Chapter Seven
The first light of morning crept through the blinds of the safe house, pale and cold against the sheets.
Jackson stood by the window, already dressed, his broad frame blocking most of the light as he watched Larkin sleep.
The bruises on her arms and cheek stood out dark against her skin, and a slow burn settled low in his gut at the sight.
He had seen worse, but not on someone who mattered the way she did now.
She stirred, eyes fluttering open, and the first thing she saw was him. A small, tired smile touched her mouth before she pushed herself up on one elbow.
"You're staring," she said, voice still rough from sleep.
"Can't help it." Jackson crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, one large hand resting on her hip through the blanket. "How do you feel?"
"Sore. Alive." She reached up and touched the bruise along her jaw, wincing slightly. "You got me out. That's what counts."
Jackson nodded once, but the weight of what came next pressed down on him.
The war with the Vipers was no longer quiet.
Whitaker would not sit back and let them keep the ledger.
He would use every tool at his disposal, including the police, and that meant no one close to Larkin was safe.
He kept that thought to himself for the moment.
"We need to move," he said. "Clubhouse first. Then we figure out the rest."
Larkin did not argue. She let him help her out of bed, and together they gathered what little they had.
The drive back into town was quiet, the engine of his truck the only sound between them.
When they pulled up to the clubhouse, several bikes already lined the lot.
Jackson killed the engine and looked at her.
"Whatever happens in there, you stay beside me."
She met his eyes and gave a short nod. "Lead the way."
Inside, the air felt thick. Brothers lingered near the bar, eyes tracking them as Jackson guided Larkin down the hall toward the chapel. Sinner stood at the head of the long table, arms crossed, jaw set. The moment Jackson stepped through the door, the president spoke.
"You went off on your own. No calls or texts. That's not how we do things in this club, Jackson. Could've gotten yourself and the woman killed." Sinner's voice carried the gravel of someone who had seen too many nights like this one.
Jackson stopped at the far end of the table and kept Larkin close to his side. "She was in that basement because of us. Because Whitaker and the Vipers wanted what she found. I wasn't going to wait while they finished the job."
"You don't get to decide that alone," Sinner shot back. "We ride as one or not at all. Now the whole club is exposed because you couldn't follow orders."
The tension in the room pulled tight. Jackson felt every eye on him, but he kept his stance steady. "Larkin is under my protection. She's my old lady now, whether the club likes it or not. That means anyone who comes for her answers to me first."
Larkin drew in a quiet breath beside him, but she did not pull away. The words settled between them like a new boundary neither of them planned to cross back over. Sinner studied Jackson for a long stretch, then gave a single, reluctant nod.
"Your responsibility then. Don't make me regret it."
With the meeting over, Jackson led Larkin out into the main room. Haven and Glenda were already waiting near a corner table stacked with papers and the recovered ledger. Haven offered a gentle smile.
"We heard you had a rough night," she said. "If you're up for it, we could use fresh eyes on these pages."
"You could say that," Larkin responded, looking at Haven with questions in her eyes as she tried to figure out who the other woman was.
Haven smiled, "This is Glenda. She was an old lady, her man passed a while back. Now she keeps us all up on the gossip in town."
"Hey, how are you doing honey?" Glenda asked in lieu of a greeting.
"Yesterday was a hard day," Larkin said, "Today can only get better right?"
Larkin glanced at Jackson, then stepped forward. "Let's see what we've got."
The three women settled in while Jackson took up a post nearby, arms folded, watching the room. Pages turned. Numbers and names filled the margins of the ledger in tight, coded lines. Glenda traced one column with a finger, frowning.
"This isn't just about cash. Look here. Dates, locations along the waterfront. Somebody's buying up land fast."
Haven leaned closer. "Whitaker's name keeps coming up next to these transfers. If he's planning to sell that property to a developer, the whole east side of Silverlake becomes fair game. That includes every business we protect."
Larkin flipped another page and stopped. Her finger rested on a line marked with a single phrase: clean sweep. "He's not stopping at theft. He wants the club gone. Bulldoze the territory, push the Bastard Kings out, and hand everything to the Vipers once the dust settles."
