“You can put the car over there.” The other one beckoned to a space to the left of the doors, right under the camera I’d seen earlier.
I didn’t nod. Only swallowed. I was being watched. Not just by these prospects. As I hit the button and killed the engine, my stomach fluttered. My fingers curled around the handle, the car unlocking automatically, and then I paused. I shouldn’t have come. All the stories. All the warnings. My father had instilled them in me. I knew better.
‘This is a different world, Soph. It’s not a world you belong in.’
He was right. I should have left this alone. I should have forgotten I’d seen him. The tap on my window startled me again. Then my driver's door opened, and suddenly I wished I’d kept the car doors locked. I inhaled. Air filling my lungs. Adding pressure. And beneath it all, my heart galloped. Out of control.
I followed a prospect, watching the back of his cut as he walked in front. It was plain on the back apart from a bottom rocker. Newcastle upon Tyne. And another badge sewn to the right. MC. Just in case I needed any more convincing. The other man walked behind. Just a few steps. Just in case I turned and ran, I guessed. And then we stepped inside the pub. Inside their clubhouse, into their space. Away from the outside. Away from escape. My chest tightened.
“You have a name, sweetheart?”
That word again. Harder than it should be. A hint of control buried beneath it. And I was under their control now, wasn’t I?
“I… I just came here to see Ryan.”
“Who?”
“Ryan.”
“There’s no Ryan here.”
The group of prospects circled me. I counted six. A small army in itself, and with me covered on every side, there was no escape.
“Your name?”
“Sophie,” I answered reluctantly. “Look. I’m sorry. I must have made a mistake. I was looking for Ry.”
“Why did you think he’d be here?”
“I thought this was the Northern Kings clubhouse.” I shrugged, trying not to show the panic filling my chest.
“It is.”
I frowned.
“Oh. He was definitely a Northern King,” I muttered, as if I needed to convince myself. “The patch on his back.”
The men looked at each other, a frown pulling across one of their faces.
“Better tell Reap to get down here,” someone said from behind me.
“Yes. Reap. That’s him. Reap must be his biker name or something.”
I wanted to feel the flood of relief. I wanted to see the recognition on their faces. But instead, I saw a darkness. Suspicion. Then the mood shifted. The same quiet way it sometimes did in the emergency department, that moment when voices dropped instead of rising, when people stopped talking and started watching. The two prospects directly in front of me exchanged a look. Not confused. Measuring.
“That’s convenient,” the one who straightened muttered, stepping in a little closer.
I shuffled backward. Involuntarily. Already seeking space. But behind me, a wall of leather stood, and I had nowhere to go.
“Yeah,” a voice rumbled low, dangerous. Fear swelled in my chest. “You were looking for me?”
The prospects moved instinctively, and he filled the gap they left, towering above the other men. His leather cut sat heavily over a black hoodie. His beard was darker in the dim light.
My stomach tightened.
Not long ago he’d been sitting on the edge of an examination bed in A&E while I stitched that deep cut along his ribs. Quiet. Watchful. The kind of patient who looked like he was measuring the room rather than being treated in it. And now he was here. Watching me the same way.
His eyes flicked to the prospects.
