Price and Ink, the prospects, are already working on securing the scene, checking the bodies, and gathering weapons.
My phone buzzes with a message from Hansen.
Status?
I type back quickly:Deadwood took the bait. Megan is safe. One escaped. Two down, one captured.
The response comes immediately:Bring them in. War council at dawn.
War council. Which means Hansen recognizes Deadwood just declared war, and we have no choice but to answer.
I holster my weapon and turn back to where Megan is still crouched behind the counter. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a fear so visceral it makes my hands shake. The thought of what could have happened if I'd been slower, if backup hadn't arrived, if that shot had found its target—
I can't think about it, can't let myself go there.
I cross to her and crouch down, my hands reaching for her shoulders without conscious thought. "You okay?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She nods, but I can see the tremor in her hands and the way she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. "I'm okay. You—you're not hurt?"
"I'm fine." I run my hands down her arms, checking for injuries I know aren't there but needing to confirm anyway. "You did good. Stayed down, stayed quiet. That's exactly what you needed to do."
She lets out a shaky breath, and then she's pressing forward into my chest, her face buried against my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight, and I feel the moment the fear catches up to her, the way her body starts shaking, the hitched breathing that says she's trying not to cry.
"I've got you," I murmur against her hair, and I mean it with everything in me. "You're safe, I'm not letting anyone touch you."
She nods against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. Behind us, I'm aware of Grave and Miller moving the captured Deadwood members outside, the low rumble of engines and voices as they coordinate transport.
But all of that feels distant, secondary to the woman trembling in my arms.
I pull back just enough to tilt her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "Listen to me. What just happened? That doesn't happen again. From this moment on, you don't go anywhere without me or someone I trust. You don't leave the clubhouse without an escort. You don't take chances. Understood?"
She searches my face, and whatever she sees there makes her nod slowly. "Okay."
"I need you to understand what that means," I continue, my voice dropping lower, rougher. "It means you're mine to protect. It means I'm claiming responsibility for your safety, and anyone who comes for you goes through me first. Can you live with that?"
There's a long pause, and I watch emotions flicker across her face—fear, relief, hope. Then she nods again, more firmly this time. "Yes."
This isn't just about keeping her safe anymore, it's about keeping her, period. About making sure she has a place here, with me, with the club, where no one can reach her without consequence.
"Good," I say, and I press a kiss to her forehead, letting it linger. "Because I'm not letting you go."
Grave appears in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Cabin's secure. Miller's coordinating patrols, making sure no one else is lurking. You two should come back to the clubhouse. Hansen wants everyone together until we figure out our next move."
I nod, already mentally running through what needs to happen. Megan will stay at the clubhouse where there are always eyes, always backup. I'll coordinate with Luke to track down whoever put the contract out on her. And we'll send a message to Deadwood that makes it crystal clear what happens when they cross the Night Wolves.
But first, I need to get Megan warm and safe, somewhere she can process what just happened without feeling exposed and vulnerable.
I stand, bringing her up with me, and keep one arm around her shoulders as we move toward the door.
The cold night air hits us like a slap, sharp enough to steal breath, and I feel Megan press closer to my side instinctively. The snow is trampled and churned from boots and bikes, dark patches visible where blood has soaked into white powder.
Grave's bike idles nearby, and Miller is already mounted, waiting.
I guide Megan toward my truck, getting her settled in the passenger seat before moving around to the driver's side. The engine turns over smoothly, and I crank the heat up high, watching her hands shake as she holds them up to the vents.
The drive back to the clubhouse is tense and silent, my attention split between the road and the mirrors, watching for threats that logic says aren't coming but instinct refuses to dismiss. Beside me, Megan stares out the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass, and I reach over to rest my hand on her thigh.
She covers my hand with hers, holding on tight.
