Chapter 5 – Morgan #2
"I need you to understand what that means," I continue, my voice dropping lower, rougher. "It means you're mine to protect. It means I'm claiming responsibility for your safety, and anyone who comes for you goes through me first. Can you live with that?"
There's a long pause, and I watch emotions flicker across her face—fear, relief, hope. Then she nods again, more firmly this time. "Yes."
This isn't just about keeping her safe anymore, it's about keeping her, period. About making sure she has a place here, with me, with the club, where no one can reach her without consequence.
"Good," I say, and I press a kiss to her forehead, letting it linger. "Because I'm not letting you go."
Grave appears in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Cabin's secure. Miller's coordinating patrols, making sure no one else is lurking. You two should come back to the clubhouse. Hansen wants everyone together until we figure out our next move."
I nod, already mentally running through what needs to happen.
Megan will stay at the clubhouse where there are always eyes, always backup.
I'll coordinate with Luke to track down whoever put the contract out on her.
And we'll send a message to Deadwood that makes it crystal clear what happens when they cross the Night Wolves.
But first, I need to get Megan warm and safe, somewhere she can process what just happened without feeling exposed and vulnerable.
I stand, bringing her up with me, and keep one arm around her shoulders as we move toward the door.
The cold night air hits us like a slap, sharp enough to steal breath, and I feel Megan press closer to my side instinctively. The snow is trampled and churned from boots and bikes, dark patches visible where blood has soaked into white powder.
Grave's bike idles nearby, and Miller is already mounted, waiting.
I guide Megan toward my truck, getting her settled in the passenger seat before moving around to the driver's side. The engine turns over smoothly, and I crank the heat up high, watching her hands shake as she holds them up to the vents.
The drive back to the clubhouse is tense and silent, my attention split between the road and the mirrors, watching for threats that logic says aren't coming but instinct refuses to dismiss.
Beside me, Megan stares out the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass, and I reach over to rest my hand on her thigh.
She covers my hand with hers, holding on tight.
The clubhouse is lit up like a beacon when we arrive, every light blazing, bikes clustered in the lot, and brothers moving with the kind of purposeful energy that says everyone's already heard what happened. Hansen is standing near the entrance, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
I park and move around to help Megan out, keeping her tucked against my side as we approach. Hansen's gaze sweeps over her once, assessing, before settling on me.
"She hurt?"
"No. Scared, but unharmed."
He nods once, then looks at Megan directly. "You're safe here. No one gets through this door without our permission, and right now the only people we're permitting are Night Wolves."
"Right," Megan says quietly, and I feel her lean more heavily against me.
"Good. Morgan, you're staying with her tonight. I want you both upstairs where you can rest but stay accessible. We'll debrief in the morning." He pauses, his gaze hardening. "And Morgan? This is war now. Deadwood crossed the line, and we're going to make sure they regret it."
"Understood," I say, and I mean it.
Hansen nods and steps aside, and I guide Megan through the door into the warmth and noise of the clubhouse. Brothers call out greetings, voices blending together into a wall of sound that's overwhelming after the violence and quiet of the cabin.
But no one approaches, they just acknowledge her presence and give us space.
I lead her upstairs to one of the private rooms, closing the door behind us and shutting out the noise.
The room is small but clean, with a bed, a chair, and a window that overlooks the parking lot.
I check the window locks out of habit, then turn to find Megan standing in the middle of the room, looking lost.
I cross to her and pull her into my arms again, and this time she doesn't hold back. She buries her face against my chest and lets herself shake, lets herself feel the fear she held at bay during the attack, and I hold her through it, murmuring reassurances I'm not sure she can even hear.
Eventually, the shaking calms down, and she pulls back just enough to look up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, and there's a strength in her expression that makes something in my chest tighten.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Don't thank me," I say roughly. "This is what I do. What we do. You're pack now, Megan."
She nods slowly, and then she reaches up to cup my face, her thumb brushing over the stubble on my jaw. "I trust you."
I lean down and kiss her, slow and deep, pouring everything I can't say into it—the fear I felt when I heard those engines, the relief when she was unharmed, the possessiveness that makes me want to lock her away somewhere no one can ever reach her.
When I pull back, we're both breathing hard, and the exhaustion is written across both our faces.
"Sleep," I tell her. "I'll be right here."
She nods and moves to the bed, climbing under the covers fully clothed, and I settle into the chair near the window, weapon within reach, watching the parking lot and the darkness beyond.
The night is quiet now, but I know it's the kind of quiet that comes before storms.
Deadwood made their move, and we answered. But the fight is just beginning, and the stakes have never been higher.
I glance at Megan, already drifting toward sleep, and I make a silent promise to myself and to her:
No one touches her.