My thumb rubbed against the wedding band, still foreign against my skin.Simple gold, nothing fancy—practical, like our arrangement was supposed to be.Except it didn't feel like just an arrangement anymore.Not after Vegas.Not after seeing her with Dante, watching how she protected him, how her shoulders gradually relaxed when she realized they were finally safe.
I cut through side streets, taking the long way to the clubhouse to give myself time to get my head straight.Mustang wouldn't respond well to divided loyalty.He'd been clear when I'd first mentioned Pretty Boy's request: help was conditional on club priorities remaining first.But things had changed since I'd stood in that motel room doorway and seen Ophelia clutching her son like the world was ending.Since I'd watched Dante call me "daddy" without hesitation.Since I'd felt Ophelia come apart beneath me, trusting me with her body when she had every reason not to trust any man ever again.
The clubhouse came into view—a converted warehouse on the edge of the industrial district, its weathered exterior giving no hint of the operation inside.The Wicked Mayhem emblem dominated the front wall—a grinning skull wearing a spiked crown, our colors displayed proudly above the entrance.Half a dozen bikes lined the parking area, brothers' rides I recognized immediately.Loch's customized Softail.Socket's flame-detailed Harley.Screwball's old-school chopper that he refused to replace despite the constant repairs.
I pulled into my usual spot, cutting the engine and swinging my leg over the bike in a practiced motion.For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the clubhouse door, mentally shifting gears.Husband to treasurer.Family man to outlaw.The transition wasn't as smooth as it should have been.
Inside, the familiar smell hit me first—leather and cigarettes, stale beer and gun oil.The main room was dimly lit despite the afternoon sun outside, neon bar signs providing most of the illumination.Socket and Loch were shooting pool in the corner, while Screwball nursed a beer at the bar, deep in conversation with our prospect, J.D., who was serving as bartender today.A few hang-arounds occupied the couches, women I recognized but couldn't name.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Loch called, straightening up from lining his shot."The newlywed returns."
I gave him the finger without breaking stride, heading straight for the chapel room at the back.News traveled fast in the club—no surprise Mustang had shared my Vegas wedding with the others.The wooden double doors to our meeting room were closed, but I didn't bother knocking.If Mustang had called Church, he was expecting me.
He sat at the head of the table, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed what looked like invoices.The president didn't look up as I entered, just gestured to my usual seat with a casual flick of his hand.
"Nice of you to join us," he said, still not looking up.
I pulled the marriage certificate from inside my cut, slapping it onto the table between us."It's done.She's my old lady now."
That got his attention.Mustang finally looked up, his steel-gray eyes assessing me over the rim of his reading glasses.He didn't bother examining the document, just leaned back in his chair and pulled his glasses off.
"Vegas treat you well?"he asked, his tone deceptively casual.
"Served its purpose."I took my seat, maintaining eye contact."Quick.Legal.No paper trail leading back here."
Mustang nodded slowly, his fingers tapping a thoughtful rhythm on the table."And the woman?She holding up her end?"
"Her name is Ophelia," I said, an edge creeping into my voice."And yeah.She's solid."
"The kid?"
"Dante.He's good too."
Mustang studied me, his expression unreadable.I'd seen that look before—when he was sizing up potential threats or deciding whether a business partner could be trusted.I didn't like being on the receiving end of it.
"Heard anything about her ex?"I asked, changing the subject."Or her parents?Pretty Boy said they've got connections—cops, judges."
Annoyance flashed across Mustang's face before settling into outright dismissal."We've got more important club business than babysitting your new family."
My hands clenched into fists beneath the table, a surge of anger rising hot in my chest."That wasn't the deal."
"The deal," Mustang said, his voice dropping to that dangerous quiet that usually preceded violence, "was that you'd help Pretty Boy's sister without it interfering with club business.Not that we'd dedicate resources to her protection."
"Her protection is club business," I countered."The moment I put my ring on her finger, she became Wicked Mayhem's responsibility."
Mustang's eyes narrowed."You're walking a fine line, brother."
From the main room, I could hear the others' voices dropping, conversations stilling.They'd sensed the tension, knew trouble waited behind these closed doors.The walls weren't thick enough to hide raised voices—and Mustang and I were both approaching that threshold.
"We made a promise to Hades Abyss," I reminded him, working to keep my tone level."Pretty Boy stuck his neck out for us last year when the Heathens tried moving in on our territory.Said it was a favor we'd return someday.This is that day."
"A favor for him, not an open-ended commitment to be his sister's personal security detail."
"It's not open-ended.It's until the threat's neutralized."I leaned forward, holding his gaze."You think I'd ask if it wasn't necessary?Her ex is connected.His father's a judge.His uncle's chief of police in their county.These aren't street thugs we're talking about."
Socket appeared in the doorway, his expression cautious."Everything good in here?"
"Fine," Mustang and I answered in unison, neither of us breaking eye contact.
