“Viking protected you from this life,” Lucy says, her expression softening. “But now you’re in it, so let me help you understand.”
I throw back the second shot, welcoming the burn.
“You know,” Lucy continues, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile, “this isn’t the first big showdown between clubs I’ve seen. Before we came here, Stray and I were with the Nevada chapter when they had beef with the Desert Scorpions.”
“What happened?” I ask, grateful for the distraction.
“Their president and ours met at this old hunting lodge—neutral ground. Everyone thought it would end in bloodshed.” Lucy’s eyes light up with the memory. “Two dozen bikes on each side, all of us expecting a massacre. Instead, they talked for six hours, worked out territory lines on a map, and walked out with a truce that’s still holding today.”
“Really?”
“Sometimes the most threatening situations end with handshakes, not bullets.” She pours herself some water. “Another time, the Tucson chapter faced off with a cartel. Nowthatshould have been a slaughter, but they found common ground—turned out both the president and the cartel enforcer had served in the same unit in Afghanistan.”
I feel my shoulders relaxing slightly. “So these meetings... they usually end peacefully?”
“More often than not,” Lucy nods. “These men may look like animals, but they’re businessmen at heart. Nobody wants a war if they can avoid it.”
For the first time since Havoc left, I feel like I can breathe again.
As Lucy finishes her story, Ruth sets down her teacup with a knowing smile. “That reminds me of the time Tank and I ended up in the middle of a standoff between Wicked Sinners and the Devil’s Outfit. We thought for sure blood would spill.” She leans forward, her eyes twinkling. “Instead, their president pulled out a bottle of thirty-year-old scotch, and by sunrise, they were singing Johnny Cash together.”
Carol laughs, her weathered face lighting up. “Those boys and their testosterone. Remember when that mess with the Iron Horsemen looked like it might go south? Bone walked right into their clubhouse alone?—”
“With nothing but a hunting knife and a bad attitude,” Ruth finishes, and they both dissolve into laughter.
I find myself smiling despite my worry. These women have lived through decades of this life, seen presidents come and go, and weathered wars and truces. Their stories flow one into another, painting a picture of a world where violence always looms but doesn’t always win.
“The thing about these men,” Carol says, “is they’ve got more options than just pulling triggers. Havoc’s smarter than most. He knows when to fight and when to talk.”
Time stretches as they share more stories—close calls, near misses, unexpected alliances. The tequila bottle sits forgotten as I hang on their every word, each tale easing my anxiety a little more.
Then I hear it—the distant rumble of motorcycles approaching the compound.
My heart leaps into my throat as I push away from the table, nearly knocking over my chair. I rush to the front door, where Wyatt stands guard.
“Is it them?” I ask breathlessly, my hands shaking.
Wyatt peers through the peephole, then nods. “It’s them. They’re back.” He opens the door, stepping aside.
I burst into the compound yard. The rumble of engines grows louder as motorcycles roll through the gate.
I sprint across the yard, heart pounding in my chest, eyes locked on Havoc as he dismounts his bike. I don’t care about protocol or appearances—I need to feel him, to know he’s real and whole and alive.
“Havoc!” I crash into him with enough force to make him step back, my arms wrapping around his solid form.
The smell of him—leather, sweat, and that essential scent that’s purely Havoc—fills my lungs. I press my face against his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek.
“I was so scared,” I whisper, my voice breaking. My fingers dig into his cut, clutching the leather like it might disappear if I loosen my grip. “I hate it when you’re away. I kept thinking about Dad and—” I can’t finish the sentence.
Havoc’s strong arms tighten around me. One hand slides up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a low rumble I feel more than hear. He pulls back just enough to tilt my face up to his. Those intense blue eyes lock with mine. “I’ll always come back to you, Sasha. Always.”
His thumb strokes across my cheek, wiping away tears I didn’t realize I’d shed.
“Promise?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
Instead of answering with words, Havoc lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss starts gentle, a reassurance, but quickly ignites into something more urgent. My body responds instantly, heat flooding through me as I press closer. His tongue slides against mine, claiming, possessing. I moan into his mouth, my hands now gripping the front of his shirt.
