Chapter 6 – Megan
Morning light breaks across the snow outside the clubhouse window, turning everything soft and golden. The world looks peaceful, impossibly clean, like last night's violence never happened at all.
But my body knows better.
My muscles ache in places I didn't know could ache, a deep soreness that comes from being tensed for too long, and there's a residual tightness in my chest that won't quite ease.
I'm tired, bone-deep tired, but I'm also hyperaware of every sound, every movement, every small detail that makes up the morning unfolding around me.
Bullet is curled against my side, a warm ball of ginger fur that rises and falls with each tiny breath, and I rest my hand on him gently, feeling the soft vibration of his purr beneath my palm. He's safe. I'm safe.
The knowledge settles over me slowly, and I realize with a jolt that I believe it this time.
Not because the danger is gone, I'm not naive enough to think that, but because I'm not alone anymore.
When those engines roared up to the cabin last night and everything went to hell, Morgan didn't hesitate. He moved like violence was a language he spoke fluently, and he used it to keep me safe without asking for anything in return.
I replay the scene in my head: the crack of the door splintering, the sharp report of gunfire, Morgan's body between me and the threat without hesitation.
The way he crouched beside me afterward, checking for injuries with hands that were steady even though I could see the fear flickering in his eyes.
The way he held me when the adrenaline finally crashed and I couldn't stop shaking.
I don't feel small when I think about it. I feel protected, seen, like my fear mattered, like my survival was worth fighting for.
Downstairs, I hear the low rumble of voices and the faint hiss of coffee brewing, and the rich smell drifts up through the floorboards.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday, and I carefully extract myself from the bed without disturbing Bullet, who stretches and yawns before curling back into the warm spot I left behind.
I pull on the flannel shirt Morgan gave me yesterday and head downstairs, my bare feet silent on the worn wooden steps.
The clubhouse is alive with movement, but it's not chaotic. Men move with purpose, voices low and controlled, and there's an efficiency to the way they navigate the space that speaks to years of working together.
Grave is near the coffee pot, pouring two mugs with one hand while he talks quietly to Miller, who's bent over a map spread across the bar.
Price is hauling in firewood, stacking it neatly by the stone hearth, and Hansen stands near the window with his phone pressed to his ear, his expression focused.
No one stares when I appear. A few heads turn, nods of acknowledgment, but then they go back to what they were doing, and I understand that I'm not an intruder here.
I'm just part of the landscape now, absorbed into the rhythm of the club without fanfare.
Morgan is near the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in his hand, and when his eyes find mine across the room something in his expression softens.
He doesn't move toward me immediately, just watches, and I cross the space to him slowly, aware of how natural it feels to gravitate toward him like he's magnetic north.
"Morning," he says quietly, and his free hand comes up to rest at the small of my back, warm and grounding.
"Morning," I echo, and I lean into his touch without thinking.
He hands me his mug without asking if I want it, and I take a sip, letting the warmth spread through me.
The coffee is strong, slightly bitter, exactly what I need.
"How'd you sleep?" he asks, his thumb tracing slow circles against my back.
"Better than I expected," I admit. "You?"
"Enough." His gaze searches my face, and I know he's checking for signs of fear or regret. "You doing okay?"
I nod slowly, considering the question honestly. "Yeah. I think I am."
He doesn't look entirely convinced, but he doesn't push, and I appreciate that more than I can say.
Behind us, Bullet appears from nowhere, a tiny scrap of ginger fur weaving between Morgan’s boots, meowing weakly until Morgan crouches and scratches behind ears small enough to fit between two fingers.
"Someone's hungry," I observe, smiling despite myself.
"He's not the only one." Morgan straightens and gestures toward the kitchen. "Hansen made eggs. There's enough for everyone."
We move into the kitchen together, and I'm struck again by how domestic this feels, despite the weapons visible on nearly every surface and the tension humming just beneath the calm.
I fill a plate with scrambled eggs and toast, and Morgan does the same, and we settle at the table near the window where sunlight streams in and makes everything feel warmer than it is.
Grave ambles over after a moment, coffee in hand, and drops into the chair across from us. He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at me with that assessing gaze I'm getting used to.
"You good?" he asks finally, his voice gruff but not unkind.
"Yeah," I say, and I mean it. "Thank you. For last night."
He shrugs like it's nothing, like riding into danger to back up his brother is just what you do. "That's what family's for."
The word lands softly, but it resonates. I glance at Morgan, who's watching Grave with something that looks like approval, and I realize that's what this is.
Not just a club, not just brothers in arms, but family in the truest sense, people who show up when it matters, who make space for the strays who need it.
Conversation flows around us, low and steady, and I listen more than I speak, soaking in the dynamics.
Hansen joins us after a while, sitting at the head of the table, and when he starts talking about patrol schedules and security measures, he doesn't exclude me. He speaks plainly, laying out the situation without softening it, and I appreciate the respect in that.
"Deadwood's going to retaliate," Hansen says, his gaze moving between Morgan and me. "The one who got away will report back, and they'll know we're not going to roll over. That means increased patrols, tighter security, no unnecessary risks."
Morgan's hand finds mine under the table, his fingers lacing through mine, and I squeeze back, grounding myself in the contact.
"What does that mean for me?" I ask quietly.
Hansen considers me for a moment, then answers honestly. "It means you stay close. You don't go anywhere without someone from the club. You let us handle the threats, and you stay safe. Can you do that?"
I nod. "Yes."
"Good." He shifts his attention to Morgan. "You're on her security."
Morgan nods once, his grip on my hand tightening just slightly.
After Hansen moves on to coordinate with Miller, Morgan turns to me, his voice dropping low enough that it's just for us. "I need to ask you something."
I look up at him, my heart suddenly beating faster. "Okay."
He hesitates, and I see something vulnerable flicker across his face before he smooths it away.
"Last night, you said you trusted me. I need to know if that's still true this morning.
If you still want this—want to be here, with me, with the club.
Because if you don't, I'll find somewhere else for you.
Somewhere safer, farther away. No judgment, no pressure.
But if you stay—" He stops, his jaw tightening.
"If you stay, it's permanent. You're part of this now, and I need you to be sure. "
I realize this is the moment I've been moving toward since I stumbled through the bar doors in the middle of the storm. This is the choice I've been running from and toward at the same time, the decision to stop fleeing and start living.
I think about the cabin, warm and solid in the middle of nowhere. I think about the Night Wolves, rough and loyal and fiercely protective. I think about Morgan, who looked at me like I was worth saving and then proved it with action instead of words.
I think about Bullet, curled up safe and warm, no longer shivering in the snow.
I think about myself, and for the first time in months, I see someone strong enough to choose instead of just surviving.
"I'm sure," I say, and my voice doesn't waver. "I want to stay. With you."
Morgan leans in to kiss me, slow and grounding. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the tension easing out of his shoulders.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
Bullet chooses that moment to jump onto the table, meowing loudly, and the absurdity of it breaks the tension. Morgan laughs and reaches over to scratch the kitten's head.
"Guess you're staying too, huh?" he murmurs to Bullet, and the cat purrs loud enough to be heard across the room.
I rest my hand on Morgan's arm, feeling the warmth of his skin and the solid strength beneath, and I let myself sink into the moment—the sunlight streaming through the window, the smell of coffee, the low hum of conversation around us, the weight of Morgan's presence beside me.
This is what safety feels like. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of people who will stand between you and it. Not hiding, but belonging.
He kisses my temple, his lips lingering there, and Bullet curls between us, purring so loudly it vibrates through the table.
The danger isn't gone, the threat isn't resolved, but I'm not running anymore.