I'm shaking so hard I can barely stand, my legs threatening to give out beneath me.
Jade gets me back to the clubhouse in record time.
Jett is waiting when we pull into the lot. Someone must have called ahead, because his face is a thundercloud, dark and dangerous and barely contained. He's across the gravel before I can even open my door, pulling me out of the truck and into his arms.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough with barely controlled emotion, hands running over my arms, my shoulders, checking for injuries with a thoroughness that borders on frantic.
I shake my head against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent of leather and motor oil, but I can't stop shaking, my entire body trembling like a leaf in a storm.
"What did he say? What did he do?" Each word is clipped, dangerous.
"He grabbed her arm," Jade reports from somewhere behind me, her voice flat and professional. "Got rough with her when she tried to leave. I pulled my piece. He backed off real quick after that."
Jett's body goes rigid against mine. The kind of still that comes right before an explosion, like a coiled spring wound too tight. I've seen it in him before, that cold, calculated fury that makes everyone around him go quiet and watchful.
"Church," he says, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth. "Now."
"Jett, wait—" I reach for his arm, desperate to stop whatever's about to happen.
But he's already walking away, striding toward the clubhouse with lethal purpose, barking orders to Gears and Preacher and anyone else within earshot. The club is mobilizing around him,members appearing from various corners of the lot, falling into formation like soldiers answering a general's call to battle.
I stand in the parking lot, arms wrapped around myself against the sudden chill, and realize with sickening clarity what I've done.
I've brought a war to their doorstep.
The club meeting takes hours. I'm not allowed inside, but I can hear the raised voices through the walls. Arguments. Plans. The word "war" repeated over and over like a drumbeat.
Tessa sits with me in the kitchen, making tea I can't drink, talking about nothing in a way that's supposed to be comforting. It isn't. My mind is spinning with terrible possibilities.
Garrett has money. Connections. His father is a senator, for God's sake. He can destroy everything Jett has built. He can send the cops, the feds, whoever he wants. He can make all of them pay for the sin of protecting me.
I can't let that happen. I can't be the reason these men—this family—loses everything.
By the time Jett finally emerges from the meeting, shoulders tense and jaw set, I've made up my mind. "We need to talk," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
He looks utterly exhausted, dark circles shadowing his eyes. The white-hot fury from earlier has burned down to something colder, more controlled, more calculating. More dangerous.
"Not now, baby. I need to?—"
"Now." I grab his leather-clad arm, my fingers digging into the worn material as I drag him toward our room. He's too surprised by my vehemence to resist, letting me pull him down the hallway.
Inside, with the door closed and locked behind us, I turn to face him, steeling myself for what I'm about to say.
"I should leave."
The words hit him like a physical blow, his entire body going rigid. "What?"
"If I'm not here, he'll follow me. The club will be safe. You'll be safe. He wants me, Jett, not you. He doesn't care about any of you—it's me he's obsessed with. If I just?—"
"No."
"Jett, please, listen to me?—"
"No." His voice is hard, flat, final—like a steel door slamming shut. "You're not leaving."
"I can't be the reason you go to prison! I can't be the reason the club goes to war with a goddamn senator!"
"You don't get to make that decision." He advances on me, backing me against the wall. "You don't get to protect me by leaving. That's not how this works."
