After the meeting, I pull Diesel aside. "I need you to watch her when I can't. You're the only one I trust completely."
He nods, no questions asked. That's loyalty earned through years of having each other's backs. "No one touches her, brother. I swear it."
I clap him on the shoulder, the closest I get to showing gratitude.
The warning from the Nighthawks isn't just talk. Three days later, our perimeter sensors catch movement—four riders approaching from the east, not bothering to hide their colors. A scouting party, testing our defenses. Testing me.
I lead a group of five to intercept them before they get too close to the compound. Wynter doesn't know I've gone—she's back in our quarters, thinking I'm in another meeting. Better that way. Better she doesn't see this side of me yet, though I know she's piecing it together from what she's overheard.
We catch the Nighthawks at the edge of our territory. They're armed, but not looking for a full confrontation today. Just delivering a message in person.
Their leader, a wiry bastard with a face like a rat, grins when he sees me. "The legendary Vance. Heard you got yourself domesticated."
My expression doesn't change. "You're trespassing."
"Just passing through," he says, feigning innocence. "Wanted to see if the rumors were true. Devil's most feared president, taken down by some sweet little pussy."
The rage that floods me is instant and overwhelming, but I keep it leashed. For now. "You've got ten seconds to turn around and ride out. After that, you leave in body bags."
He laughs, but there's uncertainty in his eyes.Good.He should be afraid.
"Your old man know you're here?" I ask casually. The Nighthawks' president is a calculating man, not prone to stupid provocations. These young hotheads are acting on their own, I'd bet my life on it.
The flicker in Rat-face's eyes confirms it. "Just delivering a friendly warning. Your protection is spread thin with a civilian to worry about. Might be time to reconsider some of those territorial boundaries."
"Here's my counter-offer," I say, stepping closer. "You tell your president that if I see Nighthawk colors within fifty miles of my wife, I will personally dismantle your entire club, starting with his head on a pike. Clear?"
"Big talk from?—"
I don't let him finish. My fist connects with his face, the satisfying crunch of cartilage like music to my ears. He falls off his bike, blood spurting from his broken nose.
What follows isn't a fight so much as a message written in pain. I don't kill him—that would force a full-scale war we don't need right now—but by the time I let him crawl back to his bike, he'll carry my warning in every breath he takes through his shattered face.
His buddies don't interfere. Smart. They know they're outmatched, outgunned, and that I'm just looking for an excuse to unleash the full extent of my rage.
"Ride back to your president," I tell them as they help their bloody leader onto his bike. "Tell him what happens to messengers who disrespect my wife."
They leave in a cloud of dust, their bravado gone. But this isn't over. It's just beginning.
I take a hit during the confrontation—nothing serious, just a gash across my knuckles from connecting with teeth and a split lip from the one lucky punch Rat-face landed. Blood has soaked the front of my shirt, making it look worse than it is. I don't bother cleaning up before heading back to the compound. The sight of my blood will reinforce the message to my brothers—we're at war now, even if shots haven't been fired yet.
Wynter is in our kitchen when I walk in, making coffee. She turns with a smile that freezes when she sees the blood.
"Oh my God!" She drops the mug she's holding, ceramic shattering on the floor as she rushes to me. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
The genuine concern in her voice does something to me—softens something that's been hard for so long I'd forgotten it could bend.
"I'm fine," I say, catching her hands as they flutter over my chest, searching for wounds. "Not my blood. Mostly."
Her eyes widen. "Mostly? Vance, what's going on?"
I shouldn't tell her. Should protect her from the reality of what's happening. But the questions in her eyes deserve honesty.
"Warning from a rival club. The Nighthawks. Nothing to worry about." The lie tastes bitter.
She's smarter than that. "You're bleeding. That seems like something to worry about."
I sigh, guiding her to the couch where I sit, pulling her onto my lap. "There's been a development. The Nighthawks know about you. They see you as…leverage against me."
