Jake's expression shifted—recognition, kinship. "Then you get it. Why someone would choose this, even with all the bullshit."
"Yeah." I looked around the room—at the men who'd saved my grandmother's vase, who'd put themselves between me and danger, who'd welcomed a stranger into their home because their VP asked them to. "I'm starting to."
Church lasted two hours.
I spent the time exploring, carefully, with Jake as my unofficial guide. He showed me the garage where a prospect named Danny was working on a vintage Indian Scout bike. In the gym, Tank was working the heavy bag—shirtless, skingleaming with sweat, muscles rippling with each brutal strike. He nodded at us as we passed, but his eyes lingered on me a moment longer than necessary. Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, maybe, or something he couldn't quite name.
"Tank's intense," I said once we were out of earshot.
Jake shrugged. "He's a good fellow. Quiet, though. Keeps to himself mostly. Had a girlfriend a while back, but that ended. Don't think he's dated since."
Jake showed me the kitchen next, where a woman named Maria was cooking enough food to feed an army. "Hawk's old lady," Jake explained when I raised an eyebrow at her presence. "She comes by most days to make sure we don't starve. Says left to our own devices we'd live on beer and beef jerky."
"She's not wrong," Maria called from the stove. "You boys would be dead of scurvy inside a month."
The clubhouse was bigger than I'd realized. More organized. Less chaos and more controlled operation. These weren't random criminals playing at rebellion—they were a functioning organization with hierarchy, rules, purpose.
It was nothing like I'd expected. And everything like I'd feared.
Because the longer I stayed, the more it felt like somewhere I could belong.
Axel found me in the gym.
I'd borrowed clothes from Jake—too big, but clean—and was working through combinations on the heavy bag. The rhythmwas meditative. Jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook. The bag swung and shuddered under my fists.
"Your form's good."
I didn't startle. I'd felt him enter, the way you feel a storm approaching.
"Tyler was thorough." I threw another combination. "Said if I was going to survive, I needed to hit like I meant it."
"You do."
I stopped, turned. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I couldn't read. He'd changed too—fresh shirt, dark jeans, cut still in place. He looked like sin wrapped in leather.
"How was Church?"
"Productive." He pushed off the frame, moved closer. "Hawk's reaching out to some allies. We're going to put pressure on Viper, make it clear that coming after you isn't worth the cost."
"And if he doesn't listen?"
"Then we make the cost higher." He stopped a foot away, close enough that I could see his pulse jumping in his throat. "You've been busy."
"Jake gave me the tour."
"Jake talks too much."
"I like him."
"Everyone likes him. It's annoying." But his eyes were soft, and I realized he was deflecting. Nervous.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." He reached out, tucked a strand of sweat-damp hair behind my ear. "I just... I've been thinking."
"About?"
"This morning." His thumb traced my jaw. "What you said. About not rushing."
