. . .
Wynter
Three days at the compound,and I'm starting to learn the rhythms of this strange new world. When to stay in our quarters, when it's safe to wander. Which club members are friendly (Diesel, surprisingly) and which to avoid (Hammer, for obvious reasons). Vance is in some kind of meeting—club business, he said, kissing me with surprising tenderness before leaving. I'm not a prisoner exactly, but I'm not free either. I exist in some nebulous in-between state: the president's wife, to be protected and avoided in equal measure. I shouldn't be out walking alone, but curiosity drives me beyond the boundaries of our living space.
The compound is quieter in the afternoon heat, most members seeking shade or working in the air-conditioned garage. I've been given back my phone, but with restrictions—no location services, no social media, no calling anyone Vance hasn't approved. It's like being a teenager again, but with stakes infinitely higher. I've told my friend Melanie I'm "taking some time away with a new guy"—not a lie, exactly, but so far from the complete truth it makes me queasy to think about.
I'm passing by one of the smaller outbuildings when voices drift through an open window. Men's voices, lowered but not quite whispering. Something about their tone makes me pause, flattening myself against the wall beside the window.
"...crazy even by club standards," someone is saying—sounds like Ripper, one of the younger members. "Remember that Bloodhounds raid last year? Five of them, armed to the teeth, and Vance walks in with just a knife."
"Walked out covered in their blood," another voice adds—Snake, I think. "Didn't even blink. Like it was nothing to him."
"Heard he did six months in state pen before joining the club. Beat a man half to death for looking at his sister wrong."
My stomach tightens. I know Vance is dangerous—everything about him screams it—but hearing specific examples makes it horrifyingly real.
"Presidents of three different clubs have standing orders not to engage if Vance is present," Ripper continues, something like awe in his voice. "They'd rather lose territory than face him."
"That's why Rogue's threat yesterday is such bullshit," Snake spits. "Like the Devils would ever hand over our president."
"You think they'll really come for him?"
"They can try. We all saw what happened to the last crew who thought they could take Vance down."
The conversation shifts to bikes and women, but I've heard enough. I push away from the wall, heart pounding, and walk quickly back toward our quarters. My mind spins with the implications of what I've just learned.
Vance isn't just some tough guy in a motorcycle club. He's a feared president with a reputation for extreme violence. A killer, most likely. And I'm married to him. Sharing his bed. Responding to his touch in ways that make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
Why doesn't that terrify me more than it does?
I'm standing at the kitchen window, staring unseeing at the desert beyond, when the door opens. I don't need to turn to know it's Vance—his presence fills a room, changes the very air pressure.
"You okay, baby doll?" His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the violence I now know lives in his hands.
I turn slowly to face him. He's imposing as ever—six-foot-six of solid muscle and dangerous intent. But his eyes, when they meet mine, hold something soft. Something that makes my heart stutter despite everything I've just learned.
"I heard some things," I say directly, deciding honesty is my only option. "About you. About what you've done."
His expression doesn't change, but something shutters behind his eyes. "What things?"
"The Bloodhounds raid. A man you beat half to death before joining the club. How rival presidents avoid you." I wrap my arms around myself. "Are they true?"
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Yes."
Just that. No explanations, no justifications. Just raw honesty.
"Have you killed people?" The question falls from my lips before I can stop it.
"Yes." Again, that simple acknowledgment. "Men who would have killed me or my brothers if I hadn't acted first."
I should be running. I should be terrified. Instead, I'm standing my ground, trying to understand this man who's turned my world upside down.
"Is that what you do as president? Kill people?"
He moves toward me slowly, like I'm a skittish animal that might bolt. When he reaches me, he cups my face in hands that have done unspeakable things, yet touch me with unbearable gentleness.
"I protect what's mine," he says, voice low and intense. "The club. Our territory. And now, above all else, you."
