Chapter Two
The Woman I Should Have Buried
Savage
Raven Blackwood is a fucking problem.
Not the loud kind. Not the obvious kind. She’s the kind that sits in your chest and changes the way you breathe. She twists your insides until you don’t know if you’ll ever be normal again.
I stand at the bar with a glass in my hand that I haven’t touched, watching her across the clubhouse like she might vanish if I look away. She’s standing with Mama M near the kitchen entrance, jacket off now, sleeves pushed up, posture relaxed in a way that makes my skin itch.
She looks like she belongs here. That’s the problem.
Saint moves up beside me, silent the way only a man who grew up fighting in my shadow knows how to be. He doesn’t look at Raven. He looks at me.
“You gonna tell me why she’s here,” he says quietly, “or you want me to pretend I don’t already know?”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t trust my voice yet.
“She says cartel,” I finally say.
Saint exhales slowly through his nose. “Everything about her says trouble. Just like it always has.”
“She wouldn’t come here unless she ran out of road.”
That gets his attention. He turns, studying my face like he’s looking for cracks I don’t let show.
“That’s not trust,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s worse.”
Across the room, Mama M swats Raven’s arm with a dish towel, sharp but affectionate. Raven laughs, actually laughs, and the sound hits me harder than any punch I’ve taken in the last ten years.
It’s warm. Unapologetic. It doesn’t belong in this place. And yet, the men closest to them are smiling.
Fuck.
Mama M points at something on the counter. Raven leans in, listening. Nods once. Then, Jesus Christ, she reaches out and starts helping, grabbing a tray like she’s done this a hundred times before.
“She’s already got Mama on her side,” Saint mutters.
I don’t look away. “Mama decides for herself.”
“That she does.”
A prospect, young, nervous, and still trying to prove he deserves the air he breathes hovers too close to the kitchen doorway. Raven notices immediately. She always did have an eye for people on the edges.
She turns and lifts a brow. “You gonna stand there staring, or you gonna make yourself useful?”
The kid stiffens. “Uh...”
She hands him the tray without waiting for permission. “Take this to the back table. And don’t drop it, or Mama will murder you and I won’t save you.”
Mama M snorts. The prospect grins, shoulders easing, and hustles off.
Saint chuckles. “She didn’t even ask his name.”
“She didn’t need to,” I say.
She didn’t coddle him. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t talk down. She treated him like he mattered. That kind of shit sticks.
“She’s not scared,” Saint says quietly.
“No,” I reply. “She never is.”
Saint shifts his weight. “You keeping her?”
“For now.”
“For now,” he echoes. “That’s how it starts.”
I turn then, slow and deliberate. “You want to question my calls, you do it behind closed doors.”
He meets my gaze without flinching. “I want to make sure this doesn’t get men killed. Or you.”
I lean in just enough that he hears me over the hum of the generators outside. “If men die because Raven Blackwood walked back into my life, it won’t be because she betrayed us.”
Saint’s eyes sharpen. “Then why?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is ugly. Because the truth is personal. Because the truth is I’d already decided she wasn’t leaving before she finished her first smart-ass sentence at the gate.
I straighten. “Get Steel. I want eyes on her. Quiet. No intimidation.”
Saint raises a brow. “No intimidation?”
“You want her honest,” I say, “or spooked?”
He nods once. “Steel will handle it.”
“I know.” Steel always does.
Saint walks off, and the clubhouse settles back into its low-level buzz. Cards slap against tables. Someone laughs too loud. Normal, well, normal for us at least.
Inside my head, it’s anything but. I head for my office, shut the door harder than necessary, and brace my hands on the desk. The map on the wall stares back at me, Las Vegas carved into red lines and pressure points. Territory. Routes. Enemies.
And now Raven is back in the middle of it.
I pour myself a drink I don’t want and don’t touch it. My reflection in the glass looks older than I feel. Silver at my temples. Lines carved deep by responsibility and blood.
Forty years old, and I still don’t know how to bury the one woman who can undo me.
A knock hits the door. “Enter.”
Steel steps in like he owns the place, which he does, in his own way. Shaved head. Scar pulling at his jaw. Eyes flat and ready.
“She’s settled, mostly,” he says. “Mama M’s got her cornered.”
That makes something in my chest loosen. Just a fraction. “Good.”
“She didn’t ask questions,” he adds. “Didn’t look scared.”
I huff a short, humorless breath. “She never is. She knows the score around here.”
