"Those are my only options?"
"Those are your smart options." His voice softens slightly. "Luna, what happened today was just the beginning. Vulture's been planning this for years. He won't stop until he destroys everything I've built, everyone I care about. You don't want to be caught in the crossfire."
"And if I decide to stay? To fix up my grandmother's house and make a life here?"
King's eyes darken. "Then I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. But I can't guarantee it. No one can."
I finish cleaning his injuries and pack up the first aid supplies, using the mundane task to buy time as I process everything he's told me. The smart choice is obvious: take whatever money I can get for the house, even if it's pennies on the dollar, and goback to Seattle. Back to safety, back to normalcy, back to a world where men don't solve their problems with baseball bats and motorcycle gangs.
But I've spent my whole life making the smart choice. Playing it safe. Avoiding risks. And what has it gotten me? A lonely apartment, a job that drains me, and a family that barely speaks to me.
"I'm staying," I say finally, meeting King's gaze squarely. "That house is all I have left of my grandmother. I'm not giving it up without a fight."
Something flashes in his eyes—respect, maybe, or concern. Possibly both. "You understand what you're getting into?"
"No," I admit. "But I'm going to find out. And since those Iron Eagles seem to think my property is strategically valuable, it sounds like you need me as much as I need you."
King's laugh is unexpected. A low, rusty sound like he doesn't use it often. "You're either the bravest woman I've ever met or the craziest."
"Why can't I be both?"
"Oh, I'm pretty sure you are." He slides off the barstool, standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Welcome to the war, Luna Hartwell."
I should be terrified. Should be running for the nearest exit, calling a taxi or getting on the first bus out of this insane town. Instead, I'm standing in a motorcycle club's headquarters, patching up its president after a street fight, agreeing to stay in a town where I might get killed because of property lines and old grudges.
But as I follow King toward the waiting club members, I feel more alive than I have in years. The adrenaline has faded, butsomething else has taken its place—a sense of purpose, of being exactly where I need to be, even if it's the last place anyone would expect.
"Gentlemen," King addresses the assembled men. "This is Luna Hartwell. Emma's granddaughter. She's under Savage Riders protection from now on."
The reaction is immediate and mixed. Some nod in acceptance—Beast, and Rage among them. Others look skeptical or outright hostile, Tank among them.
"We're spreading ourselves thin as it is," Tank argues. "We can't afford to assign protection to a civilian."
"Emma took care of our people for years," Beast counters unexpectedly. "Fixed us up when hospitals would've asked too many questions. We owe her."
"Emma's dead," Tank says bluntly. "And we don't owe her granddaughter shit."
I step forward, tired of being talked about like I'm not in the room. "I'm not asking for protection," I say clearly. "I'm offering an alliance."
That gets their attention. Every head turns toward me, expressions ranging from surprise to disbelief.
"My property is strategically valuable, according to King. The Iron Eagles want it. You need to keep them from getting it." I look around the room, meeting each gaze directly. "I'm a nurse, like my grandmother was. I can patch you up without asking questions, just like she did. In return, you help me fix up the house and keep the Eagles off my land."
The room erupts in overlapping voices. Some arguing for my proposal, others against it. Through it all, King watches mewith an unreadable expression, neither supporting nor opposing what I've suggested.
Finally, he raises a hand, and the room falls silent instantly. "We'll discuss the specifics in private," he says, his tone making it clear the matter is closed for now. "Luna, Tank will show you to my office while we have our meeting."
Tank looks like he'd rather show me to a ditch in the woods, but he nods stiffly. "This way."
I follow him through the door at the back of the room, down a short hallway, and into what must be King's office. It's surprisingly minimalist—a large desk with a computer, a few filing cabinets, and a comfortable leather chair. The only personal touch is a framed photograph on the desk, showing a group of soldiers in desert camouflage, arms around each other's shoulders.
"Don't touch anything," Tank says as he leaves, closing the door firmly behind him.
Alone for the first time since this morning, I sink into the visitor's chair and let the events of the day wash over me. In less than twenty-four hours, I've been nearly robbed, discovered my inheritance is a disaster, witnessed a violent street fight, fled from police, and proposed an alliance with a motorcycle club.
What would Grandma Emma say if she could see me now?
She'd probably tell me I was finally living instead of just existing. That sometimes the most dangerous path is the only one worth taking. That helping people who need it, even if they're not the kind of people society approves of, is always the right choice.
