But girlfriends are a whole other matter.
You gotta earn that protection. Because girlfriends, sex partners, even wives—they're very, very different than little sisters. They're risky. A hole in what otherwise might be tightly woven armor.
Did Savannah do enough last night to convince them? Was her submission satisfactory?
That's all that performance was. Submission. Will she follow my orders? Will she do what I tell her to, just because I tell her to?
"You know what you're gonna say?" Diesel asks, lowering his voice so the others can't hear. His eyes are serious under that permanent scowl.
"Yeah," I say, though I don't. Not really. I just know I'll say whatever I have to.
"Make it good," he says, and there's something in his tone that sounds like a warning. "Lots of brothers pretty upset about an Ashby under our roof."
"She's not an Ashby anymore," I say. "She's mine."
Diesel's face splits into a grin. "Yeah, we all saw that last night." He shakes his head. "Girl's got some fire in her, I'll giveyou that. But this ain't about how good she fucks, Legion. This is about the club."
"I know what it's about."
"Do you?" He steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Because if this vote goes your way, you better be ready for what comes after. The Ashbys, the senator, the cops—they're all gonna come. And they're gonna come hard."
"I hope they do,” I say. Meetin’ his eyes. “They fucked up, Diesel. They fucked up. I will never get theimage of Savannah tied to a bed, drugged and almost naked, out of my head. Not even killin’ those boys would erase it. So let them come. I’ll handle it.”
Diesel studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "That's what I needed to hear." He claps me on the shoulder again. "You bleed for us. We bleed for you. That's the code."
The door opens, and men start filing in. Patches I recognize, some I don't. Older members I've only heard about in stories. Faces hard as stone, scarred from fights, weathered by years on the road.
Diesel gives me one last look before moving back to the table. "It's your show now, brother."
I stand to the side as they take their seats, row by row. The air in the room grows thick with tension and the smell of leather and sweat. This is church—our version of it, anyway. Where decisions are made that change lives.
End them, sometimes.
Brick calls the meeting to order with three strikes of the gavel. The sound echoes off the concrete walls like gunshots.
"Brothers," he says, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "We're here for a Level-One vote. Patch member Legion Kane has called for club protection of a civilian—Savannah Ashby."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some faces darken. Others remain impassive.
"As is our way," Brick continues, "he will present his case, and then we vote. No discussion. No debate. Just your conscience and the good of the club." He turns to me. "Brother Legion, the floor is yours."
I step up to the podium, feeling the weight of every set of eyeballs. My mouth is dry. My ribs ache with each breath. But none of that matters now.
What matters is Savannah, sleeping in my bed, with my mark on her chest and my name on her lips.
I look out at the sea of faces. Some nod encouragingly. Others glare, arms crossed over their chests, judgment already written in the hard lines around their mouths.
I take a breath and begin to speak for the only thing I've ever wanted to keep.
