That tells me more than a speech ever could.Savage doesn’t stay quiet unless he’s choosing restraint.The thought settles in my chest heavier than I expect.
The morning rolls on.I drift through the compound without purpose and without being stopped.No one questions where I’m going.No one blocks my path.Men nod.Some greet me by name.A few ask questions, not about Savage, not about strategy, but about small things.Logistics.Timing.Who handled what last night.
They aren’t asking for permission.They’re asking for perspective.And it makes me feel like I matter.
I end up in the garage, where the air smells like oil and heat and something metallic that always lingers around violence.Fury’s elbow-deep in an engine, swearing under his breath.
“You sound like you’re losing an argument,” I say.
He looks up, surprised, then smirks.“This bike’s a stubborn bitch.”
“Let me guess,” I reply.“You threatened it.”
“Repeatedly.”
“That’s your problem.”I crouch beside him, peering into the engine bay.“You don’t negotiate.”
He snorts.“I negotiate just fine.”
“With fists.”
He grins wider.“It’s effective.”
I reach in, adjust a hose, tap the casing once.“You’re choking it.”
He blinks.Then laughs.“Son of a bitch.”
The engine coughs, then purrs to life.
Fury stares at it.Then at me.“Are you trying to put me out of a job?”
“Relax,” I say, standing.“You still hit harder than I do.”
“High praise,” he mutters, shaking his head.“Savage know you’re back here?”
“Probably.”That answer seems to satisfy him.
Steel appears in the doorway a few minutes later, eyes sweeping the room before settling on me.He doesn’t say anything.Doesn’t tell me to move.Just nods once.
I nod back.That’s it.That’s the exchange.Steel doesn’t give approval lightly and I’m not even sure this is what approval looks like but that’s what I choose to tell myself.
By midday, the compound feels ...steadier.Not calm.Calm doesn’t exist here.But aligned.Men move with purpose instead of agitation.The ripple of the cartel’s presence still hums beneath everything, but it hasn’t broken the surface yet.
I’m leaning against the railing near the yard when Savage appears.I feel him before I see him, like the fucking oxygen is shifting to make way for him.Conversations don’t stop, but they adjust.Men straighten.Space opens.
This is public Savage, President of the Sons of Sin.
His gaze finds me immediately, sharp and assessing, then flicks away just as fast.That’s deliberate.A choice.
I push off the railing and walk toward him anyway.“Morning,” I say.
“It’s afternoon.”
“Then you’re late.”The corner of his mouth twitches but it’s gone just as fast.
“Did you eat?”he asks quietly.
“Twice.”
