Viper
Three months later, the clubhouse finally sounds like itself again.
The Savage Wolves are never quiet. But the noise feels different now.
Less frantic. Less sharpened by grief and adrenaline and people waiting for the next gunshot to come through the walls.
Hammers still echo through sections of the compound where repairs continue.
Prospects still bitch constantly while hauling drywall and lumber through hallways that smell faintly like sawdust instead of smoke now.
The rebuilt sections don’t fully match the old structure yet, but nobody really cares.
The clubhouse survived. So did most of us.
That’s enough.
I lean back in Stryker’s office chair while he stands near the desk pretending he isn’t staring at the envelope in his hand like it personally insulted him.
Blade leans against the wall beside Nora with one hand resting low against her back automatically, his thumb moving absently beneath the fabric of her shirt while they talk quietly.
Nobody’s actually talking about the envelope though.
We’ve spent the last fifteen minutes talking around it instead.
Cowards.
Every single one of us.
“You know,” I say casually, stretching my legs out farther, “I think it’s really fucked up that everybody decided Stryker should open it just because he looks emotionally constipated enough not to panic.”
Stryker doesn’t even glance at me. “You’re talking too much.”
“That’s because I’m nervous.”
Nora snorts softly from where she stands beside Blade. “At least you admitted it.”
I point toward her immediately. “See? This is why you’re my favorite.”
“You said that to Blade yesterday.”
Blade finally looks up. “You also told Lena she was your favorite this morning.”
“She gave me half her muffin. Relationships are fluid.”
Despite myself, I keep glancing toward the envelope too, somehow it feels heavier than half the weapons we’ve carried through this war.
Three months.
Three fucking months since Nora shot Joaquín in the chest inside the ruined clubhouse, since Valentina turned on the cartel and the Bratva alliance finally collapsed in on itself.
Three months since Kadyn Baranov got dragged screaming into Katya’s custody after trying to negotiate his way out of a war he started.
Three months since Calder, Max, and Moreno disappeared after Valentina like men with absolutely no survival instincts whatsoever.
Not that I’m judging.
Okay, maybe a little.
Stryker still thinks Moreno’s eventually going to call asking for cleanup help somewhere in South America or Eastern Europe.
Blade thinks Valentina probably stabbed at least one of them already.
Personally, I think Calder enjoys emotionally unstable women a little too much for his own good, but that feels like a him problem.
The war ended anyway, or this part of it did, at least. Our involvement is over.
The Bratva fractured. The Vegas remnants folded fast once Joaquín and the new Don both died. Routes collapsed. Auctions disappeared underground again. But we’ll never stop looking for them. Men like that always rebuild somewhere eventually.
But for now, Black Rock breathes easier.
The rescued women are mostly gone from the clubhouse now too.
Some stayed local, under Wolves protection.
But most moved to Calder’s compound in Miami, where the Coyotes apparently turned half their property into fortified therapy ranch chaos or whatever the hell they’re doing over there.
Others vanished into brand-new identities Bishop and Isa helped arrange through Mafia channels I still deliberately don’t ask questions about.
Life kept moving. We rebuilt while covered in blood and drywall dust because that’s what the Wolves do.
Nora shifts slightly beside Blade and I catch myself watching her automatically.
She’s calmer these days, in ways that have nothing to do with exhaustion anymore.
The constant edge she carried when we first found her again softened slowly after the war ended.
Not gone completely. Probably never will be.
She still checks exits automatically when entering crowded rooms. Still sleeps light sometimes when storms get loud enough to sound like gunfire.
But she laughs easier now. God, that woman should honestly be illegal when she laughs. She catches me staring.
“You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“The thing where you look emotional and then immediately try to hide it.”
Blade makes a quiet approving noise like she solved a medical mystery.
I put a hand against my chest. “Sweetheart, I’ll have you know I’m deeply masculine and emotionally unavailable.”
Stryker finally looks up from the envelope. “You cried because Paxton signed ‘love you’ last week.”
“He caught me off guard.”
Nora smiles before she can stop herself. And here it is again. That softness. It still feels unreal some days that we get to keep it.
Legally, Lena’s name change finalized last month. Whole damn courthouse probably heard her excitement from three floors down. Unfortunately, instead of ending the family-name conversations, it somehow made both kids become tiny union organizers about it.
Matching names apparently matter very seriously to five-year-olds.
So now everybody keeps pretending not to notice Paxton and Lena strategically bringing it up during meals.
Families should match, Paxton signed yesterday while eating pancakes.
Then Lena nodded solemnly beside him, like they weren’t obviously coordinating attacks.
Nora still hasn’t decided what she wants legally. None of us push her. Doesn’t matter much anyway. She’s already ours in every way that counts and we’re hers too.
Blade pushes gently away from the wall. “We should probably open it before the kids come looking for us.”
“They’re suspiciously quiet,” Nora says immediately.
We all go still because she’s right. The clubhouse is never quiet where those two are concerned.
Stryker narrows his eyes slightly. “That’s concerning.”
“Last time they got quiet,” I remind him, “Paxton tried teaching the prospects sign language and somehow convinced three grown men the sign for ‘good morning’ meant ‘buttcrack.’”
Nora covers her face briefly.
Blade looks openly amused. “Callum still greets people wrong.”
“He does it confidently too,” I add. “That’s the best part.”
A reluctant smile finally pulls at Stryker’s mouth before he looks back down at the envelope again. His fingers flex once against the paper.
Nora steps closer quietly until her shoulder brushes mine before reaching toward Stryker. Blade’s hand remains steady against her back while she touches Stryker’s wrist lightly.
