Diesel is waiting in the main room, expression grim. He knows the stakes as well as I do. The Nighthawks aren't just any rival—they're ruthless, known for targeting families when they can't get to members directly. And now they know about Wynter.
"Not a fucking inch," I tell him, voice low enough that she can't hear from the bedroom. "She doesn't leave your sight. Anyone approaches who isn't club, you shoot first, ask questions never."
He nods, no questions needed. We've been brothers long enough that he understands the depth of what I'm asking. It's not just club duty anymore. It's personal.
"She'll be here when you get back," he promises. "Safe and sound."
I shoulder my pack, check my phone one last time, and head for the door. Wynter appears from the bedroom, a brave smile fixed on her face that doesn't reach her eyes.
"I'll see you soon," I tell her, allowing myself one more kiss—deeper this time, a promise of what waits when I return.
As I swing onto my bike, the familiar rumble between my legs does nothing to calm the storm in my head. Every mile I put between myself and the compound feels wrong, like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind. I've never felt this before—this tearingsensation, this vulnerability. Before Wynter, I rode into danger without a second thought. Now all I can think about is getting back to her.
But first, I hunt.
The Nighthawks' main clubhouse is four hours east, but intelligence suggests they've set up a temporary base closer to our territory. Snake's contacts pointed to an abandoned ranch about ninety minutes from our compound. Perfect staging ground for whatever they're planning.
As I ride through the desert night, my mind fills with all the ways they could hurt her. Take her. Use her against me. The images fuel a rage so pure it's almost blinding. I've been violent before. I've killed before. But never with this cold, focused purpose. Never with this much at stake.
When I found Wynter in that casino, I thought I was claiming a prize. Something beautiful to possess. I didn't understand that in claiming her, I was creating my own weakness—a soft, vulnerable spot in the armor I've built around myself for decades. But it's too late now. She's under my skin, in my blood. My wife. My everything.
And I will slaughter anyone who threatens that.
The ranch comes into view just before dawn—a cluster of dilapidated buildings with too many vehicles parked haphazardly around them for it to be abandoned. I position myself on a ridge overlooking the property, using high-powered binoculars to count heads, identify leaders, map entrances and exits. Patience has never been my strong suit, but for this, I can wait.
By midday, I've confirmed what we suspected. The Nighthawks are planning something big—at least twenty members moving with purpose, cleaning weapons, studying what look like maps of our territory. Their president isn'tpresent, but his right-hand man is, which means this isn't just a scouting party. This is preparation for an assault.
I spend the rest of the day gathering intel, taking photos, noting weaknesses in their security. There are too many of them for me to take on alone, as much as the beast in me howls for their blood. This needs to be a coordinated strike with full club support.
When darkness falls, I make one final circuit of the property, then head back to report what I've found. The knowledge that they're this close, this organized, makes my throttle hand twist harder, pushing the bike to its limits. I need to get back. Need to see her. Need to know she's safe.
The compound comes into view just after midnight, a welcome sight after thirty-six hours of tension and vigilance. Diesel meets me at the gate, relief evident on his weathered face.
"All quiet here," he reports as I dismount. "She's been worried sick though."
"Any messages from them?" I ask, striding toward our quarters.
"Nothing. But Blade called a full meeting for tomorrow morning. Says he's got contacts inside the Nighthawks with new intel."
I nod, already focused on the door ahead. "Get some rest. I'll take it from here."
Wynter is awake when I enter, sitting up in bed with a book she's clearly not reading. She tosses it aside and launches herself at me the moment I step through the door, her small body colliding with mine with enough force to make me grunt.
"You're back," she breathes, face pressed against my chest. "You're okay."
I hold her tight, burying my face in her hair, inhaling her scent—clean and sweet and home. The tension I've been carrying eases slightly with her in my arms.
"Told you I'd come back," I murmur, hands roaming her body, assuring myself she's whole, unharmed. She's wearing one of my t-shirts, drowning in the fabric that hangs to mid-thigh. The sight of my clothes on her body satisfies something primal in me.
"What did you find?" she asks, pulling back to search my face. "Are they coming?"
I debate how much to tell her, but we're past lies of comfort. "They're planning something. We've got time to prepare."
Fear flashes across her features, quickly followed by determination. My brave little wife.
"What can I do?" she asks.
"Stay safe. Stay close." My hands tighten on her waist. "Let me protect you."
