“You need anything before we get there?” he asked, not turning around.
I thought about telling him. About the bathroom, the mirror, the secret I wasn’t sure I could even say out loud. But the look on his face—hard, scared, already grieving for the next fight—made me hold back.
“Just you,” I said, and hated myself for how much I meant it.
He nodded, started the bike, and took us the last few miles into the heart of Scythes territory.
***
The Bloody Scythes clubhouse looked less like a home and more like a prison designed by bikers who’d watched too much Mad Max. A two-story rectangle poured from concrete, every window barred, the perimeter ringed bysix-foot chain link topped with razor wire and a bonus cluster of aluminum bats near the gate for emphasis. In the parking lot, twenty-some motorcycles stood in gleaming, symmetrical rows, polished to a mirror shine even though most of their owners looked like they’d bathed last in motor oil.
Augustine rolled us in slow, the gravel crunching loud under the tires, and for a second every head turned as one. A pack of patched men and women clustered near the loading dock, cigarettes frozen midair, every eye locked on me. Some wore leathers, some just jeans and cut-off vests, but all had the same scars-and-tattoos vibe—like if you tried to mug this group, you’d wake up in a landfill minus your teeth and wallet.
He killed the engine, then just sat there with his hands on the grips for a beat, reading the crowd. He might have looked casual to anyone else, but I could see the way his shoulders squared up, the way he positioned his body between me and the rest of them. Not hiding me. Showing them I was his problem, and anyone who disagreed could get bent.
I slid off the pillion and nearly twisted my ankle; the ground was uneven and my knees were still jelly from the ride. Augustine caught my elbow, steadying me, then left his hand at the small of my back as we walked towardthe door. I wanted to shrug him off, but the truth was, I needed that anchor.
The crowd parted, but not by much. I caught snatches of conversation—some respectful, some not.
“…the girl? That’s her? Looks like she’d snap in half…”
“…Saint’s gotta be losing his goddamn mind…”
“…Augie’s gonna get us all killed over some Leatherback tail…”
I ignored them, focusing on the door. Carl Dalton stood guard, his arm wrapped in a makeshift sling, the fabric already stained through. He was the one who’d taken a bullet for me at the last club skirmish, and I expected him to spit on the ground or call me a jinx. Instead, he nodded. Just a single, solemn dip of the head, but it nearly undid me.
“Don’t listen to that shit,” Augustine said. “Every man here has gone down the same rabbit hole, and we’ve protected every one of these motherfuckers.”
“So I’m not special?” I asked.
“Shit. You’re more than special.” He laughed and squeezed his arm around the small of my back.
Augustine pushed the door open, and I followed him through.
Inside, the clubhouse was equal parts rec room, war room, and post-apocalyptic dive bar. Pool table stacked withammo boxes. Walls lined with yellowing Polaroids of club royalty and dearly departed. A table covered in gun parts and ragged maps of the county. The air reeked of bourbon, cigarettes, and something burned that I hoped was just toast. It had not changed much since the last time I was here.
The chatter died as we entered. All eyes again on me, like I was the first girl to ever cross this threshold, or the last person on earth. I lifted my chin and pretended I couldn’t feel my heart punching holes in my ribcage.
A hand found mine—Augustine’s. He didn’t look at me, just squeezed once, hard, then let go as we crossed to the center of the room.
At the far end, Damron St. James sat in a battered office chair, boots up on the table. His beard was shot through with grey, and the lines on his face looked carved with a knife. He watched us approach, eyes sharp as broken glass. Next to him, two other officers of the club, neither of whom bothered to hide the fact that they were packing.
Augustine stood at parade rest, just inside striking distance. “Boss.”
“Thought you’d never get here,” Damron said, voice dry as kindling. “Is the girl in one piece?”
Augustine nodded.
Damron turned his attention to me, gaze flat and appraising. “You cause this much trouble everywhere you go, or is this a special occasion?”
“I could ask you the same,” I said, matching his stare. My mouth was dry, but my voice held. “You ever think maybe it’s not the girls who make the trouble, but the men chasing them?”
A smirk flashed, brief but real. “You got sand, I’ll give you that.”
A pause. He looked at Augustine, then back at me. “You both need rest. After that, we plan.”
Augustine inclined his head, took my elbow, and started toward the back of the clubhouse. As we passed through the gauntlet of Scythes, more than a few nodded at us—not friendly, but not hostile either. Just the way wolves acknowledge a new pack member.