“It’s okay,” she says softly.
Stryker exhales once through his nose before nodding.
Then he opens the envelope. Nobody speaks.
The paper crackles loudly in the silence as he unfolds it carefully. I try to read his face immediately and get absolutely nothing because the bastard’s emotional range is approximately three expressions wide.
Blade watches him steadily.
Nora’s fingers slide into mine without either of us looking at each other.
Stryker reads silently for several seconds. Then longer.
“What?” I ask finally. “Jesus Christ, just tell me before I throw up.”
His eyes lift slowly toward me and for the first time in years, I genuinely cannot read Stryker immediately.
Then he says quietly, “Paxton’s yours.”
Everything inside me stops. The room goes strangely distant around me while the words replay once, twice, ten fucking times in my head like my brain doesn’t trust them enough to settle.
I stare at him.
“You serious?”
Stryker hands me the paper silently. My hands shake taking it. Actually shake.
Jesus fucking Christ. I read the results once. Then again slower because suddenly letters don’t look real anymore.
Probability of paternity: 99.999%.
I laugh or maybe choke.
Really hard to fucking tell.
Nora reaches me before I fully process moving. One second I’m staring at the paper like it might disappear and the next she’s in my arms with tears in her eyes and a smile that wrecks me completely.
“You’re okay?” she asks softly.
That question nearly kills me because she knows exactly what this means.
All those years thinking fatherhood got ripped away before I even had the chance to want it. All the quiet panic every time Paxton laughed like me or grinned like me or curled against my side during movies looking so much like me it physically hurt sometimes.
I bury my face against her neck briefly.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
Blade laughs softly beside us while Stryker finally takes pity on me enough to clap a hand against my shoulder hard.
Nora starts laughing hard enough that she nearly folds against me, while Blade reaches over taking the paper from my hand to read it himself.
“Well,” Blade says calmly after a second, “that explains why Paxton steals snacks exactly like you.”
“That’s genetic behavior,” I agree seriously.
Stryker takes the paper next, reading it once before shaking his head slightly. “Kid never had a chance.”
I flip him off automatically while trying, unsuccessfully, not to grin like an idiot.
Then Blade pulls Nora fully against him and kisses the side of her head quietly. Stryker steps closer too, one arm wrapping around both of us while I’m still half clinging to Nora and the damn paternity test like my nervous system stopped functioning correctly.
The office door slams open hard enough against the wall to make everybody jump.
Lena storms inside first followed immediately by Paxton running behind her holding two marker-stained pieces of paper.
“We made designs,” Lena announces breathlessly before stopping abruptly mid-stride. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying,” I say instantly, and sign for good measure
Paxton squints at me suspiciously before looking at Nora. Viper’s totally crying.
Traitorous little snitch.
Nora bites her lip trying not to laugh. Maybe a little.
Paxton immediately abandons the drawings entirely and climbs directly into my lap. I catch him automatically while Lena wedges herself between Stryker and Nora on the couch without invitation.
“What happened?” Lena demands.
Stryker folds the paternity results calmly and sets them aside on the desk like they suddenly don’t matter nearly as much anymore.
“Nothing bad.”
“Then why’s everybody acting weird?”
Blade reaches over taking one of the papers from Paxton instead. “What are these?”
Instant distraction. The children light up immediately.
“Matching jackets,” Lena explains enthusiastically. “If we all have matching names we should also have matching jackets.”
I stare down at the drawing. There are six stick figures wearing what appear to be leather jackets with badly drawn wolves on the back.
Stryker notices me staring immediately, because of course he does. “Don’t start again.”
“Shut up.”
Paxton taps my arm until I look down at him. Then he signs carefully, You happy?
God. Kid’s gonna destroy me permanently.
I brush curls back from his forehead gently. Very happy.
He grins instantly before turning to sign something excitedly at Nora and Lena about jacket colors. Across the room Blade quietly starts mediating an argument about whether wolves should wear matching boots too while Stryker pretends not to care even though Lena is halfway into his lap now.
The paternity paper sits forgotten on the desk while laughter fills the office instead.
For years I survived believing men like us weren’t built for this kind of life.
We were built for violence. Protection. War.
Brotherhood maybe. But not this softness and domesticity.
Not children arguing over jacket designs while the woman we love laughs in the middle of our clubhouse like she belongs there.
But she does belong here.
They all do.
Outside this office there are still unfinished stories waiting somewhere beyond Black Rock.
Valentina’s still out there with Calder and Moreno and Max chasing whatever disaster follows them next.
New enemies will eventually crawl out of the wreckage Joaquín and Kadyn left behind because evil doesn’t stay buried forever.
But inside this room, none of that touches us for a minute.
Inside this room, Paxton sits in my lap biologically mine and functionally all of ours just like Lena is. Lena argues with Blade about wolf logos while Nora leans against Stryker smiling softly at the chaos surrounding her. The clubhouse hums around us alive and rebuilding and safe.
Home.
Somehow against every fucking odd imaginable, that’s what this became.
Home.
My dear reader, thanks for reading Secret Son for the Savage Bikers!
Couldn’t get enough of those three savage bikers…
and the secret son that brought them back to her?
Yeah… me neither.
That’s why I wrote a special bonus epilogue—just for you.
Click here to get your bonus epilogue.
Your Next Ride Awaits
Three savage bikers.
One woman who should stay away.
And a job that changes everything.
She was only supposed to be their nanny.
They’re about to make her theirs.
Start Nanny for the Savage Bikers now.