Chapter 3 – Morgan
Daylight changes everything. Last night, the storm gave us cover, limited sight lines, impossible tracking, roads closed by weather that kept everyone pinned where they were.
But now the world is laid bare under hard winter sun, and every footprint shows, every tire track cuts deep grooves that anyone with eyes can follow, and movement that was hidden twelve hours ago will be seen for miles.
If Megan's ex is still hunting, this brightness makes us targets instead of shadows.
I drain the rest of my coffee and set the mug down harder than I mean to, the ceramic clinking against the windowsill. Keeping Megan here was the right call last night, but staying isolated now is a different calculation entirely.
I run through alternatives the way I always do, sorting options by risk and discarding the ones that don't hold up under scrutiny.
The answer settles in my gut, we're going back.
Behind me, I hear the soft creak of floorboards and turn to find Megan standing in the doorway to the living room, wrapped in the blanket from last night and still wearing my clothes. Her hair is tangled from sleep, her face pale but slightly calmer than it was before.
"Morning," I say, keeping my voice low and even.
"Morning," she echoes, her voice still rough with sleep. She glances at the window, at the brightness beyond, and I watch her shoulders tense just slightly as if the exposure bothers her too. "The storm stopped."
"Yeah." I move away from the window, giving her space to process. "Which means we need to head back into town. Staying out here isn't safe enough anymore."
"Okay," she says simply.
We're on the road twenty minutes later, the truck cutting through snow that hasn't been plowed yet, and the drive back into Whitetail Falls feels different in daylight, more exposed.
Megan sits quietly in the passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, staring out at the white landscape without speaking, and I let the silence hold because there's nothing that needs saying right now.
When we pull up to the clubhouse, the place looks less mythic than it did last night under storm and darkness.
The brick building sits solid in the cold morning light, snow piled high along the edges of the parking lot where someone's already been out with a plow blade, and bikes line the far wall under a makeshift awning that keeps them clear of the worst drifts.
Smoke rises from the chimney, and through the front windows I can see movement inside.
I park near the door and glance at Megan. "You ready?"
She nods and we head inside together.
The warmth hits immediately, along with the smell of coffee and something frying in the kitchen.
Men move through the space with purpose, Grave checking something on his bike near the back, Miller bent over a map spread across one of the tables, Price hauling in firewood and stacking it neatly by the hearth.
Conversations don't stop when we walk in, but there's a subtle shift in attention, heads turning briefly before returning to whatever they were doing.
Hansen looks up from where he's standing near the kitchen and lifts his chin in acknowledgment. “Coffee's fresh. Food in ten if you want it."
Megan nods her thanks, and I guide her toward the couch near the fire, the same spot she collapsed into last night. She sinks down slowly, still wrapped in the blanket, and I watch as her gaze tracks the room.
Grave ambles over after a few minutes, coffee mug in hand, and drops into the chair across from us.
"You good?" he asks finally, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Megan hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Thank you."
Grave grunts acknowledgment and shifts his attention to me. "Roads?"
"Passable if you're careful," I tell him. "Main routes are clear enough, but the back roads are a mess. Give it another day before trying anything off the grid."
He nods, processing this, and then Miller appears at the table with Luke trailing behind him, both of them moving with the kind of focus that means something's shifted since last night. Hansen joins them without being called, and I feel my attention sharpen.
Luke spreads something across the table. He glances toward me and tips his head slightly, an invitation that doesn't need words.
I look at Megan. "I'll be right back."
She nods, pulling the blanket tighter, and I cross the room to where the others are gathered.
Luke's notes are neat and methodical. He taps one section with his finger and speaks quietly, keeping his voice low enough that it won't carry across the bar.
"Deadwood scouts were seen near the northern boundary yesterday afternoon, just before the storm hit," he says. "Three bikes, riding slow, asking questions at the gas station about who's been moving through town. They weren't aggressive, but they weren't subtle either."
Hansen's jaw tightens slightly, the only outward sign of his reaction. "They make contact with anyone?"
"Not directly," Luke says. "But they were mapping us. Learning routines, checking response times, seeing who notices them and who doesn't."
Miller leans forward, arms crossed over his chest, his expression cold and calculating. "That's setup."
If they're riding our boundaries and asking questions, it means they're planning something, and the timing of Megan's arrival in the middle of their interest isn't a coincidence.
"They know something," I say quietly. "Or they think they do."
Hansen looks at me, his gaze steady and unreadable. "You think they're connected to her?"
"I don't know yet," I admit, because speculation without evidence is how you make bad calls. "But the timing's wrong. She shows up running from an ex who won't quit, and suddenly Deadwood's circling? Either they're tracking her, or someone's paying them to."
Luke taps another section of his notes. "I'll dig deeper. See if there's any connection between her ex and Deadwood's network. Financial, business, anything."
Hansen nods once, decisive. "Do it. And I want eyes on anyone who doesn't belong."
Miller straightens. "Done."
Hansen shifts his attention back to me, and his voice drops lower, meant only for the men at this table. "She stays close to you. If Deadwood's involved, they'll move when they think she's vulnerable, don't give them the opening."
"Understood," I say, and mean it with every part of me that's trained to follow orders and protect what matters.
The meeting breaks without ceremony, and I return to where Megan is still sitting by the fire, her gaze distant and tired. When I settle into the chair across from her, she looks at me with a question she doesn't quite ask aloud.
"Deadwood MC," I tell her quietly. "They're a rival club. Been pushing boundaries for a while now. Nothing concrete yet, but we're watching them."
Her expression shifts slightly, wariness sharpening into focus. "Do you think they're connected to him?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "But we're going to find out."
She absorbs this silently, and I watch her process the information without falling apart, without panicking. There's strength in that, even if nobody else sees it.
