After fifteen years of running, the concept was almost too enormous to process.
Butch seemed to read my hesitation correctly. "You've chosen us," he said quietly, echoing the words I'd written to Rooster the day before. "And we're choosing you. This isn't temporary, Liam. Not unless you want it to be."
I stared at him, searching for deception or manipulation in his expression. But all I found was steady certainty—the same authority that kept a motorcycle club of alphas functioning as a cohesive unit.
I swallowed hard, then nodded once. Yes, I could implement this. Yes, I would stay.
"Good," Butch said simply. He opened a drawer in his desk and removed something small that he kept concealed in his palm. "Because I was hoping you'd accept a more formal position."
He placed what he'd been holding on the desk between us, and my breath caught in my throat. It was a patch—oval-shaped fabric with the Soldiers of Fortune insignia embroidered in black and gold threads. But below the standard design was something new, something I'd never seen on any of the members' cuts: the words "SECURITY ADVISOR" in stark lettering.
"We create positions based on need and skill," Butch explained, watching my reaction carefully. "And right now, we need someone with your particular talents." He pushed the patch toward me. "This would go on your cut—when you're ready for one. No pressure, no timeline. But the position is yours if you want it."
I stared at the patch, unable to move.
For fifteen years, I'd defined myself by my isolation—the feral kitten, the lynx shifter, the silent observer who existed on the margins of society. I'd survived by belonging nowhere, to no one.
But here was tangible proof of a different possibility—a symbol of connection, of value, of place. My hand trembled slightly as I reached for it, the embroidered threads rough against my fingertips.
"It's official," Butch said. "You're part of this family now. If you want to be."
Family. The word echoed in my mind, foreign yet achingly familiar. I'd had a family once, before the bus station, before fifteen years of solitary survival. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to belong somewhere.
I closed my fingers around the patch, holding it tightly enough that the edges pressed into my palm. Then I nodded, asingle decisive movement that committed me more thoroughly than words ever could.
"Welcome to the Soldiers of Fortune, Liam," Butch said, extending his hand across the desk.
For once, I didn't hesitate to take it. His grip was firm but not crushing, an acknowledgment of strength rather than a display of dominance. In that handshake was recognition—not of the broken creature they'd found scavenging at their edges, but of the survivor who had valuable skills to offer.
As I left Butch's office with the patch secured in my pocket, I felt a strange lightness in my chest. The patch wasn't just a symbol of belonging—it was acknowledgment that my years of isolation hadn't been wasted. The very skills that had kept me separate from others were now the foundation for connection.
The feral kitten had found not just shelter, but purpose. Not just safety, but home.
Chapter Seventeen
~ Rooster ~
I stood behind Liam's chair with my feet planted shoulder-width apart, my hands clasped behind my back to keep from touching him. The conference room felt foreign with its formal setup—leather portfolios placed precisely at each seat, the club's emblem hanging beside the Shifter Council insignia on the wall.
The Shifter Council investigator sat across from Liam, his charcoal suit impeccably pressed, not a single silver hair out of place. He'd introduced himself as Investigator Crosby, his clipped tone revealing his wolf shifter heritage even before the distinctive amber flecks in his eyes confirmed it.
Wolves always carried that edge of formal dominance, like they needed everyone to know they were apex predators even when discussing mundane matters.
"The evidence provided by your Security Advisor has proven invaluable," Crosby said, sliding a folder toward Butch, who sat at the head of the table. "We've coordinated raids on seven facilities based on the intelligence he gathered."
The projector hummed to life, casting a blue-white glow across the conference table as Crosby tapped his tablet. Satellite images appeared on the screen—an isolated compound in Wyoming, surveillance photos of armed guards, thermal imaging of interior spaces.
"Based on Mr. Liam's intel," Crosby continued, "we identified this facility as one of Victor Markus's primary processing centers."
Liam's head tilted slightly to the right—a gesture I'd come to recognize as disagreement. His fingers began their rhythmic tap against his thigh, barely audible but speaking volumes to me.
I caught Butch's eye across the table and gave a subtle shake of my head. Butch nodded once, understanding my silent translation: Liam didn't agree with Crosby's assessment.
"Something wrong with the intel?" Butch asked, interrupting Crosby's methodical presentation.
The investigator paused, frowning slightly at the interruption. "No, the intelligence was sound. As I was saying—"
"I believe my Security Advisor has concerns about your characterization," Butch pressed, nodding toward Liam.
