Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Shadow
I wake to Grace tracing her fingertips across my ribs.
The trailer is quiet except for Charlie's soft snoring from her bed on the floor, the cone still strapped around her neck.
Early morning light filters through the thin curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and orange.
"Morning," Grace murmurs, her finger following my torso.
"Morning, wife."
She grins, and I'll never get tired of seeing that.
The way her whole face lights up, the way her eyes soften. "Still not tired of saying that?"
"Never." I catch her hand, bring it to my lips. "Could say it a thousand times and it still wouldn't be enough."
"That's because you're obsessed with me."
"Damn right I am."
She laughs, and the sound fills the small space. This trailer isn't much—just a place for us to sleep while we're under Reapers Rejects protection. But right now, with Grace in my arms, it feels like everything.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering the moment.
Text from Rogue:
Copperhead Kings are moving. They know you're in Vegas. Venom's furious about the marriage. Watch your back, brother.
The real world crashes in. Hard.
Grace sees my expression change, props herself up on one elbow. "What is it?"
"Rogue says Copperhead Kings know we're here."
All the color drains from her face. "How?"
"They probably followed us. Or paid someone to track us." I sit up, reaching for my shirt. "We need to talk to Damon."
Grace nods, but I can see the fear blooming in her eyes.
The way her breath catches, the way her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her shirt.
This is what I was trying to prevent. Grace being scared. Being hunted.
And I failed.
Charlie whines from her bed on the floor, sensing the tension. Her cone bumps against the wall as she tries to scratch at her neck.
"Come here, girl," Grace says softly, and Charlie trots over, tail wagging despite the cone and the tension in the air.
I watch Grace with her dog—the gentle way she pets Charlie's head, the way she murmurs soothing words—and something fierce rises in my chest.
This is mine.
My wife. Her dog.
This life we're trying to build in the middle of all this chaos.
And I'll kill anyone who tries to take it.
An hour later, we're at the Reapers Rejects clubhouse.
The building sits on the club’s property, away from the Strip's neon chaos.
It's not as big as the Shotgun Saints compound back in Texas, but it's solid.
Desert landscaping, stucco exterior painted a sun-faded tan, but with iron bars on the windows and security cameras everywhere.
The same feel as any MC clubhouse—that sense of territory, of brothers, of home.
Even if it's not mine.
Bikes line the parking lot.
Harleys mostly, all customized, all expensive.
Brothers move around with purpose—some working on bikes, others just shooting the shit, a few heading inside with cases of beer.
Normal MC life.
Except nothing about our situation is normal.
Damon's in the main room when we walk in.
The Prez is maybe mid-forties, built like he can still throw down even if his fighting days are supposedly behind him.
Graying temples, sharp eyes that miss nothing, and an air of command that comes from years of running a club.
He's wearing his full patch—Reapers Rejects MC, President, Nevada stitched beneath.
Dixon, the VP, is beside him.
Younger than Damon, maybe late thirties, a man with a buzz cut, thick beard, and full sleeve tattoos that disappear under his cut.
He's got the look of a guy who's seen some shit and came out harder for it.
Shiver's there too, leaning against the bar with a cup of coffee.
When he sees Grace, his expression softens.
"Shadow. Grace." Damon gestures to the table where he and Dixon are sitting. "Sit. We need to talk."
We sit.
The leather chair creaks under me, and Grace's hand immediately finds mine under the table. Her palm is clammy, nervous.
Damon looks at me for a long moment, assessing. "So, you're the enforcer who married Shiver's sister and pissed off Copperhead Kings."
"Ex-enforcer," I correct. The word still tastes bitter. "And yeah."
"Tell me about the threat. From the beginning. Don't leave anything out."
So I do. I lay it all out. All of it.
Bronco buying Grace for four million dollars when she was barely eighteen.
Phantom arranging the marriage for ranch security and cash.
The three days Grace was engaged before Bronco raped her in the clubhouse.
Shiver finding her, killing Bronco in a rage.
Nine years of peace while Grace tried to heal and Shiver lived in exile.
And then Copperhead Kings deciding to collect on what they saw as a debt.
The meet where Flint laid out his demands—return the money, hand over Shiver, or give them Grace. Phantom refusing.
Me claiming we were married to protect her.
Getting kicked out of Shotgun Saints.
The bounty on Grace's head.
Running to Vegas for protection.
Damon listens without interrupting.
