The chapel is tucked into the back of the brewery, behind a steel-reinforced door with a keypad only patched members know. The room is enclosed by brick walls, iron beams overhead, and a single stained-glass window that spills blood-red light across the floor. It makes the place feel like God’s still watching, even if he’d long since stopped giving a shit.
A bare bulb hangs overhead by a bent chain, casting a soft white glow over the round table in the center, painted with the Royal Harlots MC logo. A sugar skull with a gold crown is flanked by two grinning skulls and crossed pistons. The paint’sworn in places where boots and blades have taken their toll, but the queen in the center still looks proud and defiant just like the women who sit around her.
Patched members take their seats back from the table. Some in low leather armchairs, others drop into sofas pressed along the walls. Around the table, nine chairs are arranged in a wide arc for the officers. These chairs aren’t just seats, they’re iron brands, custom built to match the women who run this club. No one but Quinn knows who made them, and she’s not telling, but whoever it was had a keen eye for detail, like they tapped into our very essence. Every edge and burn says: You don’t sit here unless you’ve bled for the right. And if you ever forget why you earned your title, the faces around this table will remind you.
Dead center of the arc, Quinn, our president, is already seated. Her chair is a brutal throne of brushed black steel shaped from jagged rebar, the back welded into sharp anarchy wings. The armrests are flame-etched, the club’s crest burned into the leather seat. She leans back like she was born there. Her white tank’s stained, but the anarchy symbol is still loud across her chest.
To her right, in the chair that radiates command and violence, Lady Cain, our VP, slides in with her usual quiet weight. Her seat is all clean angles and menace. It has a black powder-coated frame with pistol holsters built into each arm, barbed wire welded across the back like a warning. Brass knuckles embedded in the armrest. Diesel’s old spiked collar hangs from a hook at the base. LC’s in full black tactical, her long black hair tied high but messy like she hasn’t stopped moving in days. Diesel settles beside her chair. He doesn’t growl. He just watches, like he’s waiting for someone to be stupid.
Next is Meadow, our Enforcer. Quiet and calculating. She’s always dressed like she just came from yoga in sleek leggings, soft hoodie, boot knife barely visible. She drops into herdeceptively delicate chair made of thin steel vines wrapping the legs and arms like ivy, but every curve is razor-welded. A dagger-shaped backplate glints behind her. Her blue eyes don’t move much, but I know she’s clocked every breath in the room.
Beside her, Lolita, Sergeant at Arms, swings into her seat like she owns the room. She doesn’t, but damn if her presence doesn’t command it. Her chair is a high-backed black chrome beast, phoenix wings flared across the back, roses etched into the seat with thorn barbs. Her jet-black hair spills down her back in lazy waves, and the cut-off tank she’s wearing teases the phoenix tattoo between her shoulder blades. She drums her nails on the armrest. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Orchid, our Road Captain, takes her place next. Everything about her moves quiet and clean. She’s wearing a long black coat and dark jeans. Her chair is sleek, matte black, with a single orchid etched into the backrest. No flash. Just weight. Reinforced steel beneath grace.
Scarlet Rose settles in like she’s waiting for someone to challenge her balance sheet. Our Treasurer’s chair is gunmetal gray, high-backed, with a locking ledger drawer under the seat and the club symbol filigreed at the top in the same green as her eyes. She’s wearing tailored slacks and a crimson blouse like she just came from the office and not a biker clubhouse. She kicks back, tablet already in hand.
Then there’s Silk, our Secretary. Youngest patched member we’ve got, but don’t let the wide brown eyes fool you. She’s fast and vicious when she needs to be. Tonight, she’s in a tank top and jeans, hair tied up. Her chair’s slim and quick-looking, brushed bronze, arms shaped like feathers, and a hidden keyboard folded out from the side. She’s already typing with one hand, stylus in the other. Fast fingers. Faster brain.
Then there’s Vex, our tech witch, sporting a short brown pixie cut that not many people can pull off as effortlessly asshe does. When she talks, it’s always half a second too fast. Her chair’s chaos in metal form with exposed wiring running like veins along the edges, a soft blue LED glow under the seat, USB ports jutting from the frame. A retractable tablet ring hangs off the side. Her laptop’s already jacked into a portable uplink. She doesn’t look up. Just smirks.
I’m the last to take my seat. My chair is all fight and nothing extra. Dark steel, low-backed, with grip tape wrapped around the arms like a katana hilt. The backrest is shaped like a closed fist mid-strike, frozen in steel. The legs are thick and reinforced. No give. No grace. Just purpose.
I remember when Quinn gave it to me. I was still bleeding from a rescue mission that went sideways when she handed me the Tail Gunner patch and nodded to the new chair in the circle.
“Seat’s yours now,” she said. “Built to fit a fighter who never backs down.”
I run my fingers over the scarred grip of the armrest as I drop into it, the metal creaking under my weight. It’s not just a chair. It’s proof of loyalty and every scar earned to sit here.
I lean back and set my eyes on the rest of them. Around this table, every woman is cut from pain and sharpened by rage.
We didn’t ask to be a war council… But we sure as hell became one.
Quinn leans forward, her gaze sweeping the room once, hard and sharp. Then she says, “Church is in session.”
There’s no small talk. No bullshit. No pretense.
We all know why we’re here.
Quinn looks around the room, her eyes lingering just long enough on each of us to remind everyone who the hell’s in charge.
“Amber’s been beaten to hell and so far all we have is the bastard who did this has a red-eyed snake tattoo. We need toknow what that means, who this motherfucker is, and how to kill him.”
“And how they’re connected to Dante Cross.” Silk bites, arms crossed.
I don’t trust Dante either. Hell, I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t sit in this room. But her particular level of hatred makes me wonder if I’m the only one suddenly on the fence.
“Found this in her pocket,” Lady Cain says, tossing a business card onto the table. It skids a beat, then falls flat. The red-eyed snake stares up at us. “Whoever hurt her left a calling card.”
“Gimme that.” Vex leans over. Silk picks up the card and hands it off. Vex snaps a photo with her tablet and starts typing.
“That symbol’s been popping up on bodies across the East Coast,” Vex mutters, eyes fixed to the screen. She flips the tablet around and shows us a grainy image from a security cam. It’s not great quality, but clear enough to see the red-eyed snake coiled around the side of a man’s neck.
“This is our guy. Name’s Rico Mendez. Victor Serrano’s enforcer. Picked up twice, walked both times. No convictions.”
That means that tattoo isn’t just ink, it’s a blood oath. Serrano wouldn’t let just anyone wear his mark. If it’s on your skin, you’ve done things for him. Bad things. Things you don’t walk away from.
Orchid leans forward. “He grabbed that girl Alicia behind Dante Cross’s gym.”
