Chapter Five
Samson
First light crept through the cabin windows, pale gray fingers stretching across worn floorboards.
I hadn’t slept, keeping watch from the armchair as Callie’s chest rose and fell beneath my cut, her face finally peaceful in deep exhaustion.
The cabin felt different with her in it -- my solitary space now harboring something fragile.
But watching her sleep, bandages stark against her skin, I knew I’d make the same choice again.
I stretched, muscles protesting after hours in the chair.
The fire had died to embers, leaving the cabin cool in the pre-dawn quiet.
Rising silently, I moved toward the kitchen, planning coffee before Callie woke.
That’s when I saw it -- a white rectangle on the floor by the front door, slipped beneath the weathered oak sometime during the night.
My hand went instinctively to the small of my back where my weapon usually sat before I remembered I’d set it aside on the side table.
Not reaching for it, I approached the envelope slowly.
Official letterhead, county seal embossed in the corner.
Heavy paper, the kind government offices used for formal communications. No postmark -- hand-delivered, then.
I glanced back at Callie, still asleep, before picking up the envelope.
Whoever had delivered it had come close -- too close -- while we slept.
The thought sent ice through my veins. How the fuck had they gotten through the layers of security?
Sure, we’d had problems in the past, but I’d thought we’d resolved any security issues.
Moving to the kitchen where the light was better, I slit the envelope open with my thumbnail. The letter inside was printed on the same heavy stock, the county sheriff’s department header stark against the white paper.
Inquiry regarding missing person: Callie Monroe, 22, reported as mentally unstable and potentially endangered…
My jaw tightened as I read further. The letter was addressed to “Residents,” but someone had taken the time to write my name -- my real name, Lyle Harker -- in the margin. A message within the message. They knew exactly where she was.
The subject left medical treatment against professional advice and may be disoriented or paranoid. Chief Robert Davis requests any information on her whereabouts be reported immediately…
A contact number followed, alongside a paragraph of legal jargon. I read it twice, memorizing the details, the careful way they’d framed her as unstable and missing, the subtle threat beneath the professional language.
I turned on the sink, holding the letter over the basin. My Zippo sparked to life with a familiar metallic scrape, the flame catching the corner of the heavy paper. I watched it blacken and curl, making sure every word burned to ash before washing the remains down the drain.
Methodically, I wiped down the sink, erasing all evidence of the letter.
Then I started coffee, the familiar routine grounding me as my mind processed what had just happened.
They knew she was here. Knew my name. Had approached my cabin in the night.
The implications unfolded with cold precision in my mind -- this wasn’t a random inquiry but a targeted message.
A warning. And not just for me and Callie.
The way they’d slipped past everyone unnoticed meant this was also a message for the club.
The coffee maker gurgled, filling the kitchen with rich aroma as I leaned against the counter, eyes fixed on Callie.
The bandage at her temple stood out stark white against her skin, a reminder of what she’d fled.
The zip tie marks on her wrists, now covered in clean gauze, confirmed everything she’d told me the night before.
I poured coffee into my favorite mug, the one Beast had given me years ago with the Kings’ emblem faded from countless washings. The familiar weight in my hand anchored me as dawn broke fully outside, washing the cabin in pale golden light.
A soft rustle from the couch caught my attention.
Callie’s eyes fluttered open, instantly alert despite hours of exhaustion.
Her gaze found mine across the room, and I watched as awareness returned -- where she was, who I was, what had happened.
Her hand reached instinctively for my cut, still draped across her like armor.
“Morning,” I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the tension coiled in my shoulders.
She sat up slowly, wincing as stiff muscles protested. Her gaze moved around the cabin before settling back on me, narrowing slightly. “Something’s wrong.”
Not a question. An observation. Even half asleep, she read the room with the hypervigilance of someone who’d learned to detect danger in the smallest shifts of atmosphere.
“Coffee?” I offered, already pouring a second mug.
She nodded, swinging her legs over the side of the couch. As she stood, my cut slid from her shoulders. She caught and folded it.
I crossed the room and handed her the mug, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. Her skin was cool now, the fever having broken during the night. Progress.
