Butch pinched the bridge of his nose—a gesture I recognized as his attempt to remain patient. "Next time he shows up, you tell me immediately. We need to know who's hanging around, especially with everything that's happened lately."
Something deep within my soul balked at the idea. The feral kitten had just started trusting me enough to not bolt at the first sign of my presence. Bringing Butch into it—as well-intentioned as he might be—would likely send the kid running for good.
But I nodded anyway. "Sure, Butch."
"I mean it, Rooster. This isn't just about you being a bleeding heart. It's about keeping everyone safe. We've got Doby here now. Bug, Treat, Percy—people who've been through enough trauma. We can't have unknown elements wandering around."
He had a point, damn it. I hadn't considered how a stranger near the property might affect our more vulnerable members.
"Understood," I said, more sincerely this time. "If I see him again, I'll let you know."
"Good." Butch's expression softened slightly. "I'm not saying we can't help the kid if he needs it. Just that we need to be smart about it. Do things the right way."
"The right way" was code for "the club way"—with proper protocols, information gathering, and collective decision-making. It was what kept us all alive and functioning as a unit.
"Got it," I said, accepting the mild reprimand for what it was—concern, not anger.
"Anything else?" Butch asked, already reaching for his glasses to return to his paperwork.
"That's it. I'll let you know when we get back from shopping tomorrow."
He nodded, dismissing me, and I turned to head back to the kitchen. Lunch wouldn't make itself, and I still had prep work to finish before the guys started wandering in hungry and impatient.
As I walked away, I contemplated the conflict brewing inside me. I understood Butch's concerns—they were valid, especially given our history with enemies. But something about that kid pulled at me, made me want to protect him from everything, including my own club's scrutiny.
I sighed as I pushed through the kitchen doors. Despite occasionally butting heads with Butch over things like this, I wouldn't give up this job for anything. This kitchen, these people—they were my home, my family. And maybe, just maybe, there was room for one more stray in our strange collection of misfits.
The sandwiches wouldn't make themselves. I rolled up my sleeves and got back to work.
Chapter Two
~ Liam ~
The ivy tendrils curled around my fingers in silent greeting as I settled deeper into my hiding spot at the edge of the clubhouse property. I'd formed an understanding with these bushes over the past couple of months—they kept me concealed while I watched, and I made sure no one trampled their carefully extending roots. We were both survivors in a world that preferred neat, contained things.
“Be still,”the plants whispered through their leaves.“Men with metal beasts gather.”
I nodded, knowing better than to ignore their warnings.
The motorcycle club members were preparing to leave, their engines growling with impatience in the yard. I counted seven of them today, all in matching leather vests with patches I couldn't read from this distance. My eyes found him immediately—the red-haired man who left food for me.
The cook.
He stood taller than most of the others, his flaming beard like a beacon in the afternoon sun. Unlike the rest, he didn't immediately mount his bike. Instead, he glanced toward the back of the property where the picnic table sat empty, where I usually appeared after dark.
Was he looking for me? The thought sent a shiver down my spine—half fear, half something else I couldn't name.
The plants trembled slightly, sensing my discomfort. They'd been my only consistent companions since I was seven, when my parents had caught me conversing with the garden instead of playing with the neighborhood children. I still remembered my father's face contorting in disgust.
“Freak,” he'd called me. “No son of mine talks to weeds.”
That night, I'd been left at a bus station with twenty dollars and a backpack containing a change of clothes. The memory still burned, but I'd learned since then.
The plants had saved me countless times, warning me of approaching danger, guiding me to safe sleeping spots, even showing me which wild berries wouldn't poison me.
And three months ago, they'd led me here, to this motorcycle club with its fearsome members and one red-haired cook who left containers of food on a picnic table.
The leader—a mountain of a man with a thick beard—called out something, and the group began rolling their bikes toward the gate. The cook finally mounted his own motorcycle, a gleaming machine with dark green accents that reminded me of pine needles.
