The back door of the clubhouse slammed open as three more MC members rushed out to help Bear and the others. The yard was now filled with leather-clad bikers pointing guns at the kneeling intruders.
No one noticed the gate slowly swinging open.
Four men slipped through, weapons already drawn. Unlike the first two, they didn't bother with stealth—they charged forward with the confidence of those who knew they had the advantage of surprise.
"Behind you!" Rooster bellowed, already rising to his feet.
The yard erupted into chaos. The kneeling intruders sprang up, tackling the nearest bikers. Gunshots cracked through the night air, bullets splintering wood and shattering the clubhouse windows. The new attackers spread out, moving with coordinated precision that spoke of military training.
I tugged desperately at Rooster's wrist, trying to pull him deeper into the shadows. We needed to run, to hide, to get as far from this firefight as possible. Every survival instinct I'd developed over years on the streets screamed at me to flee.
But Rooster wasn't moving. His eyes were locked on his brothers fighting for their lives. "I have to help them," he said, voice tight with urgency.
I shook my head violently, pulling harder on his arm. The safety I'd felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by cold dread. I couldn't let him go out there, couldn't watch him get hurt or worse.
The realization hit me like a physical blow—I cared what happened to this man. This stranger who'd fed me for months without asking anything in return. This cook with flaming red hair who'd taught me how to use a fork with endless patience.
Rooster looked down at me, his expression softening despite the battle raging yards away. He gently extracted his wrist from my grip and, to my shock, cupped my face with his massive hand.
"I have to help my brothers, baby boy. I'll be careful. I promise."
His thumb brushed across my cheekbone, the gesture so tender it left me frozen in place. No one had touched me with such gentleness in more years than I could remember.
Before I could react, he was gone, charging into the fray with a roar that sounded more bear than human. My chest tightened as I watched him barrel into one of the attackers, sending the man sprawling.
I should run. This wasn't my fight. These weren't my people.
But my eyes wouldn't leave Rooster.
He moved with surprising grace for his size, landing a solid punch on one attacker before spinning to help a club brother struggling with another. The MC members were outnumbered but fighting fiercely, their brotherhood evident in the way they covered each other, moved as a unit.
Then I saw him—a man circling around the edge of the fight, baseball bat raised, eyes fixed on Rooster's back.
My warning died in my throat as the bat connected with a sickening crack against Rooster's skull. He stumbled, disoriented, before crumpling to the ground like a marionette with cut strings.
Something snapped inside me.
The world narrowed to a single point: the man standing over Rooster with the bat raised for another strike.
I didn't decide to move—I was simply in motion, a blur of rage and protective fury. I hit the attacker with the full weight of my body, my momentum carrying us both to the ground.
My claws extended and found purchase in around his throat—not killing, not yet, but making it clear I could. He screamed, the bat falling from his hands as he tried desperately to dislodge me.
I ripped into him, my rational mind submerged beneath waves of primal rage. My claws tore through his jacket, drawing blood in long, ragged lines. He bucked beneath me, howling in pain and terror. The scent of his fear only fueled my attack.
Only when he stopped fighting—when he lay whimpering and bleeding on the ground—did I release him. I backed away, a warning growl rumbling through my chest, daring him to move again.
He didn't.
Turning, I padded quickly to where Rooster lay motionless on the ground. My heart hammered painfully against my ribs as I nudged his face with the back of my hand.
Relief flooded me when he groaned, eyes fluttering.
Without conscious thought, I positioned myself over his body, straddling his massive form with my considerably smaller one. I bristled with anger as I surveyed the chaos around us. The fight was winding down, the attackers either subdued or fleeing, but I didn't care.
Let anyone—friend or enemy—try to approach Rooster now. I would protect him with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The realization should have terrified me—I'd never felt this kind of attachment to anyone. Never risked myself for another person. Never chosen to stay when I could have run.
