Tonight is my night.
She glances up from her conversation and catches me watching. Raises an eyebrow. I look away.
When I look back, she’s smiling. Knows exactly what I was doing.
The prospect she’s teaching says something that makes her laugh. The sound carries across the room, warm and genuine. Other brothers turn toward it like flowers toward the sun. She has that effect—draws people in without trying, makes the clubhouse feel less like a fortress and more like a home.
My phone buzzes.
Text from Ash:Savage Legion spotted near the east side. Might be late getting back. Take care of her.
I type back:I will.
It’s true. Taking care of Bonnie has become as automatic as breathing. Making sure she eats when she forgets, checking the locks on her window at night, and standing close enough in crowded rooms that nobody gets ideas about approaching her.
The brothers have learned. She’s under our protection—all three of us—and anyone who disrespects her answers to Ash, Titan, and me. That message got delivered loud and clear after a visiting member from a neighboring chapter made a crude comment about her being “shared property.”
Titan broke his nose. Ash kicked him out. I made sure word spread that the next person who said something similar wouldn’t walk away at all.
Bonnie finishes her explanation to the prospects and stands. They thank her, gather their notes, and head toward the garage. She walks toward me, purpose in every step.
“You’re lurking,” she says when she reaches the window.
“I’m standing.”
“You’re lurking and watching me. There’s a difference.”
“Maybe I like watching you.”
Her smile turns into something warmer. “Good thing it’s your night then. You can watch all you want.”
Heat flares low in my gut. Six weeks and I’m still not used to the casual way she talks about us.
Before I can respond, the door to Ash’s office opens. He emerges with Danny and Rodriguez, deep in discussion about patrol routes. When he spots Bonnie, his expression softens. He crosses to us and drops a kiss on her forehead.
“Be good,” he tells her.
“When am I ever good?” she counters.
“Fair point.” He looks at me. “Keep her safe.”
He nods once and heads out with the others. Engines roar to life in the lot. Fifteen bikes pulling out for a run that will take hours if the Savage Legion decides to make trouble.
The clubhouse settles into afternoon quiet. A few brothers shoot pool in the back room. Someone’s cooking in the kitchen—the smell of frying onions drifts through the main hall. Normal clubhouse rhythms, the kind of peace that only happens between storms.
“Want to go over the new defensive positions?” Bonnie asks. “Jamie mentioned the west side businesses are nervous after last week’s break-in.”
This is what I love about her. Not love—respect. What I respect about her. She doesn’t just sit around waiting for us to handle everything. She learns, studies, contributes. Asks the right questions, remembers the answers, sees patterns others miss.
“We can do that,” I say. “Conference room?”
She leads the way. I follow, watching the sway of her hips in jeans, the confident set of her shoulders. She moves through the clubhouse like she owns it. In a way, she does—president’swife, daughter of the former president, claimed by three of the highest-ranking members.
But it’s more than that. The brothers respect her because she’s earned it.
In the conference room, she spreads out maps of our territory. Points to businesses marked in red—recent Savage Legion targets.
“They’re hitting a pattern,” she says. “See? Every strike is exactly three miles from the last one. They’re working inward, trying to box us into a smaller defensive perimeter.”
