"But they were watching." Her voice drops to a horrified whisper. "In the loft. When we..."
Blood rushes to her face. Rage spikes in my veins, hot and corrosive. Another man seeing her bare skin, the arch of her back, her eyes rolling back... I want to burn the forest until nothing remains but ash.
"They saw nothing but a man claiming what belongs to him." My voice drops to the lethal register that makes men back down. "And now they die for it."
She buries her face in my neck. I inhale the rainwater scent of her hair. I need to fix this. I need to put her somewhere safe so I can stop being a shield and start being a sword.
The SUV jerks to a halt behind the main clubhouse. The rear entrance is fortified brick and steel.
"Move," Logan barks.
I hoist her up. We move fast, a phalanx of leather and muscle pushing through the reinforced steel door held open by Shane.
The clubhouse smells of stale beer and gun oil. We bypass the main bar for the heavy metal door at the end of the hall. Shane punches the code. The keypad beeps. The locks disengage with a mechanical clunk.
The Vault is more than a bunker; it’s the club’s final heartbeat. The air is thick with the scent of gun oil and the faint, vanilla perfume Savannah always wears—a jarring reminder of what Logan is protecting in the back quarters. Beyond the heavy partition, I hear the muffled, low murmur of Savannah’s voice, likely soothing Rhett.
Logan stands by the monitors, his jaw a jagged line of granite. He isn’t just pissed about the breach; he’s vibrating with the need to keep the world away from the door separating us from his wife and son.
I lower Alexandria onto the nearest cot, immediately grabbing a stack of MRE crates to prop her splinted leg above her heart. She grips my arms, her nails digging into the leather of my cut, her breath hitching as the blood shifts in the injury. I can feel Logan’s eyes burning into my back—he hates that I’ve brought this chaos so close to his own.
"Don't leave me," she gasps. "Tristan, please."
"I have to secure the door."
Logan and Austin stand in the doorway. Logan looks toward the back partition where his family is hidden, then back at me, his eyes murderous.
"You brought a fireteam to my front door, Tristan," Logan growls, his voice a low vibration of threat. "Savannah and the kid are twenty feet away. "War room. Five minutes. We end this now.'"
"I’m not leaving her."
"Tristan," Logan warns. "We have a shooter with eyes on the compound. We need the Road Captain, not the boyfriend."
"I’m both. Give me a minute."
Logan assesses me. He gives a sharp jerk of his chin. "Five minutes. Then Shane takes guard duty and you get your head in the game."
The door closes. Silence rings in the Vault. The ventilation system hums. Alexandria looks small on the cot. Her face is drawn. The splint on her leg shines stark white against the gray wool blanket. A broken doll I tried to glue back together.
I drop to my knees beside the cot. The cold concrete grounds me.
"Look at me."
Her eyes find mine. Tears swim there, but she refuses to shed them. She calculates. Survives.
"You going out there?" she asks. "To find them?"
"Yes."
"Will you come back?"
I cup her face in my rough hands. My thumbs trace her cheekbones. "I found you in the middle of a damn deluge, Alex. I carried you through a mudslide and down a mountain. Do you think a gun keeps me from coming back to you?
"I don't know who they are. I don't know why..." Her breath hitches.
"It doesn't matter who they are." I press my forehead against hers. "They breathed the same air as you. First mistake. They looked at you. Last."
She exhales a shaky breath. Her hands grip my wrists. Her pulse thunders against my palms. I need to slow it down. I need to ground her here before panic takes her completely.
