“Except she was human until you changed her, and we’re also giving them time to gather more forces and crush us completely,” Scorch mutters.
“That too.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “This is a gamble… a huge one, but it’s the best option we have.”
Silence settles again as everyone processes my words. I see them weighing the risks, calculating the odds, trying to decide if following me down this path is worth their lives.
Then Dread stands. His fear projection surges outward, and suddenly the room fills with terror. Not the vague unease he usually projects, this is targeted and specific. Each person sees their deepest fear manifest in the shadows.
In each vision, their family is gone—the club is destroyed, and everyone they care about is dead or scattered.
“Stop.” I don’t raise my voice, but the command carries power. “Dread, that’s enough.”
The fear projection cuts off, and everyone gasps, shaking off the lingering effects. Several look angry at being subjected to his Dreadfield, but Dread’s expression is apologetic.
“Had to do it, Prez.” His voice is rough with emotion. “Had to show them what we’re really fighting for. It’s not about laws or territory or even survival…” He looks around at the assembled brothers and women. “It’s aboutthem. About us. About not losing the only family most of us have ever known.”
Understanding ripples through the room.
Because he’s right.
This isn’t a motorcycle club in the traditional sense. We’re not just brothers who ride together and do business. We’re supernatural beings who found refuge with each other, who builtsomething that lets us be both monster and man, who created a space where we don’t have to hide what we are.
We’re family in the truest sense.
And families don’t abandon each other when things get hard.
“I’m in.” Rogue steps forward first, his lycan loyalty overriding his tactical concerns. “Whatever you need, Prez. You’ve got my claws.”
“My fire.” Scorch moves to stand beside him.
“My magic.” Hex doesn’t look up from his screens, but his commitment is clear.
“My bones.” Hades joins them.
One by one, they step forward. Oracle, Grizz, Ronan. Jet is still rubbing his throat, but loyal nonetheless. The women add their voices, Eden’s death sense, Seraphine’s song, Reyna’s storm.
My family.
My club.
Choosing to stand with me, even knowing the odds.
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have. “We’ve got seven days to prepare. Hex, I need everything you can dig up on Convocation protocols. Oracle, talk to your contacts in the phoenix clans, see if anyone remembers the last one. Hades, reach out to the necromancer network. Someone might have insight into the Coven’s current power structure.”
“On it,” they chorus.
“Rogue, Scorch, start combat training rotations. Everyone needs to be sharp. Reyna, you’re on defensive strategy. I want this clubhouse turned into a goddamn fortress.” I continue delegating, falling into the rhythm of leadership that’s kept us alive for decades. “Ronan, use your luck-bending to scout locations. If things go south, we’ll need escape routes that even probability can’t predict.”
“Grizz, shore up the structure. Everything Reyna’s wards are going on needs to be reinforced.” I turn to the women. “Eden, I need your death sense on full alert. The moment you feel the Coven approaching, I want to know. Seraphine, start working on combat harmonics… if we fight, your song could be the edge we need.”
They nod, already moving to their tasks.
“What about Sloane?” Hex asks. “She’s powerful, but untrained. Seven days isn’t enough time to—”
“I’m here.” The words come from the stairs.
Everyone turns, and Sloane stands there, wearing one of my shirts that hangs to her mid-thigh. Her hair is tousled from sleep, her feet bare, but her eyes, those molten crimson-gold eyes, burn with determination that makes my chest tighten.
Her resolve hits me like a steady force, unyielding. Fear rides beneath it, sharp and real, but it doesn’t lead—fury does. A fierce, defiant refusal to be the reason my family bleeds for her.
