North’s Claim (Saint’s Outlaws MC, Ravell’s Chapter #1)

Chapter 1

North

Ifucking hate weddings.

They're loud and unnecessary. Full of soft people with softer hearts, pretending forever exists. But Rock’s getting married, and if your strongest ally, friend and President of the Black Panthers, marries, you show up, drink a beer, and smile like the world isn’t burning under your boots.

Newtok's nothing but trees and secrets tucked into the north Wisconsin backwoods. I ride to the wedding that same day. The road hums under my tires, long past the point of feeling anything. Tornado and Rook, my enforcer and prospect, flank me; silent, loyal, like a shadow and its echo.

The Black Panthers’ clubhouse is alive when we roll in: motorcycles, music, and the smell of meat and gasoline. Full swing chaos before the wedding takes place. Men shouting, women laughing and beers cracked open.

Tornado claps me on the shoulder, nodding toward the fire pit. “Think they’ll make it to the vows before someone drinks themselves stupid?”

“Not my fucking problem,” I mutter, swinging my leg off the bike.

Inside, it’s noise and smoke and bodies pressed too close. The kind of room that expects you to relax, let go, pretend you belong.

I never pretend.

Rock finds me before I find the bar. Arms wide, smile stretched. “North! About time you showed up. Thought you were gonna ghost me.”

“Would’ve sent flowers,” I grunt. “But Di said she’d punch me if I acted soft.”

“She would’ve framed 'em.” Rock laughs.

Denise appears out of nowhere, beer in hand. She's sharp-tongued, brutal, and probably the only woman in this state I respect. She gives me a nod. “You good, Prez?”

“Always.”

We share a look, quick and mutual. She knows I don’t do parties unless I owe someone.

I grab a beer and post near the back wall, Tornado beside me, Rook bouncing on his heels like a pup waiting for a command. Bullet from the Wolves throws me a two-finger salute. I nod back.

Back in ’32, a group of bikers came together with one goal: clean up their territory from the filth poisoning it. They’d seen their community suffer too long and were done sitting back. They wanted to protect their own and make a change.

That group splintered off from Black Panthers, Rock’s MC, and The Vipers—two clubs so greedy they didn’t care if they burned the whole place down as long as they held the ashes.

When Rock reached out about forming an alliance to kick those bastards out, I was skeptical.

We already had our hands full dealing with some Iowa kids playing biker in borrowed cuts pretending to be an MC.

But the Black Panthers backed us up, helped us wipe them off the map and that changed everything for me.

I still remember seeing Bullet at the table for the first sit-down. That moment set everything in motion. We agreed, then and there, no stepping into each other’s business. Respect, loyalty, and strength wasn’t just talk.

From that point on, we were untouchable. Hit one of us, and the others rain hell. Iowa new crews tried a few more times. We pushed back harder, took some of their border territory while we were at it.

Now, our safety triangle ain’t just about keeping each other safe, it’s a power structure, a brotherhood and business is booming because of it.

The Black Panthers run the north, Newtok’s theirs. We’ve got the Midwest and parts of Iowa, we handle the gun trafficking and some local businesses. The Wolves own strip clubs, towing, tattoo shops, all fronts. And when things get messy, they clean it up. Violently.

We don’t cross into each other’s turf. Don’t question how the others handle their end. That’s how it works. That’s why it works.

They said weddings bring people together. I call bullshit.

It’s too loud, too warm, too many damn smiles and way too many badges.

I lean back against the post near the edge of the outdoor setup, arms crossed over my cut, watching the guests shuffle and buzz like flies over open beer.

The ceremony’s about to start. Sun’s burning through my sunglasses.

Some soft string music’s playing, and the chairs creak under civilians trying to play polite in the presence of outlaws.

Torment sidles up next to me, fixing his collar like he gives a damn.

“You clean up well, Prez,” he mutters, grin sharp.

“You talk too much.” I grunt.

“That’s what keeps me young.”

“You’re thirty-five.”

“Exactly. Ancient in club years.” He bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “Try not to scowl the whole time. It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”

“Depends who you ask,” I murmur.

He laughs, low and dirty. But it works. Loosens my jaw a little. He always knows when I’m itching to leave.

Rock’s standing tall by the altar. Black cut cleaned and pressed over a dark shirt.

Even his boots look polished, and I know for a fact the bastard spilled whiskey on them this morning.

But he’s focused now, eyes locked ahead like the ceremony’s just another mission to execute. Efficient and solid. That’s Rock.

