The way her breath catches, the way her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for her shirt.
This is what I was trying to prevent. Grace being scared. Being hunted.
And I failed.
Charlie whines from her bed on the floor, sensing the tension. Her cone bumps against the wall as she tries to scratch at her neck.
"Come here, girl," Grace says softly, and Charlie trots over, tail wagging despite the cone and the tension in the air.
I watch Grace with her dog—the gentle way she pets Charlie's head, the way she murmurs soothing words—and something fierce rises in my chest.
This is mine.
My wife. Her dog.
This life we're trying to build in the middle of all this chaos.
And I'll kill anyone who tries to take it.
An hour later, we're at the Reapers Rejects clubhouse.
The building sits on the club’s property, away from the Strip's neon chaos.
It's not as big as the Shotgun Saints compound back in Texas, but it's solid.
Desert landscaping, stucco exterior painted a sun-faded tan, but with iron bars on the windows and security cameras everywhere.
The same feel as any MC clubhouse—that sense of territory, of brothers, of home.
Even if it's not mine.
Bikes line the parking lot.
Harleys mostly, all customized, all expensive.
Brothers move around with purpose—some working on bikes, others just shooting the shit, a few heading inside with cases of beer.
Normal MC life.
Except nothing about our situation is normal.
Damon's in the main room when we walk in.
The Prez is maybe mid-forties, built like he can still throw down even if his fighting days are supposedly behind him.
Graying temples, sharp eyes that miss nothing, and an air of command that comes from years of running a club.
He's wearing his full patch—Reapers Rejects MC, President, Nevada stitched beneath.
Dixon, the VP, is beside him.
Younger than Damon, maybe late thirties, a man with a buzz cut, thick beard, and full sleeve tattoos that disappear under his cut.
He's got the look of a guy who's seen some shit and came out harder for it.
Shiver's there too, leaning against the bar with a cup of coffee.
When he sees Grace, his expression softens.
