He nodded at Seneca, who immediately started marking up the maps with new notes, plotting out backup plans on top of backup plans. "So we do both," Damron said. "We dig in, but we get loud about it. We let every club from here to the border know the Scythes don’t break for anyone. Diablos. Rust Devils. Maybe even the old Crowbar crew in Santa Fe, if they still got teeth."
Carl looked up, interested despite himself. "We calling in debts, or promising payback?"
"Both," Damron said. "We offer what we got: guns, muscle, and a cut of whatever the ‘Backs leave behind. We make it clear that anyone siding with Cutler gets the same deal he gets—no deals. Just dirt."
The room picked up again, but this time it was different—focused, hungry, almost hopeful. Everyone wanted a part in the plan. Seneca outlined the fallback positions, listing which brothers would anchor which buildings andwho would rotate patrols. Carl mapped the escape routes for families, making sure every woman and kid was ready to vanish the minute the first round went off. Even the prospects, faces still raw from my speech, got put to work running comms and stacking the basement with enough firepower to make the ATF wet themselves.
When the talk finally hit a lull, Damron looked my way. "And the girl?"
I shrugged. "She’s in my room. Door’s locked, window’s got rebar. Nobody gets in unless they want to lose an eye."
Damron nodded, the respect there, even if he’d never say it out loud. "She stays put. Last thing we need is her getting scooped up and used as leverage."
A murmur of assent. No one wanted to argue anymore.
"Fine," Damron said. "We ride it out. If the Leatherbacks want a war, they get a war. But we don’t forget who started it, or who we’re fighting for."
It felt like electricity, a ripple through the room that made every old scar tingle and every heart beat a little harder. This was why I’d stayed alive. This was why I’d never run, even when the odds sucked.
Damron gave me a long look, then swept his hand over the map, like he was blessing the whole bloody enterprise. "Meeting adjourned, again. Get ready, and get right with your gods. We lock down at 0500."
The club filed out, more sober than I’d ever seen them. No one slapped backs or cracked jokes. Seneca lingered, folding up the maps with surgeon’s hands. Carl left last, pausing at the door to nod at me, the kind of nod that says, "If you die, I’ll kill you."
I stayed at the table, staring at the red marks, at the lines of attack and the fallback routes, thinking about all the times I’d been the bait and all the times I’d wanted to be the wolf. I thought about Melissa, asleep or not asleep in my bed, probably dreaming of a life she’d never get. I thought about my uncle, about the way he used to say, "The world doesn’t hand you loyalty—you gotta carve it yourself."
I didn’t notice Damron come back until his hand landed on my shoulder. It was heavy, not just with muscle, but with everything he’d carried to get here.
"Your uncle would be proud," he said, quiet enough that no one but me could hear it. "Throttle never backed down, even when it made more sense to run. You got that same rot in your bones."
I didn’t answer. He squeezed once, then left me with the map and my thoughts.
For a minute, I just sat there, counting the bullet holes and thinking about how much blood it took to make a brotherhood.
I stood, finally, and went to check the locks on my door.
If war was coming, I was going to make damn sure it knew who to shoot first.
15
Melissa
The room above the Bloody Scythes clubhouse was barely bigger than a jail cell, which fit, because that’s what it felt like. The window was covered with bars welded in, like the world outside was so hungry it might reach in and pull you out by the hair. Even with the night on full blackout, the moon managed to sneak strips of light across the bed’s stained sheet, enough to paint a white line across my ankles as I paced.
I’d counted the planks in the floor more times than I’d counted the bruises blooming on my hips, which was saying something. My whole body buzzed like a tuning fork—nerves, hangover, maybe low blood sugar—but most of the static was coming from one place, low in mybelly where I kept cradling it like a stolen wallet. I could feel the nausea coil there, hot and slow and patient, waiting to show me who was boss.
Below my feet, the war council was in session. Every time Damron yelled, the floor vibrated, and the sound traveled up through the sole of my boot and into my jaw. I tried to ignore it, but all I could picture was the clusterfuck brewing under that nicotine-stained ceiling.
My period was still a week away, but in my heart of hearts, I knew I was going to miss it. Breasts hurting? Not yet. Nausea? Yeah, because I knew. Smells? For now. A woman knew her body.
I planted my hands on the edge of the little table, then thought better of it and braced against the wall instead, forehead pressed to the paint. I breathed slow, in through the nose, out through the teeth. My entire world had shrunk down to this one moment—waiting for the boots on the stairs, the click of the lock, and the way the room would tilt when Augustine finally walked in.
When the door cracked, it wasn’t subtle. Augustine shoved it open like he expected someone to be waiting to shoot him on the other side. He was still wearing his jacket, still bleeding a little through the tape job on his side. The look on his face said he’d rather be anywhere else, but his feet brought him to me anyway.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, shoulders hunched and so tight he could’ve snapped the jamb with a shrug. His eyes landed on my hand, which was doing that thing again—pressed to my stomach like I was holding in a secret. I yanked it away.
He didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just let the air thicken between us, waiting for me to go first. It was an old habit of his: let the suspect talk, see what shakes loose. I hated him for it, almost as much as I loved him for everything else.
“Any news?” I asked, voice shredded from the last round of dry heaves.
