A faint memory surfaces—oil-stained floors, rumbling engines, inked hands lifting me onto the back of his bike when I was nine. He called me Sunshine in that low, gravelly voice and told me to hold on tight as he spun me around the yard.
Hayden.
My brother’s oldest friend. A man I haven’t seen in years, but I remember him—his presence as big as a mountain, with rough, calloused hands and soft, warm eyes.
Oak continues. “Go there. Ask for Hayden Maddox. He’s Crow Kings. They call him Wrath now. He’ll put you up. Keep you safe.”
“Wrath?” I ask quietly.
“He owes me,” Oak says. “And I trust him with my life. I just wish I wasn’t in here so I could deal with this myself.”
I glance up, meeting his eyes. “How long do you have left?”
He swipes a hand over his buzzed head. “If I keep my nose clean, maybe three months. Hopefully, they’ll let me out early with a tag.”
I squish my eyebrows together. “You always said you never wanted me around club business.”
“Mum said that,” he says. “I went along with her, thinking it was for the best. But this? This is different. Wrath’s the only man I trust to keep you safe from someone like Nigel.”
My hands shake as I shrug my cardigan back on.
Safe.
It’s been a long time since that word meant anything at all.
2
HAYDEN
The Black Crow is buzzing—pool balls cracking, low music pulsing through the floorboards, and the scent of beer, smoke, and women thick in the air.
I’m parked at my usual table in the corner, halfway through a whiskey I don’t even want, watching the door like it owes me something.
Kane, a local, leans against the wall near the jukebox, arms crossed, quietly amused. Dan’s in the booth opposite me, sipping black coffee like it’s a fine single malt, eyes scanning the room out of habit. His brother Dom’s with him, same sharp posture, same don't-fuck-with-me stare. You can tell they’re ex-army, even before they speak. Not patched, but solid and loyal. The kind of men who show up when it matters.
Shane walks past the bar in uniform, off-duty but still carrying the cop energy. He nods at me like we’re old friends. We’re not. But we’ve got mutual respect. That’s enough.
And me? I’m just here brooding. Letting the nickname Wrath do the work of keeping people away.
I don’t dance. Don’t talk unless I have to.
I glance around the room, the constant itch between my shoulders never fully easing. My seat backs onto the wall out of habit.
“Wrath,” Draven mutters, dropping into the chair across from me. “You’re scaring the punters again.”
I raise a brow. “By sitting still?”
“By looking like you’re planning someone’s funeral.” He nods towards the bar. “Someone’s asking for you.”
One of the girls—a fake blonde, too much makeup—flashes me a hopeful smile.
I don’t smile back.
Kit, the prospect, throws his pool cue down with a groan after losing a game—again.
A small smile curves my lips. “That’s the third time tonight Travis has thrashed you.”
Travis’ brother Tristan doesn’t look up from his laptop, his long hair covering the scars on his face. If anyone scares the punters, it’s him.
