Savage Vows (Sons of Sin MC: Las Vegas, NV Chapter #5)

Chapter One

Back Into the Devil’s Teeth

Raven

Vegas doesn’t forgive. It doesn’t forget, either.

The desert stretches behind me like a threat I ignored on purpose, heat still clinging to my skin even as night settles in. The city ahead glows neon-bright, all false promises and hungry mouths, pretending it won’t chew you up and spit you into the sand. I know better. I learned the hard way.

I shouldn’t be here.

The thought has been riding shotgun for the last thirty miles, right alongside the ache in my shoulders and the ghosts clawing their way up my spine. Every mile closer feels like crossing a line I drew for myself years ago, one I swore I’d never step over again.

And yet ... here I fucking am.

I slow as the compound comes into view, headlights cutting across chain-link fencing and floodlights bright enough to turn the night brittle. The Sons of Sin MC. Las Vegas chapter. Savage’s territory.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

I tell myself it’s nerves, not memory. That I’m not thinking about Dominic Kane.

About the way his name still settles heavy in my chest. About the last time I saw him, blood on his hands, fury in his eyes, and something fractured between us that neither of us knew how to name.

I’m a fucking liar.

I cut the engine just outside the gate and sit there for a beat longer than necessary. Long enough to breathe. Long enough to make sure my spine is straight and my mask is locked in place.

Fear is a weakness, and weakness will get you killed.

I step out of the car, boots hitting dirt that feels like it recognizes me. The air hums with tension, thick with oil, metal, and violence waiting its turn. Men stand posted near the gate, cuts on their backs, weapons easy at hand. No smiles. No welcome.

Same as it ever was.

A prospect spots me first. Young. Eager. Too clean to have earned a full patch on his back yet. He stiffens like I’ve drawn a weapon instead of stepping out of a dusty blue sedan with chipped paint and bad timing.

“Stop right there,” he barks, his hand dropping to his sidearm.

I raise both hands slowly, palms out. Not submissive. Just practical.

“Easy,” I say. “If I wanted to start a war, I wouldn’t show up alone with lip gloss and a bad attitude.”

His jaw tightens. I see the uncertainty flicker behind his eyes. Women don’t show up here alone unless they’re stupid, desperate, or dangerous. I smile, small and sharp. I probably classify as all three.

“Who are you?” he demands with a raised brow.

“Someone your president is going to want to see,” I reply. “Tell Savage that Raven Blackwood is at the gate.”

The name lands, but it always does. The kid pales just enough to tell me I hit something important. He hesitates, fingers tightening on the radio, eyes never leaving me like I might bolt or explode.

The gate doesn’t open right away. But that’s deliberate.

They’re measuring me. Testing my patience. Waiting to see if I’ll bristle or beg. This club survives on dominance games and silent threats, and I’ve always been very good at refusing to flinch.

So, I wait. I lean back against my car like I’ve got nowhere better to be, crossing my arms and letting my gaze roam the compound. Bikes are lined up in front of the clubhouse like predators at rest. Men move with purpose, every single one of them armed. Watched and watching.

I catch a prospect trying not to stare at the knife strapped to my hip. I give him a wink and he looks away so fast I’m afraid he’ll get whiplash. Poor kid.

The air changes. It’s subtle, but I feel it immediately—that tightening in my chest, the way my instincts snap to attention like a warning bell. I don’t need to see him to know he’s here.

Savage.

The gate creaks open. Not wide. Just enough.

“Inside,” a voice orders. It’s not the prospect.

I straighten slowly, pulse ticking up despite my best efforts. I walk through the gate alone, boots crunching on gravel, chin lifted, spine steel-straight. I don’t hesitate but I don’t rush.

Every step feels like crossing into a past that never really let me go.

He’s waiting near the clubhouse, half in shadow, half caught in harsh white light.

Taller than I remember, or maybe I just forgot how much space he takes up when he decides to.

Black hair threaded with silver now, tattoos crawling higher up his neck like they’re trying to choke the rage back down.

His eyes are still that cold, cutting gray.

Dominic Kane.

Savage.

The President of the Sons of Sin Las Vegas chapter.

And the man who broke my heart without ever actually touching it.

His gaze locks onto mine, sharp and assessing, like I’m a weapon he hasn’t decided whether to use or dismantle. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Just watches me approach.