She took a sip, then stilled, her gaze drifting to the sink. She nodded to the edge of the basin where a few black flakes of ash had escaped the water.
“What happened?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I considered lying, considered softening the truth. Decided against both. “Letter came. Under the door.”
Her fingers tightened around the mug, knuckles whitening. “About me.”
Again, not a question. She knew.
I nodded once. “Just someone asking questions. Nothing to worry about.”
The attempt at reassurance fell flat between us. Her shoulders curved inward. The mug trembled slightly in her grasp.
“He’s looking for me,” she whispered, gaze fixed on the sink where I’d destroyed the evidence.
I set my mug down and took hers from her unresisting fingers, placing it beside mine on the counter. Then I turned to face her fully, waiting until she met my gaze.
“Let him look,” I said quietly. “Nothing changes. My claim stands. You stay right here.”
Her gaze searched mine, looking for uncertainty or deception and finding neither. The morning light caught in her hair, turning it to honey gold at the edges, contrasting with the shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin.
“I’ve brought trouble to your door,” she said, echoing her words from last night.
“Trouble knows where I live,” I replied simply. “Has for fifteen years.”
Something shifted in her expression -- not quite a smile, but a softening around the edges. She reached for her coffee again, and I noticed her hand was steadier now.
“What do we do?” she asked after a moment.
“First, we eat. Then I talk to Beast.” I opened the refrigerator and pulled out eggs and bacon. “Then we plan our next move.”
She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. “They won’t stop looking.”
“Good.” I cracked eggs into a bowl with more force than necessary. “Let them waste their time. You’re not going anywhere.”
The simple declaration hung in the morning air between us, both promise and challenge to whatever waited beyond these walls.
* * *
The compound’s main gate stood open just enough for a single bike to pass through, chain pulled to the side and secured with a heavy padlock.
Two Prospects watched from the shadow of the guardhouse, cigarette smoke curling above their heads in the morning air.
As I approached on foot, their postures shifted from casual to alert, hands drifting toward concealed weapons before recognizing me.
Standard protocol, even for a patched brother.
The Kings hadn’t survived this long by being careless.
“Samson.” The older Prospect nodded, flicking his cigarette into the gravel. Mason, his name, had been with us about eight months, still earning his patch but showing promise. The younger Prospect, whose name escaped me, stepped forward, tension clear in the set of his shoulders.
“Been quiet?” I asked, scanning the road beyond the gate.
Mason exchanged a glance with the younger prospect. “Not exactly.”
“Had a couple visitors,” the younger one added, voice dropping as he stepped closer. “Not the usual kind.”
I waited, giving them space to explain. Mason shifted, gaze constantly moving between me and the road beyond.
“Sheriff’s deputy pulled up about an hour after sunrise,” he said. “Claimed he was just passing by, wanted to know if we’d seen any ‘new faces’ around the area. Said there was a vulnerable woman missing from the next county over.”
“And it’s our county?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“From Riverbrook, by the accent.” Mason rubbed his jaw. “Didn’t push when we told him to move along, but he took his time leaving. Circled back twenty minutes later, parked down the road for a while.”
The younger Prospect nodded. “Then about thirty minutes ago, some suit showed up. Said he represents a wealthy client looking for a runaway relative.” His mouth twisted with disgust. “Offered cash for information. Left a business card.”
He pulled a white rectangle from his pocket, holding it out. I took it, studying the embossed text: Carter Wallace, Attorney at Law. A local number beneath.
“What did you tell him?” I asked, pocketing the card.
“Nothing,” Mason answered immediately. “Said we don’t talk to suits, especially ones who show up unannounced asking questions.”
I nodded, satisfaction warming my chest despite the seriousness of the situation.
The Prospects had handled it right -- no information given, no opportunities created.
The older one had met Callie the night I’d brought her here.
The younger was different from the one at the gate previously.
Someone newer. He’d likely heard the other talking but might not know the entire story yet.
“Good,” I said. “Anyone asks about her, you don’t know anything. Anyone tries to come in uninvited, you call Beast immediately. And I do mean immediately.”