His expression doesn't change, but I can see the way his jaw tightens when I mention the rape.
The way Dixon's hands curl into fists when I explain Flint's belief that Grace is his property.
When I'm done, Damon leans back in his chair, arms crossed.
"Copperhead Kings think they own her because of money paid years ago."
"Yeah."
"And now you've married her, which voids their claim legally, but pisses them off even more."
"That's the theory."
Dixon speaks up, his voice rougher than I expected. "What's your read on Flint? Personal vendetta or club business?"
"Both," I say. "It's personal for him—that's his brother who died, even if Bronco was a piece of shit. But Venom's backing him, which makes it official club business. They're not backing down."
Damon's quiet for a moment, thinking. "Copperhead Kings are coming for you. That's not a question anymore. The question is: where do you want to fight them?"
I look at him. "What do you mean?"
"You can stay here in Vegas, under the Reapers’ protection.
We've got numbers, we've got territory, we've got resources.
But that starts a war between our clubs and theirs.
Vegas isn't neutral ground—it's our turf.
" He pauses, letting that sink in. "Or you go back to Texas, handle it on your home ground.
Shotgun Saints territory. We'll back you up if you need it, but it's your fight. "
I glance at Grace.
Her face is pale, but her expression is determined.
"Grace's safety comes first," I say firmly. "Everything else is secondary."
"Agreed." Damon nods, respect in his eyes. "So what's the play?"
I'm about to answer when Damon leans forward, his elbows on the table.
"Before we get into strategy, I got a question for you. You got exiled from Shotgun Saints. You planning to fix that?"
The question hits me like a punch. I tense, my jaw going tight.
"Don't know if it can be fixed."
"Phantom's a good man. Respected Prez. I've known him for years—our clubs have history, we've done runs together, traded intel, backed each other up." Damon's watching me carefully. "He's pissed now, I'm sure. But he loves his daughter. He'll come around."
Grace squeezes my hand under the table, hopeful. I can feel it radiating off her—that desperate want for her father to forgive me, for things to be okay again.
"He kicked me out," I say flatly. "Made it clear I was done."
"Because you lied to him. Made him look like a fool in front of another club, in front of his brothers." Damon's not pulling punches, and I respect him for it. "But you did it to protect Grace. Once he calms down, thinks it through, he'll see that."
Shiver pushes off the bar, coffee cup in hand. "I could call him. Explain things. Make him understand."
"No." The word comes out harder than I intended. "Not yet. Not while the Copperhead Kings are still a threat. I won't ask him for help after what I did."
Damon shakes his head slowly. "Pride's gonna get you killed, brother."
"Maybe. But Grace's safety comes first. We handle the Copperhead Kings. Eliminate the threat. Then I deal with Phantom and whatever consequences come with that."
Grace looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn't.
She just squeezes my hand tighter.
Damon sighs, but he doesn't push. "All right. We'll table the Phantom discussion. For now. Let's talk strategy."
We spend the next hour and a half going through options.
Scenarios. What-ifs.
The reality is simple, even if the execution isn't: we can't hide forever.
Can't let the bounty stay active—every lowlife and mercenary in the Southwest is looking for Grace now, seeing an easy fifty grand.
Can't negotiate with people who genuinely believe they own my wife.
Which leaves one option: eliminate the threat.
"You're talking about killing Flint," Dixon says. It's not a question.
"Yeah."
Damon doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. "You kill Flint, Venom's gonna want blood. He already lost one son. You take another? That's a blood debt to him, regardless of what Flint did."
"Let him want it."
"This could start a war between Reapers Rejects and Copperhead Kings."
"I know." I meet his eyes, hold his gaze. "And I'm asking you anyway. Grace is Shiver's sister. That makes her the Reapers’ family. I'm asking for your help to protect her. To end this."
Damon and Dixon exchange a long look.
Some kind of silent communication passes between them—the kind that comes from years of riding together, making hard decisions together.
Finally, Damon nods. "All right. We back the play, if our brothers support the motion. But we do it smart. No cowboy shit. We plan this out, we have contingencies, and we make sure our brothers come home."
Relief floods through me, so intense it's almost painful. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This gets messy, we're all in it. Blood for blood, that's how this works." Damon stands, rolls his shoulders. "Let me talk to the brothers. See who's willing to ride for this. Some of them got families, kids. Can't ask them to risk everything."
"I understand."