Glenda muttered a low curse. "That bastard's been playing us for months."
Jackson moved closer, reading over Larkin's shoulder. The proof sat right there in black ink. This had never been about simple robbery. It was a full-scale takeover dressed up as real estate deals. The stakes had climbed higher than any of them expected when the first theft reports came in.
"We need copies of every page," Jackson said. "Sinner will want to see this before we decide next steps."
Haven nodded and pulled a phone from her bag to start photographing the ledger.
Glenda gathered the loose notes they had already made and tucked them into a folder.
Larkin stayed quiet, but Jackson caught the way her hands tightened on the table edge.
She had walked into this fight chasing a story.
Now the story had teeth, and it meant the life she had tried to build in Silverlake could vanish overnight.
Hours passed in steady work. The women cross-referenced dates and addresses, building a clearer picture of Whitaker's reach. Every new connection tightened the noose around the club's territory. When the last page had been scanned, Larkin leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes.
"That's it. We have enough to bury him if we can get it to the right people."
Jackson placed a hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing the curve of her neck. "We will. But not today. Today we keep you and the ledger safe."
She looked up at him, and something passed between them that had nothing to do with the papers on the table. The rest of the room faded for a moment. Then Glenda cleared her throat lightly.
"I should get these copies to the back room before anyone else wanders in," she said, gathering the folder.
Haven followed with a quiet smile, leaving Jackson and Larkin alone at the table. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat, knees brushing hers.
"You held your own in there," he said. "With Sinner. With the ledger. Not many people stand their ground like that around here."
"I didn't come this far to back down now." Her voice held the same sharp edge it always had, but softer underneath. "I'm not used to someone claiming me in front of a room full of bikers, though."
Jackson gave a low chuckle. "Get used to it. You're not going anywhere without me watching your back."
She studied him for a beat, then leaned in and kissed him slow, her lips warm against his.
The contact stayed light at first, then deepened when his hand slid up to cradle the back of her head.
Heat built between them, the same fierce pull that had carried them through the night before.
When they broke apart, her breath came quicker.
"We should probably find a room," she murmured, a hint of a smile playing at her mouth.
Jackson stood and pulled her with him. They moved down the hallway to one of the spare rooms the club kept for guests.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the world outside narrowed to the small space between their bodies.
He backed her against the wall, his mouth finding hers again while his hands worked at the buttons of her shirt.
She tugged at his cut, pushing it from his shoulders, and the heavy leather hit the floor with a soft thud.
Her skin felt warm under his palms, a fevered contrast to the cool air of the room.
Every bruise he touched made him gentler, his touch softening as his thumbs traced the dark marks on her ribs, but the raw need between them remained sharp, demanding.
He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her fingers burying into his hair as he carried her to the bed.
Clothes came away in quick, desperate movements until nothing separated them.
Jackson settled over her, one hand braced beside her head while the other traced down her side, mapping the curves he had claimed the night before, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
She arched into his touch, nails dragging lightly across the broad muscles of his back, urging him closer.
When he pushed inside her, they both exhaled at the same time, the sudden, thick friction grounding them in the middle of everything still spinning outside these walls.
He moved with a heavy, steady rhythm, each deep thrust carrying the weight of the promise he had made in the chapel, claiming her deeper with every stroke.
She met him without hesitation, her body yielding to his weight even as her eyes stayed locked on his, dark with a matching, fierce intensity.
Their release came together, a quiet, shattering rush that left them tangled, slick with sweat, and breathing hard.
Jackson stayed inside her for a long stretch afterward, his heavy frame anchoring her to the mattress, forehead pressed to hers while one hand stroked through her tangled hair.
When he finally eased out and pulled her against his chest, wrapping the light blanket over them, she rested her cheek over his heart, listening to its steady, thudding rhythm.
"This changes everything," she whispered.
"It already did." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You're not alone in this anymore."
They lay together until the light through the small window shifted.
Outside the door, the clubhouse continued its quiet rhythm of voices and footsteps.
Inside, the ledger waited on a nearby table, proof of the storm still coming.
But for now, the room held only the steady beat of two hearts that had found the same fight and the same shelter.