Before I can say anything else, the door to the clubhouse opens and cold air rushes in along with a gust of snow.
Megan startles slightly, her shoulders tensing, and I shift, putting myself between her and the door even though it's just Cole coming in from outside, shaking snow off his jacket and muttering something about frozen pipes.
But Megan stands abruptly, pulling the blanket around herself and moving toward the door with a sudden urgency that makes me tense. "I just need some air," she says quickly, not quite meeting my eyes. "I'll be right outside."
I don't stop her, but I watch as she steps out onto the porch, and through the window I see her lean against the railing, breathing deep.
I give her space, but I don't take my eyes off her, and after a moment I see her posture shift, focusing on something near the edge of the building.
She crouches down slowly, carefully, and when she straightens again she's holding something small against her chest. From here I can't tell what it is.
I'm out the door before I consciously decide to move, boots crunching through snow, and when I reach her side I see the kitten—tiny, ginger-furred, shaking violently from cold and fear, its eyes barely open and its body so small it fits entirely in Megan's cupped hands.
"He was under the porch," Megan says quietly, her voice tight with something between urgency and sorrow. "He's freezing."
The kitten mewls weakly, a sound so thin it barely registers, and I watch Megan tuck it inside the blanket against her body, wrapping the fabric around it.
"Bring him inside," I say, and she doesn't hesitate, moving past me into the warmth of the clubhouse with the kitten still pressed against her chest.
Grave looks up from his coffee and raises an eyebrow. Price grins and mutters something about the Night Wolves running a shelter now. Miller doesn't comment, but I see the faint curve of approval at the corner of his mouth before he returns to his map.
Hansen watches silently from the kitchen doorway, and when his gaze meets mine there's understanding in it.
Supplies appear without anyone being asked. A cardboard box lined with an old towel, a heating pad someone digs out of storage, even a small bowl of water.
Megan settles on the couch with the kitten tucked in the box beside her, the heating pad warm beneath the towel, and she strokes its tiny head with one finger while it shivers less violently and starts to settle.
I watch her face soften in a way I haven't seen yet, something opening up that's been locked down tight since the moment she stumbled through the door last night.
Grave ambles over and looks down at the kitten, arms crossed but expression neutral. "What're you gonna call him?"
Megan hesitates, then glances at me briefly before looking back at the kitten. "Bullet," she says quietly. "Because he's small and fast and he survived."
The name lands perfectly, and I see approval ripple through the room in subtle nods and quiet grunts. Bullet. It fits the culture here, and the fact that Megan chose it tells me she understands more about this place than I thought.
I settle into the chair beside her, close enough that our knees almost touch, and she leans into the armrest slightly, angling toward me without quite realizing she's doing it.
Bullet curls tighter in the box, breathing evening out, and the tension that's been living in Megan's shoulders finally starts to ease.
I'm still watching Megan, noticing the way firelight catches in her hair and softens the exhaustion in her face, when Luke appears at my shoulder, moving quietly enough that I almost don't hear him.
"Morgan," he says, voice low and urgent. "We've got a problem."
I stand immediately, tension snapping back into place, and follow him to the window where Miller is already standing, arms crossed, gaze fixed on something outside.
Luke points toward the tree line at the edge of the property, and it takes me a second to spot what he's seeing—a single figure on a bike, half-hidden in shadow, watching the clubhouse from a distance that's too close to be accidental.
"Scout," Miller says flatly. "Deadwood colors. Been there for about ten minutes."
My jaw tightens, and I feel the shift in my thinking again, calculating response times and threat levels.
The scout isn't attacking, isn't moving, just observing, which means he's gathering information to take back to whoever sent him. And if he's this close, if he's bold enough to sit in sight of the clubhouse in broad daylight, it means Deadwood isn't worried about consequences.
Hansen appears beside us without being called, his presence commanding. He doesn't ask questions, just assesses and makes a decision.
"Miller, take Grave and Cole. Move him off the property. No violence unless he starts it, but make it clear he's not welcome."
Miller nods once and moves toward the door, Grave and Cole falling in behind him without needing further instruction. The three of them disappear outside, engines roaring to life moments later, and through the window I watch them peel out toward the tree line where the scout sits.
The figure doesn't move immediately, watching them approach with the kind of stillness that says he's not surprised.
Then, just before Miller's bike reaches him, the scout kicks his engine to life and pulls away, disappearing into the trees.
I watch until he's gone, until the woods are empty again except for snow and shadows, and feel the weight of inevitability settle deeper. Deadwood isn't just probing anymore, they're pushing, and that means whatever's coming is closer than I thought.
Hansen turns to me, his expression unreadable but his voice certain. "She doesn't leave your sight."
"She won't," I say.
He nods once and walks away, already moving on to the next problem, and I return to where Megan is still sitting with Bullet sleeping peacefully in his box. She looks up when I approach, and I see the question in her eyes before she asks it.
"What's happening?"
I crouch beside the couch, close enough that I can speak quietly without the whole room hearing. "We had a visitor. Deadwood scout, watching the clubhouse. He's gone now, but it means they're getting bolder."
Her face pales slightly. "What does that mean for me?"
"It means you're staying close," I tell her, and I'm aware of how my hand has settled on the back of the couch near her shoulder, not touching but close. "It means we don't take chances until we know what they want."
What I don’t say is that sometimes the safest move is letting the enemy think you’ve made a mistake.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, searching for something I hope she finds, and then she nods slowly. "Okay."
The trust in that single word does something to me, something dangerous and necessary all at once.
I realize, sitting here with her, surrounded by my brothers and a half-frozen kitten and the weight of threats I can't fully see yet, that I'm not just protecting her because it's the right thing to do.
And that's more terrifying than Deadwood could ever be.