Chapter 19
Nyxa
Iwake to quiet. Not the usual lazy-morning quiet where the coffee’s brewing in the kitchen and North’s heavy steps thump across the floor. This is hollow quiet. Still. Cold.
The space beside me is untouched. Sheets smooth. No trace of his warmth sinking into the mattress.
I roll over, grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen glares back at me; no missed calls, no texts. Nothing from him.
It’s not the first time he’s come in late, but he always ends up next to me by the time the sun’s up. Always.
I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the kitchen. The coffee pot is bone dry, no mug on the counter. It’s a stupid thing to notice, but the absence punches me in the chest harder than I want to admit. I pull one of his shirts and jeans before marching out the door. I pull my hair up.
The BB’s my first stop and is closed. Dark inside. That’s not right.
By the time I pull up to the clubhouse, my stomach’s a knot I can’t untangle. There’s so many bikes over here, it scares me.
The second I push the door open, the noise hits me like a wall.
Voices sharp, clipped. Boots stomping on tile. The metallic click of weapons being checked, the thud of gear dropped onto tables. The air smells like gun oil, leather, and tension.
Iron’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and commanding. “—double-check your clips. Nobody rolls out half-ready. If you’re not on my list, you’re not on the road. That’s not a debate. We’ve got twenty minutes, and if you’re late, you’re left behind.”
My gaze sweeps the room: Saints' moving like a single machine, packing ammo, strapping on cuts, slamming magazines into place. I catch words here and there. Border. Iowa. Trouble.
“Prez is missing. Him and every man who went with him.”
The words don’t make sense at first. They just hang there, twisting in my chest until the meaning slams home. My lungs seize. The edges of my vision blur. My hands go cold. The sound in the room gets louder, but it’s like I’m underwater, distorted, muffled, too far away.
I can’t breathe. I can’t…
A hand on my arm jerks me back. “Hey—hey, look at me.” It’s Eva, her brows pulled tight. “Nyxa, you can’t stay here. Breathe.”
I shake my head. No. Breathing won’t fix this. Breathing won’t put him back in this room.
I force the air in, force it out, but my legs already know what I’m going to do. Before I even think about it, I’m moving, cutting through the room, ignoring the looks, ignoring Eva calling my name, and making a straight line for Iron.
I wait until the others peel off, then plant myself in Iron’s path. “We need to talk.”
“Now’s not the time, Nyxa.”
“I’m not doing this in front of everyone, so either you take five minutes or I make a scene you won’t like.” I don’t blink. I don’t lower my voice. I just hold his gaze until his jaw ticks and he jerks his head toward the hallway.
We cut down a narrow corridor, past the armory. The second the office door shuts behind us, I’m on him.
“What the hell happened?”
His arms cross, his stance widening like he’s bracing for impact. “You don’t need…”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I need, Iron. My man is out there. Missing. And if you think I’m just gonna sit on my ass while you play hero.”
His voice rises over mine, steel and command. “This isn’t about playing the hero. It’s about keeping people alive. You step one foot where you’re not supposed to, and you’re not just a liability, you’re a target. You want to help him? Stay the fuck out of our way.”
“Then let me be a target.” I jab a finger into his chest. “If whoever the hell took him, wants to use me as bait—good. That’s more time for you to get to him. More minutes for him to breathe.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You got a death wish, Nyxa?”
“I’ve got a North wish,” I snap back, my voice trembling from the force I’m holding inside. “I’d bleed before I let them keep him.”
His laugh is humorless. “You try me, and I’ll chain you to the goddamn wall. You’re not Prez. You’re not patched. You’re not going.”
“I’m his.” My voice drops, quiet but burning. “That means something here, doesn’t it?”
“It means you don’t challenge a brother in front of the club unless you’re ready for the fallout. It means you listen when I tell you something, and you clearly don’t listen to me. Wolves and Black Panthers are already moving. Every minute we waste could cost lives.”
My nails dig crescents into my palms. “And every minute I’m stuck here feels like losing him all over again.”
Iron steps in close, his shadow swallowing mine. “Saints' HQ is locked down.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m disposable,” I fire back. “You think I’m scared of being a target? I’ve been a target since the day I was born.”
His nostrils flare, breath coming heavy through his teeth. “You’re not just some girl in the club. You’re Prez’s. And I won’t lose any of my family.”
