Twice.
Three times.
My fist cracks across his jaw hard enough that his head snaps sideways, the sound echoing in the silence of the clubhouse.
Someone in the room curses, but I don’t care.
Grinder tries to swing back, but he’s too drunk, too slow.
I slam another punch into his ribs, and he crumples halfway to the floor, gasping for breath.
The rage in my chest isn’t fading; it’s building, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.
No one touches what’s mine.
No one.
I grab him by the front of his vest and slam him into the wall, the impact sending a shockwave through my arm.
My fist comes down again.
And again.
Blood sprays across the floor, a stark contrast against the worn wood.
“Hawk!” Ghost barks, his voice urgent.
Diesel grabs my shoulder, trying to pull me back. “Enough!”
I shove them off, my vision narrowing as adrenaline courses through my veins.
They drag me back anyway, their grip firm and relentless.
Because if they don’t…
I might actually kill him.
Grinder collapses to the floor, barely conscious, and I stand over him, my chest rising and falling hard with exertion.
The entire clubhouse is dead silent, every eye on me.
Good.
I look around the room slowly, letting them see the fury etched on my face.
Let them understand.
Then I point toward Emma. “No one,” I say coldly, my voice slicing through the tension, “touches what’s mine.”
The room doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
“If I find out any of you fuckers lays a finger on her…”
My voice drops lower, a growl that resonates with every man in the room. “You’re dead. She’s. Fucking. Mine.”
No one laughs.
No one argues.
