Chapter 21-Sawyer
The minute I step out of the beer line, four bottles in one hand and Bit’s grapefruit beer in the other, I feel it.
That shift.
It’s the kind of stillness you only notice when you’ve lived through the wrong kind of chaos—the kind that makes your instincts roar awake before your mind catches up.
The tent’s too quiet.
The easy laughter from a few minutes ago is gone.
I push through the crowd, scanning faces, searching for hers first—because that’s always where I look now.
And there she is.
Bit’s sitting rigid at the table, her fingers white-knuckling the edge.
Micah’s already on his feet, moving slow, his stance careful but ready.
Benji shifted too, braced like a man who’s just waiting for the order to swing.
Then I see him.
The big, greasy son of a bitch standing just inside the tent flaps, leather cut stretched over a sweat-stained T-shirt.
His eyes are too bright—high on meth or something just as stupid and deadly—his grin is too wide, and his whole body hums with that twitchy kind of aggression you can smell before it hits.
At first, I tell myself maybe it’s nothing—just another loudmouth cowboy after a long day of drinking.
But then I see the patch.
Black and red. Skulls and fire. Hellbound Heathens.
And I recognize his features, though it was dark last time we met. It’s the same soon-to-be-dead motherfucker hunting my woman.
Everything inside me goes cold.
That patch might as well be a target.
I don’t need to ask who he is. I can see it on Bit’s face—the flash of fear, the way her eyes dart to me the second she realizes I’m back.
The world narrows to a pinpoint. My heartbeat slows, sharp and deliberate.
My grip tightens on the bottles until the glass threatens to crack.
Every part of me is shifting into focus, calculating angles, exits, how many people are in the way.
Soldier instincts. They don’t fade.
Neither does the possessive fire burning low and hot in my chest.
I start walking, steady and unhurried. Each step is deliberate.
My boots hit the ground like punctuation marks.
The biker turns his head, that nasty grin still stretched across his face—until he sees me coming.
I don’t say a word. Don’t need to.
Micah steps aside just enough for me to pass, eyes cutting toward the biker in silent warning. Benji moves behind Bit, one hand resting near his belt—casual enough not to draw attention, ready enough if things go sideways.
The Heathen smirks, pretending he’s not rattled.
“Well now,” he says, looking between me and Bit, “I see I’ve found some new friends with my old lady here, and it looks like y’all are comfortable.”
I set the bottles down on the table—quietly, neatly—then straighten to my full height.
“Get the fuck out,” I say.
He laughs, but it’s nervous now, thin around the edges.
“Ain’t no harm meant, brother. My old lady and I got some catching up to do.”
“Not your old lady. Not your friend. And not your fucking brother,” I growl. “You’ve had your chance to catch up. Now get the fuck out.”
He shifts like he’s thinking of talking back, but when I take one slow step closer, he freezes.
I let him see it—all of it—the control, the warning, the promise that if he so much as looks at her wrong again, I’ll bury him myself.
The silence stretches.
The crowd around us starts to murmur.
The sound of sirens breaks through—someone already called the cops.
Finally, the biker spits to the side, forces a grin he doesn’t mean, and backs away toward the tent flaps.
“Ain’t worth the trouble,” he mutters. “Not tonight.”
When he’s gone, I don’t move right away.
I just stand there, jaw tight, staring at the spot where he’d been until I can breathe again.
Then I turn to her.
Bit’s trembling, her hand half-raised like she’s not sure what to do.
I reach for her, my voice low.
“You okay, Lil Bit?”
She nods, but I can see the tears she’s fighting, the way her breath shakes when she exhales.
I cup the back of her neck, leaning in close so only she can hear me.
“You’re safe. I got you.”
And I mean it.
With every damn piece of me.