I glance at the photo on King's desk. Young men in a war zone, faces streaked with dust but smiling despite everything. King is there in the center, younger and less hardened, butwith the same commanding presence. His arm is around another soldier's shoulders, both of them laughing at some long-forgotten joke.
Human soldiers who went to war and came back changed, who built their own tribe when society had no place for them. Not so different from the nurses and doctors I've worked with in trauma centers, who develop their own dark humor and tight-knit communities to cope with what they see every day.
Maybe that's why I'm not running. Because underneath all the leather and attitude and violence, I recognize something familiar in King and his men. The same core principle that guides my own profession: protect your own, at any cost.
Chapter 5 - King
I step into the chapel—what we call our meeting room—and feel the weight of leadership settle on my shoulders like chain mail. Familiar. Heavy. Necessary.
Every member of the Savage Riders is present, seated around the long redwood table that's seen eight years of decisions, arguments, celebrations, and plans. The table where we've plotted everything from charity runs for the local hospital to strategies for dealing with rival clubs.
To my right sits Tank, my VP and oldest friend. We survived Afghanistan together, built this club from nothing when we both came back broken in ways civilians couldn't understand. He's cautious where I'm impulsive, thoughtful where I'm decisive. The perfect counterbalance.
Rage sits next to him, tattooed fingers drumming impatiently on the table. Single father, former bouncer, and the best fighter in the club next to me. He's loyal to a fault and protective of anyone he considers family.
Beast occupies the chair beside Rage, his massive frame making the furniture look like it belongs in a child's playroom. Ex-military like most of us, he earned his name in underground fighting rings before finding a home with the Savage Riders. He's a man of few words but absolute conviction.
Torch is next, our demolitions expert and the club's institutional memory. He remembers every slight, every favor, every alliance made or broken in our territory. Nothing explodes without his permission, literally or figuratively.
Steel completes the full members' section, our resident mechanic whose engineering genius has saved our asses more times than I can count. He can fix anything with an engine andhas the patience of a saint, which comes in handy when dealing with the more volatile personalities in the club.
At the far end of the table sit our prospects: Rookie, fresh out of the military and eager to prove himself; Chaos, a young hothead who lives up to his name; and Shadow, the quiet observer who misses nothing and speaks only when it matters.
Nine men. My brothers. My responsibility.
"The Iron Eagles made their move," I begin without preamble. "Seven prospects attacked me at Emma Hartwell's old place. Torch, Beast, and Rage helped clean it up."
"They're testing us," Tank says, "Sending prospects instead of patched members, targeting you specifically but not bringing enough force to be a serious threat."
"Gathering intel," Torch agrees. "Seeing how fast we respond, how we coordinate, what our defensive protocols look like."
Steel leans forward. "What were they doing at Emma's place? It's been empty for years. So… Why today of all days?"
"Convenient timing," Tank adds, his voice neutral but his meaning clear.
"You think she's connected to the Eagles?" Rookie asks, then immediately looks like he regrets speaking when all eyes turn to him.
"No." My tone makes it clear this particular point isn't up for debate. "Luna had no idea what she was walking into. The Eagles have been planning this move for months, maybe years. Her arrival is just bad timing."
"Or good timing for them," Rage points out. "Empty property on the edge of town suddenly gets an owner with no connections to us? Perfect opportunity for the Eagles to establish a foothold."
"We need to secure the property," I say. "Make it clear to Vulture that it's under our protection."
"Why not just buy it from her?" Chaos suggests, earning a sharp look from Tank for speaking out of turn. "What? It's a practical solution. Offer her cash, get her out of town before she becomes collateral damage."
"She won't sell," I say with certainty. "She's stubborn."
"Like her grandmother," Beast says unexpectedly, his deep voice rumbling through the room. "Emma was good people. Patched me up after that fight in Riverside, no questions asked."
"She stitched my kid's head when he fell," Rage adds. "Didn't charge me a dime, said seeing him smile was payment enough."
"Emma's dead," Tank reminds everyone. "And while I respected her, we need to focus on strategy, not sentiment. The house is a liability as long as it's occupied by a civilian who doesn't understand what she's walked into."
"She understands more than you think," I counter. "And she's a nurse, like her grandmother. Could be useful to have someone with medical training in our corner, especially if things get hot with the Eagles."
Why am I advocating so hard for a stranger I met yesterday? It's not like me. Normally, I'd prioritize club safety over everything else, make the hard call that keeps my brothers alive even if it means stepping over civilians who get caught in the crossfire.
But there's something about Luna Hartwell that's gotten under my skin. The way she stood her ground against those would-be robbers at the bus station. The way she refused to hide when the Eagles attacked. The way she walked straight into a room full of dangerous men and proposed an alliance instead of begging for protection.
