“Lucky for both of us your hospitality extended to not slitting my throat,” I said. “Appreciate that.”
She hummed, noncommittal.
For a moment we just sat there in a shared silence. I could hear the compound waking on the other side of the walls. Voices in the hall. Footsteps. A door closing. The faint rattle of dishes in a kitchen.
“Eight-Ball and Turnpike should be here soon,” she said finally. “Liberty got a text.”
Something in my chest unclenched. “They ride okay?” I asked.
“I suppose if they’ll be here soon,” she said. “You’ll see for yourself in a minute. Liberty wants you there when they pull in.”
“Of course she does,” I said. “Can’t have me sneaking out the back while the grown-ups talk.”
Her eyes slid to me. “If you were going to sneak out,” she said, “last night was your best shot. You stayed. Smarter choice.”
“Wasn’t staying for you,” I saidautomatically.
Her gaze dipped to the backpack strap still looped around my wrist. “No,” she said. “You stayed for that. And for him.”
Miami in his hospital bed. Bruised and broken.
I let out a sigh and then stood, bones protesting. “Let’s go,” I said. “If my VP sees me in a girl’s room he may question what I was doing here and I’ll never live it down.”
She smirked. “You assume he’s not going to drag that out of you later anyway.”
Viper territory looked different in the morning.
Last night it had been all shadows and light pools, sharp edges under lamps. Now the sun washed the yard in a flat, honest gray. The fence, the razor wire, the weld scars on the gates, the old factory bones behind all of it. It fit them. Rough. Scarred. Solid.
I stood on the cracked concrete just inside the main building’s doorway and watched the front gate.
Vipers moved through the yard in their own quiet rhythm. Diamondback under the hood of a truck already. Indigo with a shotgun resting lazy in the crook of her arm, watching the road as if she could will trouble into giving itself up. Raven sat on the hood of a car with a notebook in her lap, doodling. Cali swept the stoop with earbuds in.
Then I heard it. Two bikes’ engines approaching.
Even before I saw them, I knew.
The gate groaned open and 8-Ball rolled through first, Turnpike on his flank.
8-Ball looked the same as he always did. Gray in his beard, lines around his eyes from squinting into sun and trouble. No bullshit posture. Vice President patch catching the early light. Turnpike filled his saddle like he filled doorways, big farm-boy build packed into denim and leather, prospect rocker on his cut, jaw tight as he scanned the yard.
Seeing them ride into someone else’s compound with our patch on their backs twisted something inside me. Relief. Pride. And an itch between my shoulders that hated having my people show their throats on someone else’s ground.
Liberty was already crossing the yard to meet them. Valkyrie left my side and flanked her. Rosé hung back half a step, taking everything in with that VP gaze. The Shore Vipers peeled in closer. Not crowding. Not stupid. Just watching.
8-Ball killed his engine and swung a leg over. Turnpike did the same. Both of them set their boots careful and straight, facing the women who owned this place.
“Blackjack sends his regards,” 8-Ball said to Liberty. He kept his tone neutral. Respectful. No bow.
“Blackjack sends a lot of things,” Liberty said. “A headache this time.”
Turnpike’s gaze flicked past them and found me in the doorway. His shoulders dropped a fraction as he tilted his chin to acknowledge my presence.
Valkyrie cut her eyes at me like she noticed his shift.
Liberty jerked her chin toward me. “Asyou can see your boy is alive,” she said. “You can tell Alice that part went right. We kept him alive for the night.”
8-Ball followed her glance, found me, and the careful stoicism cracked. He crossed the distance in several long strides.
