Chapter One
Kane
Football played on my TV, but my brain refused to care who scored.Sound stayed low enough to fill the room without turning my place into a damn cave.Noise helped when the compound settled down, when the night stretched long and quiet and a Prospect’s mind started chewing on everything he couldn’t control.My shoulders still ached from hauling boxes at the shop.I’d also run errands for patched brothers until my legs felt like dead weight.Grunt work never stopped.Prospects didn’t earn the right to slow down.
Beer warmed in my hand while the screen flickered in front of me.I took a swallow anyway.Sleep should’ve grabbed me the second I hit my couch.Instead, I sat there, elbows on my knees, staring straight ahead while my thoughts drifted to the same place they always went.Do more.Prove yourself.Don’t fuck up.
A Prospect lived inside a narrow lane.He worked hard, kept his mouth shut, learned fast, and didn’t bring trouble to the club’s door.He didn’t make choices that risked patched men.He didn’t drag unknown chaos onto club property and hope the President appreciated the surprise.Those rules existed for a reason.
Savage Raptors didn’t hand out patches because a man wanted one.They handed them out because a man earned one, bled for one, proved he had the spine to carry it without breaking under the weight.A year of work might not be enough.Two might not be enough.A single wrong decision could erase everything.No patch.No brotherhood.No family.
I’d wanted this anyway.
My gaze swept over the small house, stirring up a familiar mix of gratitude and impatience.Four walls inside the compound.One bedroom.Ugly carpet.Scuffed paint.An abandoned couch.A mismatched recliner.The coffee table had endured more spilled beer than any furniture deserved to survive.Whenever I flipped the switch, the kitchen light flickered as though the bulb longed for death but lacked the decency to follow through.The fridge hummed loud enough to irritate me at night.Pipes clanked when the water ran cold.Nothing worked perfectly.Nothing looked pretty.
Roof over my head mattered more than pretty.
My phone rested face down on the coffee table.No one would text me this late unless something went sideways, and brothers tended to call when they wanted a Prospect moving fast.I should’ve showered and crashed.Muscles begged for sleep.Mind refused to cooperate.
Patched brothers didn’t pretend.They lived their code, protected their own, and expected the same loyalty back.
I wanted to be one of them.
Setting my beer back onto the table, I leaned against the couch cushion and closed my eyes briefly.The announcer’s voice droned on while crowd noise rumbled through the speakers.My breathing slowed.
A prickle crawled along the back of my neck.Eyes snapping open, I scanned the room.Nothing had changed.Shadows remained in their corners.The air felt still and undisturbed.Despite this, something tightened in my gut -- an instinct impossible to ignore.That feeling never showed up for no reason.
I turned my head slightly and listened.Fridge hum.The faint tick of the cheap wall clock.A distant engine beyond the fence, somewhere out on the road.Football noise.Nothing else.
My hand slid toward the side table because training lived deeper than logic.Fingers brushed the Glock I kept there.I didn’t grab it yet.I waited, listening harder, making sure my mind didn’t invent problems out of boredom.
A sharp knock hit my front door.
I sat up fast, heart slamming once against my ribs.The knock came again, quick and frantic.Not the steady rap of a brother.Not some drunk brother stumbling around.Desperation lived in those blows.
I snatched the Glock and moved off the couch in one smooth motion.My feet carried me to the door without making noise.I stayed to the side of the frame, not directly in front of it, because I’d learned better than to stand where a bullet might come through.
No voice followed.No footsteps.Only breathing, shaky and uneven, right outside the door.“Who is it?”My voice came low, controlled.
“Kane?”
A woman calling my name at this hour should’ve triggered every alarm bell.Setup.Trap.Maybe someone testing how a Prospect handles unexpected visitors.Despite my suspicion, genuine fear resonated in her voice.Panic carried a distinctive edge -- a tremble impossible to manufacture without having experienced real terror.
With my gun ready, I slid the deadbolt back while keeping the chain secured, then eased the door open enough to peer outside.
Cold air rushed in.
Empty porch.
My gaze cut left and right, scanning what I could see past the edge of the house.Nothing moved near my place.No shadow lingered.No figure waited.I shut the door and pressed my eye to the narrow side window.Outside, the walkway stretched toward the guard shack and main road inside the compound, security lights casting yellow pools across the gravel.Farther down the path stood a figure, half in shadow, half in light.
A woman.Arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched against cold and fear.Damp tangles of dark hair framed her face.Purple and ugly, a bruise bloomed along one cheekbone.From beneath her coat collar crept another mark.Her eyes darted everywhere, scanning the quiet compound as though expecting an attacker to emerge from the darkness.
Jade.My chest clenched hard.We’d crossed paths a few times in town.Months earlier, I’d found her stranded near one of the club’s businesses with a flat tire and lug nuts refusing to budge.Being close enough to help, I did.She’d responded with gratitude so intense it seemed I’d handed her a gold bar instead of basic assistance.
Occasional sightings had followed.Grocery store.Walking into work.Brief encounters.Polite.Never lingering.
Now she stood inside the compound.Someone had let her past the gate.That meant trouble.
