She nods, pulling the blanket tighter, and I cross the room to where the others are gathered.
Luke's notes are neat and methodical. He taps one section with his finger and speaks quietly, keeping his voice low enough that it won't carry across the bar.
"Deadwood scouts were seen near the northern boundary yesterday afternoon, just before the storm hit," he says. "Three bikes, riding slow, asking questions at the gas station about who's been moving through town. They weren't aggressive, but they weren't subtle either."
Hansen's jaw tightens slightly, the only outward sign of his reaction. "They make contact with anyone?"
"Not directly," Luke says. "But they were mapping us. Learning routines, checking response times, seeing who notices them and who doesn't."
Miller leans forward, arms crossed over his chest, his expression cold and calculating. "That's setup."
If they're riding our boundaries and asking questions, it means they're planning something, and the timing of Megan's arrival in the middle of their interest isn't a coincidence.
"They know something," I say quietly. "Or they think they do."
Hansen looks at me, his gaze steady and unreadable. "You think they're connected to her?"
"I don't know yet," I admit, because speculation without evidence is how you make bad calls. "But the timing's wrong. She shows up running from an ex who won't quit, and suddenly Deadwood's circling? Either they're tracking her, or someone's paying them to."
Luke taps another section of his notes. "I'll dig deeper. See if there's any connection between her ex and Deadwood's network. Financial, business, anything."
Hansen nods once, decisive. "Do it. And I want eyes on anyone who doesn't belong."
Miller straightens. "Done."
Hansen shifts his attention back to me, and his voice drops lower, meant only for the men at this table. "She stays close to you. If Deadwood's involved, they'll move when they think she's vulnerable, don't give them the opening."
"Understood," I say, and mean it with every part of me that's trained to follow orders and protect what matters.
The meeting breaks without ceremony, and I return to where Megan is still sitting by the fire, her gaze distant and tired. When I settle into the chair across from her, she looks at me with a question she doesn't quite ask aloud.
"Deadwood MC," I tell her quietly. "They're a rival club. Been pushing boundaries for a while now. Nothing concrete yet, but we're watching them."
Her expression shifts slightly, wariness sharpening into focus. "Do you think they're connected to him?"
"I don't know," I say honestly. "But we're going to find out."
She absorbs this silently, and I watch her process the information without falling apart, without panicking. There's strength in that, even if nobody else sees it.
Before I can say anything else, the door to the clubhouse opens and cold air rushes in along with a gust of snow. Megan startles slightly, her shoulders tensing, and I shift, putting myselfbetween her and the door even though it's just Cole coming in from outside, shaking snow off his jacket and muttering something about frozen pipes.
But Megan stands abruptly, pulling the blanket around herself and moving toward the door with a sudden urgency that makes me tense. "I just need some air," she says quickly, not quite meeting my eyes. "I'll be right outside."
I don't stop her, but I watch as she steps out onto the porch, and through the window I see her lean against the railing, breathing deep.
I give her space, but I don't take my eyes off her, and after a moment I see her posture shift, focusing on something near the edge of the building.
She crouches down slowly, carefully, and when she straightens again she's holding something small against her chest. From here I can't tell what it is.
I'm out the door before I consciously decide to move, boots crunching through snow, and when I reach her side I see the kitten—tiny, ginger-furred, shaking violently from cold and fear, its eyes barely open and its body so small it fits entirely in Megan's cupped hands.
"He was under the porch," Megan says quietly, her voice tight with something between urgency and sorrow. "He's freezing."
The kitten mewls weakly, a sound so thin it barely registers, and I watch Megan tuck it inside the blanket against her body, wrapping the fabric around it.
"Bring him inside," I say, and she doesn't hesitate, moving past me into the warmth of the clubhouse with the kitten still pressed against her chest.
Grave looks up from his coffee and raises an eyebrow. Price grins and mutters something about the Night Wolves running a shelter now. Miller doesn't comment, but I see the faint curve of approval at the corner of his mouth before he returns to his map.
