Make sure she's still wearing my marks.
Make sure she remembers who she belongs to.
I force myself to get dressed—jeans, boots, t-shirt, cut.
The leather settles on my shoulders, the enforcer patch a reminder of what I am. What I do.
I eliminate threats.
And right now, the biggest threat to my sanity is staying away from Grace for an entire morning.
The clubhouse is busy as ever when I pull up on my bike.
Prospects are cleaning up from last night's party, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hanging in the air.
A few of the guys are already gathered on the porch, nursing coffee and talking shit.
Banshee nods at me as I head inside. "Morning, brother. You look like hell."
"Didn't sleep much."
"Yeah?" His grin is knowing. "What kept you up?"
I give him a look that shuts him up, but not before I catch the smirk.
Bastard suspects something. He always does.
Inside, the chapel is already filling up.
The long table is scarred and stained from years of use, patches and photographs covering the walls.
This is where we handle club business.
Where decisions get made.
Where loyalty is tested.
I take my usual seat and wait.
Phantom walks in a few minutes later, shuts the door, and the room goes quiet.
Officers and full patches line the table, but all of our focus is on Phantom.
At fifty-something, he's still built like a brick shithouse and still commands respect with just his presence.
He's also Grace's father.
And I'm fucking his daughter.
The irony isn't lost on me.
"All right, let's get started." Phantom drops into his chair at the head of the table. "Rogue, finances."
The treasurer runs through the numbers—ranch operations, club accounts, and legitimate business fronts. Everything's solid. We're making money, staying under the radar, keeping our operations clean enough that the feds don't come sniffing.
"Security report," Phantom says, looking at me.
I straighten. "Perimeter's good. No incidents this week. Cameras are functioning. I want to add a few more along the main road, though. Near the clinic and the entrance."
