Vance
I check my weapons one last time—Glock secured at my hip, hunting knife strapped to my calf, brass knuckles in my pocket.
Wynter watches from our bed, her face carefully composed, but I can read the fear in those big eyes.
She's trying to be brave. My perfect little wife, adapting to this life I've thrust her into.
Three weeks ago she was shelving books in some quiet small-town library.
Now she's watching her husband arm himself for what could be a bloodbath if the Nighthawks are stupid enough to engage.
The need to protect her burns in my gut like acid, fuels every dark impulse I've ever controlled.
For her, I'd burn the whole fucking world to ash.
"How long will you be gone?" she asks, voice steady despite her obvious worry.
"Two days, max." I pull on my cut—the leather vest bearing the Devil's Claim insignia that marks me as president. "Diesel will stay with you the whole time."
She nods, fingers twisting the wedding band on her finger. A nervous habit she's developed. "And you're just…tracking them? Not engaging?"
"Just intelligence gathering," I lie smoothly. What she doesn't need to know won't keep her up at night. If I find a clear shot at the Nighthawks' leadership, I'm taking it. End this threat before it can touch her.
"Promise me you'll be careful." She stands, crossing to me, looking tiny and fragile next to my bulk.
I cup her face in my hands, memorizing every feature. "I promise I'll come back to you. Always."
She rises on tiptoes to kiss me, and I keep it gentle despite the violence simmering beneath my skin. Save it for the enemy, not my sweet girl.
Diesel is waiting in the main room, expression grim. He knows the stakes as well as I do. The Nighthawks aren't just any rival—they're ruthless, known for targeting families when they can't get to members directly. And now they know about Wynter.
"Not a fucking inch," I tell him, voice low enough that she can't hear from the bedroom. "She doesn't leave your sight. Anyone approaches who isn't club, you shoot first, ask questions never."
He nods, no questions needed. We've been brothers long enough that he understands the depth of what I'm asking. It's not just club duty anymore. It's personal.
"She'll be here when you get back," he promises. "Safe and sound."
I shoulder my pack, check my phone one last time, and head for the door. Wynter appears from the bedroom, a brave smile fixed on her face that doesn't reach her eyes.
"I'll see you soon," I tell her, allowing myself one more kiss—deeper this time, a promise of what waits when I return.
As I swing onto my bike, the familiar rumble between my legs does nothing to calm the storm in my head.
Every mile I put between myself and the compound feels wrong, like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind.
I've never felt this before—this tearing sensation, this vulnerability.
Before Wynter, I rode into danger without a second thought.
Now all I can think about is getting back to her.
But first, I hunt.
The Nighthawks' main clubhouse is four hours east, but intelligence suggests they've set up a temporary base closer to our territory. Snake's contacts pointed to an abandoned ranch about ninety minutes from our compound. Perfect staging ground for whatever they're planning.
As I ride through the desert night, my mind fills with all the ways they could hurt her. Take her. Use her against me. The images fuel a rage so pure it's almost blinding. I've been violent before. I've killed before. But never with this cold, focused purpose. Never with this much at stake.
When I found Wynter in that casino, I thought I was claiming a prize.
Something beautiful to possess. I didn't understand that in claiming her, I was creating my own weakness—a soft, vulnerable spot in the armor I've built around myself for decades.
But it's too late now. She's under my skin, in my blood. My wife. My everything.
And I will slaughter anyone who threatens that.
The ranch comes into view just before dawn—a cluster of dilapidated buildings with too many vehicles parked haphazardly around them for it to be abandoned.
I position myself on a ridge overlooking the property, using high-powered binoculars to count heads, identify leaders, map entrances and exits.
Patience has never been my strong suit, but for this, I can wait.
By midday, I've confirmed what we suspected.
The Nighthawks are planning something big—at least twenty members moving with purpose, cleaning weapons, studying what look like maps of our territory.
Their president isn't present, but his right-hand man is, which means this isn't just a scouting party. This is preparation for an assault.
I spend the rest of the day gathering intel, taking photos, noting weaknesses in their security. There are too many of them for me to take on alone, as much as the beast in me howls for their blood. This needs to be a coordinated strike with full club support.
When darkness falls, I make one final circuit of the property, then head back to report what I've found. The knowledge that they're this close, this organized, makes my throttle hand twist harder, pushing the bike to its limits. I need to get back. Need to see her. Need to know she's safe.
The compound comes into view just after midnight, a welcome sight after thirty-six hours of tension and vigilance. Diesel meets me at the gate, relief evident on his weathered face.
"All quiet here," he reports as I dismount. "She's been worried sick though."
"Any messages from them?" I ask, striding toward our quarters.
"Nothing. But Blade called a full meeting for tomorrow morning. Says he's got contacts inside the Nighthawks with new intel."
I nod, already focused on the door ahead. "Get some rest. I'll take it from here."
Wynter is awake when I enter, sitting up in bed with a book she's clearly not reading. She tosses it aside and launches herself at me the moment I step through the door, her small body colliding with mine with enough force to make me grunt.
"You're back," she breathes, face pressed against my chest. "You're okay."
I hold her tight, burying my face in her hair, inhaling her scent—clean and sweet and home. The tension I've been carrying eases slightly with her in my arms.
