Holley turns bright red.
Raff elbows Miles. “Shut your damn mouth. You don’t embarrass someone Stud brings in. He’s the head of this club.”
“I’m not the Prez anymore,” I remind him.
“You’re still the OG,” Miles says. “Respect sticks.”
That’s when Scraper arrives.
He’s quieter than the others, presence heavier. Ex–military, same era as me. He looks Holley over once, not in a way that objectifies, but in the way a guard dog takes inventory.
“You safe here,” he says simply.
Holley nods. “Thank you.”
He tips his chin to me. “She’s good.”
“That’s why she’s here,” I say.
We move through the rest of the greetings—some teasing, some warm, all curious. She handles it with more grace than most newcomers ever manage. Doesn’t try too hard. Doesn’t shrink. Just offers small hellos, polite smiles, steady presence.
But every few minutes, she glances behind her.
Checks the doorway.
Scans the windows.
Her shoulders tighten more each time.
I don’t miss it.
None of the Hellions do either—which is saying something.
Once we reach the quieter hallway toward my clubhouse room, I stop her gently with a hand on her arm.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
She tries to play it off. “Nothing.”
“Holley.”
Her eyes flicker. She hesitates. “I feel… watched.”
My jaw locks.
“For how long?”
“A few days,” she shares. “Before I left the mountains. I thought it would stop once I got here, but…”
Her gaze darts past me down the empty hall.
That protective instinct—old, deep, instinctive—fires through me fast. “You should’ve told me before you got in the car.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was being dramatic.”
“I’d rather think you’re dramatic than unsafe.”
Her breath hitches. “I’m sorry.”
