"He was looking right at you."
"He was looking at the clubhouse. At all of it." Tyler's hands had curled into fists at his sides. "It doesn't mean he recognized me. It's been eight months. I look different now. He might not have?—"
"Tyler."
He stopped. Met my eyes. And I saw the fear there, underneath the desperate hope—the knowledge he was trying not to acknowledge.
"We need to tell Hawk."
"I know." Tyler exhaled slowly, and I watched him rebuild his walls, brick by brick, until the open joy from ten minutes ago had vanished entirely. "I know."
We walked toward the clubhouse together, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched.
Church was tense.
Hawk sat at the head of the table, face unreadable, while I relayed what we'd seen. Six Wolves, passing the clubhouse on the main road. Cross among them. The look that might or might not have been recognition.
"They're scouting." Axel's voice was flat, certain. "Establishing presence. Letting us know they're watching."
"Or sending a message." Irish drummed his fingers on the table. "We know where you are. We can reach you whenever we want."
"Both." Hawk nodded slowly. "It's classic intimidation. Keep us on edge, make us reactive instead of proactive."
"We should hit them first." Ghost leaned forward, his voice sharp with eagerness. "Take the fight to them before they're ready."
"And start a war on two fronts?" Blade shook his head. "The Wolves have federal backing. We hit them without provocation, we're handing them exactly what they need to bring the law down on us."
"So we just wait? Let them circle us like prey?"
"We prepare. Watch. Gather intelligence." Hawk's voice cut through the rising tension. "And we don't let them dictate the terms of engagement."
The room settled into uneasy silence. I watched the faces around the table—Irish drumming his fingers, Ghost practically vibrating with suppressed energy, Blade's expression carved from stone. Axel's hand had found Kai's beneath the table, that automatic gesture of comfort they probably didn't even notice anymore.
And Tyler, at the far end, his face carefully blank.
"There's something else we need to address." Blade's voice cut through the quiet.
The temperature in the room dropped. I felt it—the collective attention redirecting, sharpening.
"The Wolves aren't here for our territory. Notprimarily. They're here for him." He nodded toward Tyler. "Cross is here for him. And as long as he's at this clubhouse, he's painting a target on everyone in it."
Tyler didn't flinch. Didn't react at all, his face a careful blank, but I saw his hands tighten where they rested on the table.
"What are you suggesting?" Hawk's voice was neutral, but his eyes had gone hard.
"I'm suggesting we consider whether one man is worth risking the whole club." Blade met Hawk's gaze steadily. "Tyler's been here three months. He's not a member. He's not even a prospect. He's a liability—a connection to the very institutions that have been trying to destroy us for years."
"He bled for this club." Axel's voice was quiet but firm. "That should count for something."
"It counts for a lot. But it doesn't change the math." Blade turned to look at Tyler directly. "I'm not saying you haven't helped. You have. But that doesn't change what you are: a target that the enemy is specifically here to eliminate. Every day you stay, you put everyone else at risk."
Ghost shifted uncomfortably. Irish was studying the table. Kai had gone pale, his hand gripping Axel's tightly.
"He's got a point," someone muttered—I didn't catch who.
"We can't just throw him out." Irish's voice lacked conviction. "After everything that happened with Chen?—"
"I'm not saying throw him out. I'm saying we needto have an honest conversation about the cost of keeping him here." Blade's tone was measured, reasonable. That was what made it dangerous. "If Cross wants Tyler badly enough to move an entire MC across state lines, what happens when he decides to stop circling and start attacking? How many of us are we willing to lose?"
