Chapter 20
The clubhouse had never been this loud.
Mandy stood near the bar, nursing a beer she'd barely touched, watching the Sons of Liberty celebrate like the world wasn't ending.
Music thundered from speakers someone had cranked to maximum.
Brothers shouted over each other, retelling the warehouse assault with increasingly embellished details.
Bottles clinked, laughter roared, and underneath it all, the steady pulse of victory.
Trevor Boone was dead. His operation was ash. And everyone who'd survived was determined to drink enough to forget the ones who hadn't.
"You look lost."
Mandy turned to find Grace beside her, the President's woman holding two shots of whiskey with a knowing smile.
"Not lost." Mandy accepted the shot. "Just... processing."
"That's fair." Grace clinked their glasses together. "It takes a while. The first time you're part of something like this—the fighting, the dying, the winning—it doesn't feel real for days. Sometimes weeks."
"Does it ever feel real?"
"Eventually." Grace threw back her shot with practiced ease. "And then you wake up one morning and realize this is your life now. The club, the danger, the man who would burn the world for you. And somehow, that's okay."
Mandy drank her whiskey and felt it burn all the way down. The club, the danger, the man. Grace had summarized her entire existence in three phrases.
A month ago, she'd been a house cleaner with a client list and a cheating boyfriend. Now she was standing in a motorcycle club's headquarters, celebrating the death of a man she'd helped kill, with blood still metaphorically under her fingernails.
She should have been horrified. Should have been planning her escape back to normal life.
Instead, she felt like she was finally home.
"There you are."
Riot's voice sent warmth flooding through her chest. She turned to find him pushing through the crowd, brothers parting to let him pass with backslaps and shouted congratulations.
He looked exhausted—bruises dark against his skin, knuckles freshly wrapped—but his eyes were bright with something that might have been joy.
"Here I am," she agreed.
He reached her and immediately pulled her close, one arm wrapping around her waist like he couldn't stand not to touch her. "You disappeared."
"I was right here."
"Too far." He pressed a kiss to her temple, ignoring the catcalls from nearby brothers. "You okay?"
"I'm..." She paused, actually considering the question. "I think I'm good. Better than good, maybe. Is that weird?"
"No." His arm tightened around her. "That's survival. We won. We're alive. Feeling good about that isn't weird—it's human."
Grace had drifted away at some point, leaving them in their own bubble amid the chaos. Mandy leaned into Riot's side and let herself just exist for a moment. No fear. No planning. No watching over her shoulder for threats.
Just this. Just them.
"So." Riot's voice rumbled against her ear. "What happens now?"
"What do you mean?"
"Trevor's dead. His crew's gone. The war's over." He pulled back just enough to see her face. "You're free, Mandy. Free to do whatever you want. Go wherever you want. Be whoever you want."
The words hung between them, heavy with implication. He was giving her an out. A chance to walk away from the club, from the danger, from everything she'd been through.
A month ago, she would have taken it.
"I know what I want," she said.
"Yeah?"
"I want to rebuild my client list. Get back to work, back to the people who need me." She reached up and touched his face, tracing the bruise along his jaw. "And I want to come home to you at the end of every day. Wake up next to you every morning. Build a life that's ours, not just mine."
Something shifted in his expression. Cracked open.
"You're staying?"
"I'm staying." She smiled, feeling the truth of it settle into her bones. "You're my home now, Riot. You and this insane, violent, wonderful family you found. I'm done running."
He kissed her—hard, desperate, the kind of kiss that made promises words couldn't capture. When they broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead pressed against hers.
"I love you," he said roughly. "You know that, right? I love you more than I've ever loved anything. More than fighting, more than the club, more than—"
"I know." She kissed him again, softer this time. "I love you too. That's why I'm staying."
A cheer went up from somewhere behind them—brothers who'd been watching, raising glasses in approval. Mandy laughed, face flushing, and buried her head against Riot's chest.
"They're impossible," she muttered.