I stop a few feet away.

“Raven,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across steel. No warmth. No surprise. Just control.

“Savage,” I reply. “Still standing. Guess hell didn’t want you.”

A few nearby men stiffen. Someone mutters under their breath. I spot Saint off to the side, his brother, his shadow, watching us like he already knows this is going to get complicated.

Savage’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something more dangerous. “You’ve got some nerve coming here,” he says.

“Yeah,” I shoot back. “People keep telling me that. Usually right before they realize they underestimated me.”

His eyes flick over me—boots, jeans, leather jacket, the knife I didn’t bother hiding. He’s not leering. He’s cataloging. Filing all the details away for later.

“Are you alone?” he asks.

“Would it matter if I wasn’t?”

“It would,” he says flatly.

I step closer, just enough to test him. “Still trying to scare me, Kane? I thought we’d established that doesn’t work.”

Something dark flashes in his eyes. Anger. Heat. Something buried deeper that rattles when I poke it.

“We were never past anything,” he says. “You ran.”

I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Funny. I remember it as survival.”

The silence stretches between us, tight and electric. The men around us pretend not to listen and fail miserably.

Savage exhales slowly. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Controlled. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Funny thing, I didn’t ask permission.”

For a second, I think he might grab me. Might make a point in front of his men. Instead, his hand comes up and grips my elbow, not rough, but not gentle either. Possessive. A warning wrapped in restraint.

My pulse jumps traitorously, and I hate myself for it. My body remembers his touch even though time has passed.

“Inside,” he says. “We’re not doing this out here.”

I don’t pull away. I don’t lean in. I meet his stare and hold it.

“Let go,” I tell him quietly, “or this gets real awkward for your reputation.”

For a heartbeat, I think he’ll refuse. Tighten his grip just to prove he can. Instead, he releases me abruptly, like touching me costs him something.

“After you,” he says, gesturing toward the clubhouse.

The Sons of Sin watch as we walk inside together. I feel their eyes on my back, curiosity sharp and dangerous. They know I’m not just another woman wandering into their territory. And so does Savage.

The clubhouse smells like smoke, whiskey, and old violence. Familiar enough to make my chest ache. The bar is still there, worn wood and mismatched stools. The pool table sits in the center like a battlefield that never quite cools.

Nothing has changed. And everything has. Savage shuts the door behind us. The sound echoes.

“You want to tell me why you’re here?” he asks.

I turn slowly to face him. “I need a place to lay low.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting for free.”

He studies me like he’s peeling back layers, looking for the lie. I let him. I didn’t come back to beg.

“Did you bring trouble with you?” he asks.

I shrug. “Trouble follows me everywhere. Difference is, this time it’s wearing cartel colors.”

That gets his attention. It’s subtle, the shift in his posture, the way his focus sharpens, but it’s there. President mode slides into place. “Explain,” he orders.

“Someone’s moving product through Vegas that doesn’t belong to them,” I say. “They think I know something I don’t. Or maybe something I used to. Either way, I ended up on their radar.”

Savage’s eyes narrow. “You came here because you think my cut makes you untouchable?”

“No,” I say bluntly. “I came here because you hate people encroaching on your territory. And because you don’t hand women over to wolves.” That last part hangs between us.

He steps closer, looming now, all hard lines and quiet menace. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m still alive,” I reply, “so I must be doing something right.”

For a long moment, he just stares at me. I can see it, the war behind his eyes. Duty versus instinct. Power versus history. “You can stay,” he says finally. “For now.”

It’s not an offer. It’s containment. I smile, slow and sharp. “Thought you didn’t do favors.”

“This isn’t a favor,” he says. “It’s a problem I’m managing.”

“Sure,” I reply. “Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep.”

His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second before snapping back to my eyes.

“I’ll have someone show you where you can crash,” he says. “You don’t leave the compound without clearance.”

I laugh bitterly. “Still trying to cage me.”

His voice drops, softer than I expect. “Still trying to keep you alive.” The words land heavier than any threat.

I step past him, brushing his shoulder on purpose. “Good luck with that, Savage. I’ve never been easy to protect.”

Behind me, I feel his attention like a brand. And I know, deep down, this isn’t just my past catching up with me. This is the beginning of something dangerous. Something intimate. Something neither of us is ready to survive clean.