Steel studies me carefully. “You want her watched?”
“Yes.”
“Protected?”
I hesitate. Just a beat. “Yes,” I say again. “But she doesn’t need to know it.”
Steel nods. “I’ll rotate men. Mix of patches and prospects. She’ll feel it otherwise.”
“Anyone from the Broken Vultures sniffing around?”
“Not yet,” he says. “But they’re closing in.”
“Yet,” I repeat.
Steel shifts. “There’s chatter on the south side. Spanish speakers asking about a woman matching her description.”
My blood goes cold. “When?”
“Last week.” That means she didn’t come here for comfort. She came here because she ran out of places to run.
I nod once. “Double the perimeter. Lock down the books. Anyone doing anything they shouldn’t gets handled.”
Steel’s mouth curves just barely. “With pleasure.”
As he turns to leave, I stop him. “Steel.” He looks back. “If anyone touches her...”
“I’ve got this,” he says. “They won’t.”
The door shuts behind him. I sit down harder than necessary and scrub a hand over my face as memories flood me.
Raven, years ago. Younger. Meaner in different ways.
Laughing in my kitchen like she wasn’t afraid of the monster under my skin.
She never flinched, not when I came home bloody, not when the club whispered my name like a curse.
She flinched when she realized loving me would kill her. That was the night she ran.
Movement in the hallway pulls me back to the present. I step out of my office just in time to see Raven leaning against the bar, coffee in hand, Mama M scolding her about something. Raven listens, actually listens, head tilted and eyes soft.
She smiles. It’s small and sharp and real. And it fucking wrecks me. She always knew how to belong somewhere without putting in too much effort.
She’s thinner. Harder. There’s a bruise under her jaw I didn’t see earlier, it’s old, but not old enough.
My hands itch.
I stalk over before I can stop myself. “You hurt?” I tilt her chin up so I can better assess the damage.
She arches a brow, pulling her chin out of my grasp. “You opening a free clinic now, Savage?”
“Answer the question.”
She takes a slow sip of coffee. “I’m alive.” Not an answer.
I lower my voice. “Did someone put hands on you?”
Her eyes flash. “Is that concern, or territorial bullshit?”
“Both.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then she shrugs. “Old bruise.”
“Someone still did it.”
She steps closer, invading my space without fear. “Are you planning to kill every man who ever crossed me?”
“If I have to.”
Something flickers across her face—surprise, then something warmer. She covers it with sarcasm. “Careful. That kind of talk could give a girl the wrong idea.”
“I’m not talking,” I say. “I’m warning.”
Mama M clears her throat loudly and walks away, pretending not to see us.
Raven watches her go. “She a little terrifying.”
“She is.”
“She likes me.”
“I noticed.”
That earns me a grin. “You look upset about it.”
“I am,” I say honestly.
She laughs softly. “Get used to it.”
I should walk away. Instead, I gesture toward the hallway. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere quieter.”
Her eyes narrow. “You about to lock me in a room?”
“No,” I say. “I’m about to make sure you eat something.”
That throws her. Just a little. I lead her to the small side room off the kitchen, less used and quieter. I grab a plate Mama M left covered and set it in front of her. She looks at it. Then at me.
“Are you going to poison me?”
“Not today.”
She sits. That’s the thing that guts me. She sits without being told, without hesitation, without fear. Falling back into old habits without even having to think about it.
I lean against the counter while she eats. Pretending not to watch her mouth. Not crowding her. Just ... there.
“This place hasn’t changed much,” she says between bites.
“No.”
“You have.” I don’t answer. She finishes and pushes the plate away. “Thank you.”
“For the food,” I say. “Or the silence?”
She considers. “Both.”
We stand there, not touching, the space between us humming with everything we’re not saying. “You’re having me watched,” she says quietly.
“Yes.” There is no point in lying to her when she obviously knows the truth.
She nods. “Figured.”
“You don’t like it?” I’m genuinely curious.
“I don’t like cages.”
“This isn’t one.”
She meets my gaze. “Not yet.”
I step back first. Giving up the ground costs me. “I’ll have someone show you where you’re sleeping,” I say.
She stands. “So you’re letting me stay?”
I hesitate. Just enough that she sees it. “For now,” I say.
Her smile is softer than it has any right to be. “Good.” She brushes past me, shoulder warm against my chest. And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m losing control.
I feel like I’m choosing it.