1
KELLAN
By the timethe ice cubes started to melt, I knew I’d been standing there way too long, staring at nothing like an idiot. The glass was sweating all over the counter, leaving a wet ring I wiped up with the side of my hand.
I blew out a breath. “He already agreed… everything is fine.”
So why couldn’t I shake the pit in my belly that I might be trapped in this place forever?
My feet curled against the cold kitchen tile, and I looked around. Yeah… the place had seen better days. The cabinets didn’t close right, the fridge hummed like it was dying, and everything smelled a little like coffee, grease, and leather.
Home sweet home, I guess.
Well…home or cage, depending on the day.
Most mornings lately, I tried to pretend it was just… normal. Wake up, brew coffee, check my email from the clinic, go over my start-date paperwork, and daydream about spending my time with kids and parents instead of bikers. That job felt like my one ticket to something that was mine, something that wasn’t stamped with REAPERS in big block letters.
That was the unspoken rule of being Wrecker’s kid. Everyone treated me like I belonged… until I didn’t. Until something went wrong. Then I was a liability instead of family.
It’s not wrong to want something just for you.
I set the iced tea on the tray, right next to the sandwich I’d stacked just the way my dad liked it. Thick-cut bread I made yesterday, thick slices of roast beef, sharp cheddar, extra pickles, mustard on both sides. I added the small plate of cookies I’d baked earlier, because apparently graduating college hadn’t broken me of the habit of stress-baking.
“Yep,” I muttered. “Straight-up bribery.”
Dad—Wrecker—wasn’t the easiest guy to sweet-talk on a good day. And lately? Good days were definitely in short supply. Something had been brewing in the club for weeks, and everyone felt it. I could feel the tension all the way from the common room. No music. No dumb arguments about pool. Just quiet voices. Everyone felt the tension, even when they didn’t know what it meant.
And it was the kind of quiet that made the back of my neck tingle.
On a regular afternoon, there’d be music leaking down the hall from Reapers’ Roadhouse, someone swearing about a busted carb at the shop, Razor yelling at a prospect to sweep the same spot for the third time. Today, it just sounded… wrong. Like the whole compound was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the tray and pushed open the kitchen door with my shoulder. The hallway was cooler, darker. Concrete floors, old photos, framed patches. The usual smell of motor oil and leather hit me and settled weirdly in my chest. Familiar, but heavy. Like slipping into a jacket that didn’t quite fit anymore.
I didn’t need to look where I was going. I’d walked this hall since I was old enough to toddle. Down past the patchedmembers’ lounge. Last door on the left. The president’s office. My dad’s lair.
A young prospect sat outside it on a chair that looked like it had been stolen from some dive bar in the nineties. He straightened fast when he saw me.
“Hey, Kellan.” His eyes dropped to the tray. “Uh… Wrecker said he’s busy.”
“He’s always busy,” I said, shifting the tray before my fingers cramped. “This is just lunch. Not trying to crash a meeting.”
He didn’t relax. If anything, he got stiffer.
“He told me not to let anyone through,” he said quietly. “Like… anyone.”
I raised a brow. “Anyone?”
“Anyone who’s not him,” he corrected, wincing like he already knew how ridiculous that sounded.
“Well,” I said, giving him a small smile, “lucky for you, I’m not just anyone.”
The kid looked panicked for a second, like he could see the future where Wrecker ripped into him for letting the president’s son through. I didn’t blame him. Dad scared grown men. Hell, he scared me sometimes, not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
“I’m not going in to stir anything up,” I added, softer. “Just want to feed him before he gets hangry and threatens to rip someone’s head off. You know how he gets.”
The prospect huffed a single nervous laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
“And listen,” I said, adjusting the tray again, “if he’s mad about it, I’ll take the heat. He can yell at me later.”
