Indisposed. I didn't need to ask what that meant. Those two had been practically fused together since the claiming ceremony, stealing moments whenever they could, looking at each other with an intensity that seemed to shut out the rest of the world.
"I'llclean up. See you in there."
Tyler nodded and turned to go, but something made him pause at the threshold. The sunlight caught him differently now—no longer a silhouette but a study in contrasts, the sharp line of his jaw against the fall of his hair, the coiled tension in his frame that never quite released.
"Tank."
"What."
"Your hand's still bleeding."
He left before I could respond, his footsteps fading across the lot with that same careful deliberation. I stood there for a moment, watching the empty doorway, then looked down at my hand. Blood had started dripping onto the concrete again.
I grabbed a clean rag and wrapped it tight.
The chapel smelled like leather and the particular musk of men who'd been riding hard in summer heat. I took my usual seat—third from the end, left side, close enough to the door that I could move fast if I needed to—and watched the others file in.
Irish arrived first, still damp from a shower, his red hair darkened to copper and slicked back from his face. Declan was a half-step behind him—not a patched member, but like Kai, he'd earned his seat at the table. Ex-Navy, seven years with Irish, and he'd proven himself valuable enough on dangerous runs that Hawk had stopped questioning his presence atchurch. Irish dropped into his chair with the loose-limbed ease of a man who hadn't yet registered the tension in the air, drumming his fingers against the table in some rhythm only he could hear. Declan took the seat beside him, their shoulders brushing in a contact so automatic neither seemed to notice.
Blade followed, quiet and watchful as always, that perpetual sadness he carried settling into the lines around his eyes. He nodded to me once—acknowledgment, nothing more—and took his seat without speaking.
Ghost came next, Jake's road name still new enough that I had to remind myself to use it. He slid into his chair with the barely contained energy of someone still young enough to find these meetings exciting rather than exhausting, his knee bouncing beneath the table.
Axel came last, Kai a half-step behind him. They weren't touching—too professional for that during church—but the connection between them was visible anyway, a current running just beneath the surface. Kai's hair had faded since the ceremony, the violet more suggestion than statement now, but his eyes still found Axel's every few seconds.
Tyler sat at the far end of the table, in the seat we'd designated for him three months ago when we'd been trying to figure out what to do with an ex-FBI agent who'd helped us burn down an empire. Not a member—he'd never patched in, never even prospected—but something adjacent. An ally. A resource.
The door opened, and Hawk walked in.
I'd known the man for six years. Watched him lead this club through wars and truces, betrayals and victories, the slow grind of survival in a world that wanted us dead or disbanded. I'd seen him angry, grieving, triumphant, exhausted. But I'd never seen him look quite like this—a tightness around his jaw that spoke of controlled fury, a flatness in his eyes that made my instincts prickle.
"Thanks for coming in." His voice was too calm. Too measured. "I'll keep this short because we don't have much time."
He moved to the head of the table, but he didn't sit. Instead he stood, hands braced on the worn wood, and looked at each of us in turn. The silence stretched, thickened, became something with weight.
"The Iron Wolves are in town."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. I felt the ripple move through the room—Irish's fingers stopping mid-drum, Blade's posture going rigid, Ghost leaning forward with sudden intensity.
"The Iron Wolves?" Irish's voice carried an edge of disbelief. "They're Montana territory. What the hell are they doing in Nevada?”
"Expanding." Hawk's jaw tightened. "They rolled into Henderson two hours ago. Twelve bikes, full colors, like they owned the place. Set up at the old Miller warehouse—the one that's been empty since the textile company went under."
"Henderson's neutral ground." Blade's voice was quiet, measured. "Has been for years."
"Not anymore. They've claimed it."
I felt the shift in the room—the collective intake of breath, the subtle repositioning of bodies. Henderson was twenty minutes from our clubhouse. Twenty minutes from the garage that funded half our operations. Twenty minutes from Maria and the girls.
"Who's their president?" Axel's voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand had found Kai's under the table.
"Man named Victor Graves. Goes by 'Gravedigger.'" Hawk's mouth twisted. "Subtle, right? He's got a reputation—smart, patient, ruthless. Built the Wolves from a nothing club in Billings to a regional power in under a decade."
"What do they want?" Ghost leaned forward, knee still bouncing.
"That's the question." Hawk straightened, rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for a fight. "On paper, they're here for business development. Looking to establish a western distribution hub, supposedly. They've already made contact with some of our suppliers, put out feelers about our protection routes."
"They want our territory." The words came out flat, certain.