"They're family." Riot's voice was warm. "Your family now. If you want them."
She lifted her head and looked around the clubhouse. Powder was doing something inadvisable with a bottle of tequila. Gunner was arm-wrestling three prospects at once. Grace and the other old ladies had claimed a corner booth, laughing about something that made them all look ten years younger.
Her family. These dangerous, loyal, impossible people who'd taken her in and fought for her and celebrated her survival like it mattered.
"Yeah," she said softly. "I want them."
"Good." Riot pulled her toward the crowd. "Because Patriot wants to talk to you. Something about making things official."
"Official?"
"You'll see."
They found the President near the pool tables, deep in conversation with Gallows. Both men looked up as they approached, and Patriot's scarred face split into something that was almost a smile.
"There's the woman of the hour." He raised his glass in salute. "Hell of a fight you put up. Brothers are still talking about the house cleaner who held her own in a war zone."
"I had help." Mandy glanced at Riot. "Lots of help."
"You had backup. There's a difference." Patriot set down his glass and studied her with those cold blue eyes that saw everything. "You've proven yourself. To the club, to the brothers, to everyone who matters. The question is—what do you want to do about it?"
Mandy blinked. "I'm not sure I understand."
"She wants to stay," Riot said. "We talked about it."
"I heard." Patriot's almost-smile widened. "But staying's one thing. Being claimed is another." He looked at Riot. "You ready to make that official, prospect?"
Riot went still beside her. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. "I've been ready since the day I met her."
"Then we'll do it right. Full ceremony, brothers witnessing, the whole thing." Patriot nodded at Mandy. "If that's what you want."
A claiming ceremony. She'd heard the old ladies talk about it—the ritual that made a woman officially belong to her man, part of the club, protected and claimed in front of everyone who mattered.
A month ago, the idea would have terrified her. Being claimed. Belonging to someone.
But that was before she understood what it really meant. Not ownership. Partnership. A declaration that she was his and he was hers, witnessed by the family they'd both chosen.
"Yes," she said. "That's what I want."
Riot's arm tightened around her, and she could feel the relief and joy radiating off him like heat. This was real. They were really doing this.
"Good." Patriot raised his voice, cutting through the celebration. "Listen up! We've got an announcement."
The clubhouse quieted, brothers turning toward their President with curious expressions. Mandy felt her cheeks flush as dozens of eyes landed on her.
"Tonight we celebrate victory," Patriot continued.
"Trevor Boone is dead. His crew is ashes.
The Sons of Liberty have defended our territory and our people.
" A cheer went up, glasses raised. "But we're also celebrating something else.
Our prospect Riot has a claim to make—and in one week, we're going to witness it properly.
Full ceremony. Full celebration. This woman"—he gestured at Mandy—"has earned her place among us. Time we made it official."
The cheer that followed was deafening. Brothers surrounded them, offering congratulations and crude jokes and promises to make the ceremony one for the record books. The old ladies descended on Mandy, pulling her away from Riot with laughing protests, already planning what she should wear.
Through the chaos, Mandy found Riot's eyes across the room. He was smiling—that rare, genuine smile that transformed his whole face—and the look he gave her was pure possession.
His. She was his. And in one week, everyone would know it.
The party continued around her, louder and wilder than before. Brothers drank and laughed and celebrated the end of a war. Old ladies traded stories and made plans. The clubhouse hummed with life and joy and the fierce energy of people who'd survived something terrible together.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Mandy let herself just... be.
Not scared. Not running. Not planning her next escape or watching for threats that weren't coming.
Just happy. Just home.
Joy settled into her bones like warmth from a fire, spreading through her chest and her limbs and all the places that had been cold with fear for so long. The terror that had been her constant companion for weeks—the knowledge that dangerous men wanted her dead—was finally, blessedly gone.
Trevor Boone was dead. His crew was destroyed. The war was over.
And Mandy Fitzgerald was exactly where she belonged.