Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Vance
The first shots come at dawn. I'm already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Wynter sleep.
Somehow I knew they'd come today—animal instinct, maybe, or just years of living on high alert.
The sound of gunfire has me moving before my brain fully processes what's happening.
In one fluid motion, I grab my gun from the nightstand, shove my feet into boots, and reach for Wynter.
Her eyes fly open as I haul her against my chest, confusion quickly giving way to fear as more shots ring out, followed by the distant roar of engines.
"Nighthawks?" she asks, voice tight with fear but remarkably steady.
"Yes." No point in lying. "I need to get you somewhere safe."
I carry her to the closet, pulling aside the hanging clothes to reveal a hidden door—a panic room we installed years ago for situations exactly like this. Inside is a steel-reinforced space just big enough for one person, with water, a gun, and a secure phone line to the main building.
"Stay here," I tell her, setting her on her feet inside the small space. "No matter what you hear, don't come out until I or Diesel come for you. Understand?"
She nods, her face pale but determined. "Be careful," she whispers, reaching up to touch my face. "Come back to me."
I kiss her hard, trying to pour everything I feel into that brief contact. "Always," I promise, then close the heavy door, hearing the automatic lock engage.
The compound is in organized chaos when I emerge, gun drawn. Club members moving with practiced efficiency to defensive positions, the rattle of gunfire punctuated by shouted commands. I find Blade by the main entrance, barking orders into a radio.
"At least twenty of them," he reports when he sees me. "Coming in from the east gate. Looks like they're trying to split us, draw our forces thin."
"They're here for me," I say grimly. "For Wynter."
He nods, understanding without needing explanation. "We'll hold the perimeter. You do what you need to do."
What I need to do is simple: eliminate the threat to my wife. Permanently.
I move through the compound with single-minded purpose, joining the fight at the east entrance where the assault is heaviest. The Nighthawks have breached the outer fence, their motorcycles scattered across the yard like fallen soldiers. Bodies too—not all of them theirs.
The rage that fills me at the sight of my fallen brothers is cold, calculated. No blind fury that might make me sloppy. Just deadly precision fueled by the need to protect what's mine.
I spot their leader—not the president, but his right hand, the same rat-faced bastard whose nose I broke before. He's directing the assault from behind a makeshift barricade, obviously thinking himself safe from return fire.
He's wrong.
I circle wide, using the buildings as cover, until I'm positioned with a clear shot. One bullet would end him. Clean. Simple. But this isn't about clean or simple. This is about sending a message.
I holster my gun and draw my knife instead.
When I emerge from behind the storage shed, he doesn't see me coming until it's too late. I take him down silently, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other pressing the blade to his throat.
"Remember me?" I growl in his ear, dragging him backward into the shadows. "Remember what I promised if you came near my wife?"
His struggles cease as recognition dawns. Fear rolls off him in waves, the acrid stench of it mixing with the gunpowder in the air.
"The others can leave," I tell him, voice deadly calm. "But you? You're my message."
What happens next isn't something I'd ever want Wynter to see. The darkness in me, the violence I've contained and channeled for years, unleashes fully. When I'm finished, what's left of him will indeed send a message—one that will ensure no rival club dares threaten what's mine again.
The fighting continues for another twenty minutes, but the heart goes out of the Nighthawks' assault when their leader's body appears, displayed prominently at the front gate. They retreat in disarray, leaving their wounded and dead behind.
We've lost three brothers, with another five injured. The compound bears the scars of battle—bullet holes in walls, broken windows, bloodstains on concrete. But we're standing. We've held.
My first thought once the all-clear sounds is Wynter. I sprint back to our quarters, taking the steps two at a time. The rooms are untouched—no one made it this far into the compound. I approach the hidden door in the closet, tapping the code that disengages the lock.
"Wynter?" I call, keeping my voice gentle despite the adrenaline still surging through my veins. "It's me, baby doll. It's over."