Ashley walks down the aisle, and for a breath, everything goes quiet. I see it in his stance, the way his shoulders shift forward like she’s the only one who exists in that moment.

She’s wearing her cut over white lace. Clean lines. Patch proud. She earned that leather. Bled for it. And stood her ground until both worlds bent enough for her to walk through. I can respect that. Doesn’t mean I want his father, the damn sheriff, and his men sniffing around like they belong.

Club weddings ain’t meant for lawmen. But this one... this one's different. I knew it would be.

Still hate it.

I spot the sheriff watching us from two rows back, stiff as a post, hand near his hip out of habit. We nod once. Mutual understanding: I won’t gut your friends today. Don’t give me a reason tomorrow.

The vows are short. Rock keeps it tight, only man I know who can say I do and sound like he’s giving a command. Ashley chokes up. Just a little. She says her promises like she means every one of them.

Torment leans in again. “Bet she will make her father arrest him the first time he forgets trash day.”

“She’ll just cuff him for fun.”

“Ah, kinky marriage. Solid choice.”

I shake my head once. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he shoots back, grinning.

The kiss ends it. Applause. Whistles. A few roars from the Black Panthers, louder than necessary. Pride, I guess. I stay back, nod once toward Rock when he glances over. That’s all he needs.

Then there’s photos. Cake. Dancing. All the bullshit that drags the day longer than it should. I let the club handle most of it. They drink, flirt, and laugh too hard. Torment makes it his mission to keep dragging me into shit I don’t want to do. Half of them succeed.

Still... the moment stretches into hours. And all I want is for the sun to go down so I can lay my head on a mattress that doesn’t belong to a hotel. Go the fuck to sleep, then wake up and ride home.

But I wait it out. For Rock, for the club and for Ashley, because as much as I hate that badge smell in the air, I see how she’s sewn herself into our world. And when someone earns their place, they deserve the respect of being seen. Even if I’d rather be anywhere else.

Outside, the barbecue’s on fire, literally. Panthers shout, Wolves laugh, someone nearly loses a brow, bottles clink, and music thrums. I light a blunt, lean back, eyes drifting toward the other end of the patio.

That’s when I feel it. A ripple.

There’s a small group crowding near the outdoor bar. Mostly prospects, half-buzzed and too cocky for their cuts. Something about the way they’re grouped, tight, interested, watching too intently, gets my attention.

I stroll over.

K, one of Rock’s prospects, glances at me, all nerves. “One of the Wolves is giving a show. Idiot doesn’t know the rules. Says she’s up for fun, but...”

He doesn’t finish, and I see why. Myka, Wolves’ prospect. Trash in a leather vest. Slouched like he owns the patio, legs spread, grin smug. His girl straddles his lap, hair down, face painted in thick makeup, hands limp like she’s enduring.

Myka’s got one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back like he’s showing off a prize. His other hand grips her hip, bouncing her on his lap like she’s some flashlight for hire.

And she’s not enjoying it.

Not one fucking bit.

I recognize her. The girl from Coldsmash, the Wolves’ charter. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. The one who watched me like she was trying to figure out if I was real.

Her face tilts, our eyes lock, and something ugly and ancient twists inside me.

That flutter again. The one I don’t admit to.

The one I kill the moment it moved the first time, the second and even now.

I walk to the bar, slow, and grab another beer.

Pretend nothing’s wrong. Pretend I’m not picturing what I’d do if it were one of mine degrading a woman like that.

“Prez,” Myka calls out, his grin widening. “You made it just in time. Want a turn?”

I don’t respond.

She doesn’t move. Just waits, rigid, like prey. Her shoulders are tight. Her soul’s hanging by a thread.

Myka chuckles. “I’m keeping her warm for you.”

I walk up to them without rushing, without warning, even as a storm gathers inside me. The fury is cold and surgical, the kind of rage that doesn’t explode but tightens, growing quieter the stronger it becomes.

Her knees are bruised, her lips swollen, her eyes empty.

I reach out and touch her leg and she flinches like I struck her.

Myka laughs. “Told you. Nyxa loves the attention.”

My hand moves slowly, sliding up her thigh. She’s soft and shaking. Her breath catches in her throat, held tight behind bitten lips. Still, she doesn’t stop me. She wants to speak but she doesn’t.

I press my palm flat against her inner thigh, warm skin, tensed muscle, and ease it higher. She parts for me without a word, shame staining her cheeks as her eyes flicker back to mine.

I see that crack in her armor before shutting her eyes closed.

The war behind her silence.

She’s not asking for pleasure. She’s asking to feel something other than pain.