My stomach knots. “You just said it. Family.”
“So?”
“So, if I’m family, I fight with my family. You don’t lock me up and call it protection. You take me with you.”
His eyes narrow, weighing me. “That’s not how this works.”
“Then change how it works,” I bite back, my voice shaking with rage I can’t swallow. “Every minute you waste holding me back is another minute he’s in their hands. You might be able to stomach that. I sure as hell can’t.”
Iron doesn’t answer. He just stares, the kind of stare that feels like it’s stripping me down to bone, measuring how far I’ll go and whether I’m bluffing.
I’m not.
My pulse is wild, the air between us is buzzing with the kind of tension that makes people swing or kiss. With Iron, it’ll always be the first.
Finally, he exhales hard through his nose and looks away, raking a hand over his shaved head. “You got claws, I’ll give you that.”
“Then let me use them.”
His gaze snaps back to mine, sharp as a blade. “You don’t get it. Out there, it’s not about claws. It’s about coming home breathing. I take you with me, you’re another body I have to shield. Another distraction that gets men killed.”
“I won’t be a distraction.”
“You will.” His voice drops into something almost… regretful. “Because whether you like it or not, he’ll burn the whole damn map to get you safe before he thinks about saving himself. And if that happens, we lose both of you.”
The logic slams into me, but I don’t let it show. I shove it down, wrap it in fire, and hurl it back. “If I’m not there and they kill him, you’ll still lose both of us. Because I won’t survive it.”
For a second, something flickers in his expression.
Then it’s gone.
He shakes his head, voice like steel on stone.
“You stay by my side, and if you cause trouble, I’ll be the one haunting your ass for the rest of your life.
Prez’s ol’ lady or not, he’s my family. They all are.
And when shit goes bad, my brothers need someone who won’t break before they make it home. ”
I step forward until there’s barely an inch between us. “I won’t be a pain in your ass. It’s my man you’re talking about, and sure as hell I ain’t staying here while you ride out there without me.”
His mouth curves, not in amusement, but in that grim, knowing way men do when they’ve already made up their minds.
“Fine.”
I let out a long breath, slow and shaky, my palms slick with sweat. My gaze catches on North’s office, and there they are. His father’s iron knuckles. Sitting high on the shelf, dull metal catching the low light, edges worn from years of stories I’ve only heard in bits and pieces.
I grab them before I can second-guess it.
They’re heavier than I thought, solid enough to bruise bone just by holding them. The cold bites into my skin, grounding me.
If you’ve got anything left to give, old man, give it to me now.
Outside, engines are already rumbling, headlights spilling across gravel. Iron straddles his bike, helmet hooked on one arm. He looks at the knuckles in my grip and smirks.
“You even know how to use those, little hellcat?”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “I’ll figure it out.”
He chuckles, low and mean. “Not unless you wanna break your own damn hand.
“Listen up.” He sighs. “Knuckles aren’t for flailing.
You hit wrong, you shatter your fingers.
Keep your wrist straight—lock it.” He grabs my hand briefly, adjusting my grip on the steel so it sits flush with my knuckles.
“You aim for soft spots: temple, jaw, gut. Don’t waste time swinging at the thick parts. You want ’em down fast.”
The metal feels different now, more dangerous, more alive, like it knows I’m about to use it for real.
He jerks his chin. “Get on.”
I swing onto the seat behind him, gripping the leather of his cut as the engine roars to life. The convoy starts moving, the night air slicing cold against my cheeks.
The ride is a blur of roaring engines and sweeping shadows. I can feel Iron’s muscles shift under my hands as he weaves through the empty roads, the scent of oil and leather in the air.
He taps the comm in his helmet. “Black Panthers are en route. Wolves too. ETA, fifteen.”
“Good,” I yell back. “The faster they—”
“We’re not waiting,” he cuts in.
“Wait won’t kill us.”
He laughs without humor. “We don’t wait. And keep the spirit, but no headshots. We don’t have time to babysit.”
I tighten my hold on him, leaning close enough so my voice cuts through the wind. “Fuck you, Iron. With all due respect, I don’t need a fucking babysitter. I need my man.”
His shoulders shake with a scoff, but his grip on the bars tightens. “Then you’d better hit harder than you talk, hellcat.”
The road stretches ahead, black and endless, but all I see is North: bleeding, hopefully alive, waiting.
And God help anyone standing between me and him.