The door opens slowly, revealing her pale face. For a moment she just stares at me, taking in the blood splattered across my shirt, the wild look I know must be in my eyes. Then she launches herself into my arms with a sob of relief.
"You're okay," she gasps against my neck, arms wrapped tight around me. "You came back."
"Told you I would." I hold her close, breathing in her scent, letting it center me, pull me back from the dark place I've been.
She pulls back slightly, eyes scanning my body. "Is that…is that your blood?"
"No." I don't elaborate. Some things she doesn't need to know.
Her hands move over me anyway, checking for wounds, reassuring herself I'm whole. The touch ignites something primal in me—the battle high, the triumph of victory, the relief of having protected what's mine. My cock hardens instantly, pressing against her stomach.
"Vance?" She feels it too, eyes widening slightly.
"Need you," I growl, beyond words, beyond gentleness. "Now."
She doesn't hesitate, doesn't question the wildness in me. Just nods, understanding something fundamental about men like me—that violence and desire run on the same track, that survival and possession are linked in ways that defy explanation.
I lift her, carrying her not to the bed but outside, to where my bike sits in its usual spot, unscathed by the morning's chaos. The symbolism isn't lost on me—my two most prized possessions, both intact, both mine to claim.
I set her on her feet beside the bike, turn her to face it. "Hands on the seat," I command, voice rough with need.
She complies, bending forward, presenting herself to me. I push her nightgown up around her waist, revealing she's bare beneath. The sight of her like this—vulnerable, trusting, mine—nearly breaks me.
I free myself from my jeans, already rock hard and leaking. The need to claim her, to mark her as mine after defending her, is overwhelming.
"Mine to hold, baby doll," I growl as I position myself at her entrance. "Mine to protect."
I push inside in one powerful thrust, making her gasp and clutch the seat for balance. The feel of her—tight and wet and perfect—centers me in the chaos, reminds me what I'm fighting for.
"Feel Daddy breeding you," I pant, setting a punishing pace, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "No one else gets this. No one touches what's mine."
"Yours," she gasps, pushing back to meet each thrust. "Only yours, Daddy."
The combination of her submission and the battle adrenaline still coursing through me drives me to the edge quickly. I reach around to circle her clit, determined to take her with me.
"Come for me," I demand, feeling my release building. "Come on Daddy's cock while he fills you up."
She obeys, her body clenching around mine in rhythmic pulses, her cry of pleasure the sweetest sound I've ever heard. It triggers my own orgasm, a release so intense it borders on painful. I empty myself inside her with a roar, claiming her in the most primitive way possible.
Afterward, I gather her against my chest, suddenly gentle now that the feral need has been satisfied. She's trembling slightly, from the intensity or the aftermath of fear, I'm not sure.
"I'm sorry," I murmur against her hair. "If I was too rough—"
"Don't apologize," she cuts me off, turning in my arms to face me. "I needed that too. Needed to feel you. To know we're both alive."
I study her face, searching for signs of fear or regret. Find none. Just the clear-eyed gaze of a woman who has seen the darkness in me and still chooses to stay.
"I killed a man today," I say, needing her to understand the reality of what happened. "More than one."
She nods slowly. "To protect me. To protect your family."
"Yes." There's no point denying it, no way to soften the truth of who I am, what I'm capable of.
Her hands come up to frame my face, a touch so gentle it nearly undoes me after the violence of the day. "Then I'm grateful," she says simply. "Grateful you're the kind of man who can do what needs to be done."
In that moment, I know with absolute certainty that she's the only woman who could ever truly understand me, accept me. The only one meant to be my wife, my partner, my everything.
"I love you," I tell her, the words still new on my tongue but no less true for it.
"I love you too," she responds without hesitation. "All of you. Even the parts that terrify me."
We stand there in the aftermath of battle, holding each other amid the smell of gunpowder and blood and sex, and I know the Nighthawks have lost more than they realize. They thought attacking would expose my weakness.
Instead, they've only proven my strength.