None had twisted something low in my gut the way Emma does.
And then there’s the part that really fucks with me—the way she said it, so quiet and honest.
“I don’t want to let go.”
My jaw tightens at the memory.
When she admitted she was mine? Jesus Christ. That thought alone nearly had my dick hard again as I hopped on the bike, the thrill of the ride only amplifying my need for her.
I roll into the clubhouse lot and kill the engine, the sound fading into the background of a place that feels both familiar and heavy with anticipation. The place is already awake—bikes lined up outside, smoke drifting lazily from the back patio where brothers are gathered, sharing stories and laughter.
I swing off the bike and head inside, greeted by the rich, bitter scent of coffee mingling with the remnants of last night’s whiskey. A few of the guys nod as I pass through, a mix of respect and camaraderie in their eyes.
I push open the door to the conference room, and every patched brother already seated around the table looks up. Conversations die instantly, a hush falling over the room.
The president’s here.
I stride to the head of the table and drop into my chair, the weight of their expectations settling over my shoulders like a heavy cloak. I grab the gavel and slam it down.
BANG.
Diesel, my VP, leans forward, his expression serious.
Ghost slides a map across the table, his finger tracing the red lines cutting through highways and desert roads. “We’ve been looking at alternate shipping routes for the guns. The last run almost got tailed outside Carson.”
I study the map, the lines seeming to pulse with potential danger. “Buyers still solid?”
Ghost nods. “Picked up two more this week—one in Nevada and another in New Mexico.”
A few approving grunts ripple through the room. More buyers mean more money, but it also means more eyes on us.
“We test the route first,” I assert. “Small shipment.”
Ghost nods, making a note, and the conversation shifts through logistics—trucks, drivers, drop locations—each detail a thread in the fabric of our operations.
Then Ghost clears his throat again, drawing my attention.
“There’s something else.”
My eyes lift, curiosity piqued.
“Black Reapers.”
The room shifts slightly, the air thickening with tension.
“They’ve been quiet,” Ghost says, but I can sense the underlying unease.
One of the prospects scoffs, a hint of bravado in his voice. “Maybe they backed off.”
I shake my head slowly, the word coming out flat and final. “No. They didn’t forget.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, letting my gaze sweep over my brothers. “You really think a bunch of ego-drunk bastards like them are gonna let a woman make ’em look stupid and just walk away?”
A couple of brothers chuckle darkly, the truth hanging heavy in the air.
“They won’t forget Emma,” I continue, my voice steady. “Men like that don’t let shit like that go.”
Diesel nods, the gravity of the situation settling in. “They’ll want payback.”
