My hand moved faster now, sketching a map of the country with X marks in various cities—places I'd passed through, places where I'd seen these men and their technology, places where shifters had disappeared.
I'd never stayed long enough to witness the actual captures. Survival had taught me to run at the first sign of hunters. But I'd seen enough to recognize the pattern.
Rooster's breathing changed as he studied my drawings, becoming deeper, more controlled—the breathing of someone working to contain rage. "You've seen this before. Multiple times. That's why you came back. Not just because of... us."
I glanced up at him, momentarily surprised by the "us" in his statement, before nodding slowly. It wasn't just about warning Rooster, though that had been a significant part of my decision.
It was about all of them—this strange, cobbled-together family of shifters who had claimed this territory as their own. Who had unknowingly sheltered me with their presence, creating a buffer zone between me and the world's dangers.
The MC hadn't been merely my feeding ground these past months—it had been my shield, my unwitting protectors. And now they were targets because of what they were.
I turned to a fresh page and drew the clubhouse again, this time with small waves emanating from each buried device, converging on a point outside the compound. Then I added a simple arrow pointing to tomorrow's date on a calendar. Themeaning was clear: whatever Victor and his companions were planning, it was happening soon. Very soon.
"They're triangulating," Rooster muttered, the color draining from his face. "Using these devices to pinpoint exactly where each shifter is inside our territory. Planning an ambush, maybe."
I nodded grimly, adding a final sketch—small arrows pointing inward from all directions toward the compound center. Classic hunting pattern. Surround, then close in for the kill.
Rooster's hand moved toward mine before stopping just short of contact, respecting the boundaries I'd established. "We need to show this to Butch. Immediately."
I hesitated, my instincts screaming at me to run, to disappear back into the forest where I'd survived for fifteen years. Getting involved meant becoming visible, traceable. It meant putting myself directly in the hunters' path.
But as I looked at my drawings—at the careful documentation of a threat I'd been tracking across multiple states without fully understanding—I realized I was already involved. Had been since the first time I'd sensed those devices buried near the fence line and chosen to stay rather than flee.
The clover near my knee trembled, its leaves turning subtly toward me in silent encouragement.
Not-alone now. Choose-strength.
I took a deep breath and nodded to Rooster, gathering my notepad and pencil as I rose to my feet. For the first time in fifteen years, I was choosing to step toward danger rather than away from it.
For the first time, I had something—someone—worth the risk.
My shoulders hunched as we stepped away from the sheltering pine tree into the exposed yard. Every step across the open compound felt like an invitation for watching eyes, for theclick of a camera shutter or the red dot of a laser sight between my shoulder blades.
I'd spent fifteen years avoiding precisely this—being visible, trackable, an easy target in an open space.
Rooster must have sensed my discomfort because he positioned his large body between me and the fence line where Victor had planted the device, creating a living shield against whatever invisible eyes might be watching us.
"Just stay close to me," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the sound of gravel crunching beneath our feet. "If those devices are transmitting our position, they already know I'm out here. But they might not have spotted you yet."
I nodded, pressing myself closer to his broad back as we moved. My notepad was clutched tightly against my chest, the pages containing information that could save these people—these shifters who didn't realize they were being hunted. The knowledge felt heavy in my hands, a responsibility I hadn't asked for but couldn't ignore.
The clubhouse loomed ahead of us, its weathered exterior more imposing up close than it had appeared from my usual hiding spots. Except for my one quick trip to Butch’s office, I'd never been inside beyond the kitchen and Rooster's room.
The thought of venturing deeper into the building made my pulse quicken, but I forced myself to keep moving forward. The stakes were too high for me to retreat into the comfort of shadows now.
As we approached the back door, it swung open to reveal the bearded man—Butch, their president—his expression grim as he ushered us quickly inside. "Was wondering where you two disappeared to," he said, his eyes scanning the yard behind us before closing and locking the door.
The interior of the clubhouse assaulted my senses immediately—the mingled scents of leather, motor oil, cigarettesmoke, and beer creating a potent cocktail that made my nose twitch. Voices echoed from somewhere deeper inside the building, male voices raised in animated discussion.
My steps faltered as we moved past the kitchen into unfamiliar territory, but Rooster's steady presence kept me from bolting.
"This way," he said, guiding me down a short hallway to a door at the end. "Butch's office. It's secure."
I wasn't sure what "secure" meant in this context, but I followed anyway, my fingers tightening around my notepad. The office was smaller than I'd remembered—a cluttered space dominated by a large wooden desk covered with papers, motorcycle parts, and what appeared to be building plans. The walls were lined with filing cabinets and shelves holding various trophies, photos, and MC memorabilia.
Butch closed the door behind us, then moved around to sit behind his desk. His movements were deliberate, controlled—the movements of an alpha predator accustomed to command.
Every instinct I had screamed to keep my distance from such a dominant presence, yet I forced myself to approach the desk when Rooster nodded encouragingly.
