"Get some sleep," I tell her, walking her to the stairs. "I've got church in the morning. We'll talk after."
"Church?"
"Club meeting. Officers only." I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. She's a few steps above me, which puts us almost at eye level. "I'm going to tell them about us. About Ashworth. About what we're going to do about it."
Her expression shifts—fear flashing across her features before she quickly tries to mask it. "Jett, you don't have to do this. You don't have to put the whole club on notice because of me?—"
"Yes, I do." I reach up, cup her face in my hand, feel the warmth of her skin against my palm. "You're mine now, Sparrow. That means you're the club's too. And the club protects its own. That's how this works."
She leans into my touch, her eyes sliding closed as she absorbs my words. "I don't want to cause trouble for you. For any of you."
"You're not." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, feeling the delicate bone beneath soft skin. "You're worth every bit of trouble you might cause. Every sleepless night, every complication. And then some."
She opens her eyes slowly. They're shining with something I don't quite recognize—something soft and warm and terrifying all at once. Something that makes my chest feel too tight.
"Good night, Jett."
"Good night, little bird."
She turns and disappears up the stairs, one hand trailing along the railing. I watch her go until she's completely out of sight, already missing the warmth of her skin under my hand.
Church convenes at ten the next morning.
All my officers around the table. Gears on my right, Preacher on my left. Whiskey, Brick, Hatchet, the rest of the inner circle. They're all looking at me, waiting.
"The woman upstairs," I announce, my voice cutting through the low rumble of conversation. "Sparrow Delaney. She's mine now."
No one argues. No one even looks surprised—they've all seen the way I've been with her, the way she's gotten under my skin in a way no woman ever has before.
"Her ex is trouble," I continue, letting the weight of that sink in. "Garrett Ashworth, senator's kid out of Ohio. Rich, entitled, dangerous. He's been tracking her movements, hired multiple PIs to hunt her down across state lines. He'll come for her eventually—it's not a question of if, but when."
"What's the play?" Gears asks, leaning forward with his forearms on the scarred table.
"We wait," I say simply. "Let him come to us, on our turf where we have the advantage. Handle it properly when he does."
"And the girl?" Whiskey prompts from across the table.
"She's under club protection now. Anyone threatens her, touches her, looks at her wrong..." I let my gaze sweep around the table, meeting each set of eyes in turn. "They answer to me. Then they answer to all of us."
Murmurs of agreement. Nods around the table.
"Any questions?"
Preacher leans back in his chair. "She know what she's signing up for? Being yours, in this world, it's not easy."
"She knows." I pause, choosing my next words carefully. "And I'm going to spend every day making sure she never regrets it."
Silence. Then Gears nods, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Alright then. Welcome to the family."
Church ends. The decision is made. She's Iron Saints now.
I find her in the kitchen, helping Mama Rosa with lunch. She looks up when I walk in, nervousness written all over her face. She's chewing her lip, probably imagining the worst.
I cross the room and pull her into my arms in front of everyone. Kiss her forehead. Hold her close.
"You're mine now, little bird," I murmur against her hair. "And I'm yours."
She melts into me, tension draining from her body. "What did they say?"
