"For what?"
"For showing me who I am." His arms tightened around me. "For making me okay with it."
I nestled closer, let his warmth surround me. "You always were okay," I said. "You just needed someone to remind you."
The night was quiet. Calm before the storm. Tomorrow would bring war. But tonight, wrapped in each other, we were untouchable. I fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
I dreamed of grey eyes and gunfire. In the morning, I'd learn which one was prophecy.
11
CROSSFIRE
Morning came too soon.
I woke to an empty bed, Axel's side still warm. Voices filtered up from below—low, urgent, the cadence of men planning violence. I stretched, felt the pleasant ache in my muscles, the tenderness that reminded me of last night.
You're mine. Say it.
Heat curled through me at the memory. I pushed it aside, got dressed, and headed downstairs.
The war room had expanded overnight. More maps, more markers, more faces I didn't recognize. Hawk had called in reinforcements—members from allied MCs, hard-eyed men who nodded at me with guarded respect when I passed.
Axel stood at the center table, pointing at a blueprint. "—here and here. Two entry points. Tank takes the east, Irish takes the west. Declan handles overwatch from this position."
"What about the north approach?" Tyler leaned over the map, frowning. "You've got a blind spot."
"The north is fenced. Razor wire, cameras?—"
"Cameras I can disable in thirty seconds." Tyler tapped the blueprint. "If Devil's Dust has any tactical sense, they'll hit the blind spot first. You need a team there."
Hawk studied him, something calculating in his dark eyes. "You know their playbook."
"I helped write it." Tyler's jaw tightened. "Viper likes to think he's unpredictable, but he's not. He's brutal, but he's also arrogant. He'll go for maximum impact—hit you where it hurts, make a statement."
"The clubhouse," Tank said. "He'll hit us here."
"Eventually. But first, he'll want to destabilize. Pick off isolated targets, disrupt supply lines, make you paranoid." Tyler straightened. "He's not planning a battle. He's planning a siege."
The room went quiet. I watched the officers process this—the shift from expecting a single assault to preparing for sustained warfare. "How long can we hold out?" Hawk asked.
"Depends on supplies, manpower, morale." Tyler glanced at me, something flickering in his expression. "And whether we take the fight to them before they bring it to us."
After the strategy session, Axel found me in the kitchen, nursing coffee I didn't taste. "You're quiet," he said, sliding onto the stool beside me.
"Thinking."
"About?"
"About how useless I am in there." I gestured toward the war room. "Everyone has a role—Tank's muscle, Irish is tactics, Tyler knows the enemy. What am I? The guy who patches people up after they get shot?"
"That's not nothing, Kai."
"It's not enough." I met his eyes. "I want to fight. Not just clean up the aftermath."
Something shifted in his expression—concern warring with respect. "You've already proven you can handle yourself. The warehouse, the parking garage?—"
"Street fighting. Improvisation." I shook my head. "This is war. I need to be better."