"Told you I'd come back," I murmur, hands roaming her body, assuring myself she's whole, unharmed. She's wearing one of my t-shirts, drowning in the fabric that hangs to mid-thigh. The sight of my clothes on her body satisfies something primal in me.
"What did you find?" she asks, pulling back to search my face. "Are they coming?"
I debate how much to tell her, but we're past lies of comfort. "They're planning something. We've got time to prepare."
Fear flashes across her features, quickly followed by determination. My brave little wife.
"What can I do?" she asks.
"Stay safe. Stay close." My hands tighten on her waist. "Let me protect you."
The adrenaline still pumping through my system from the recon mission, combined with the relief of having her in my arms again, ignites something urgent and primal. I need to claim her. Need to remind us both who she belongs to.
I bend to capture her mouth in a kiss that's all possession, no gentleness. She responds instantly, arms winding around my neck, body melting against mine. The taste of her—sweet and familiar now—centers me like nothing else can.
"Need you," I growl against her lips. "Now."
She nods, understanding without words the desperation driving me. But I don't want to take her here, in our bed. I need something different tonight. Something that matches the wildness coursing through me.
"Come with me," I say, taking her hand and leading her through the quiet compound.
The garage is deserted at this hour, the smell of oil and metal hanging in the still air. My bike sits in its usual spot, still warm from the ride back. I guide Wynter toward it, watching her eyes widen with understanding.
"Here?" she whispers, looking around at the cavernous space.
"Here." I lift her easily, setting her on the seat of my Harley, her legs dangling on either side. "Need to see you on my bike. Need to make you mine all over again."
Her breath quickens, pupils dilating with arousal. She's learned to read my moods, to anticipate what I need. And right now, I need surrender.
I push the oversized t-shirt up her thighs, revealing she's wearing nothing underneath. The sight of her bare pussy on the leather seat of my bike makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
"Perfect," I murmur, hands spreading her thighs wider. "My perfect little wife."
I drop to my knees before her—the president kneeling for no one but her—and bury my face between her legs without preamble. She gasps, hands flying to my shoulders for balance as I devour her, licking and sucking with single-minded purpose.
"Vance," she moans, head falling back, hips bucking against my mouth.
I grip her thighs harder, holding her in place as I worship her with my tongue. The taste of her, the sound of her pleasure, the knowledge that she's safe and mine—it's everything I need after hours of violent thoughts and dark plans.
When she's close—trembling and begging—I pull back, standing to unbuckle my belt with urgent fingers. My cock springs free, rock hard and leaking, ready to claim what's mine.
"Turn around," I order, voice rough with need. "Hands on the handlebars."
She complies without hesitation, positioning herself on the bike's seat, bent forward with her perfect ass presented to me. I push the t-shirt up further, bunching it around her waist, revealing the curve of her spine, the delicate bones of her shoulder blades beneath pale skin.
"So fucking beautiful," I growl, positioning myself at her entrance. "So fucking mine."
I push inside in one powerful thrust, making her cry out, her inner walls clenching around me like a vice. The position, her on my bike, taking my cock—it's ownership in its most primal form.
“Nothing in this world is better than this, baby doll,” I praise, setting a brutal pace, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "This perfect little pussy that was made for fucking. Made just for your daddy.”
The garage fills with the sounds of our coupling—skin slapping against skin, her breathless moans, my guttural groans. Anyone walking by would hear us, would know exactly what I'm doing to my wife. The thought only drives me harder, deeper.
"You feel that?" I demand, reaching around to circle her clit as I pound into her. "Feel how deep I am? No one else gets this. No one else gets to touch you, to see you like this."
"No one else," she gasps, pushing back to meet each thrust. "Only you, Daddy. Only you."
Her submission, freely given despite everything, breaks something loose in me. I'm rough, possessive, claiming her with every thrust, every touch, every filthy word I whisper in her ear.
"Gonna fill you up, baby doll," I growl, feeling my release building. "Gonna put my seed so deep in you. Make sure everyone knows who you belong to."
She tightens around me at the words, close to her own climax. "Please," she begs, voice trembling with need. "Please, Daddy."
"Come for me," I command, rubbing her clit faster, thrusting deeper. "Come on Daddy's cock while he breeds you."
She shatters with a cry, her body convulsing around mine, milking my cock with rhythmic pulses. It's enough to push me over the edge, and I bury myself to the hilt, erupting inside her with a roar of satisfaction.
For long moments we stay joined, both panting, both trembling with the force of our release. When I finally pull out, I watch with possessive satisfaction as my seed trickles down her thigh, marking her as mine in the most primitive way.
I turn her gently in my arms, gathering her against my chest, suddenly tender now that the urgent need has been satisfied. She clings to me, face pressed against my neck, her breath warm against my skin.
"I was so scared you wouldn't come back," she confesses in a whisper.
"Nothing could keep me from you," I promise, stroking her hair. "Nothing in this world or the next."
We stay like that for a while, holding each other in the quiet of the garage, surrounded by tools of war and signs of brotherhood. When I finally lead her back to our quarters, carrying her half-asleep form in my arms, my resolve has hardened like steel.
The Nighthawks think they've found my weakness. They don't understand they've only given me something worth fighting for. Something worth winning for.
And I always win.