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"Go on," Angel says, picking up a fork. "Eat."

I pick up my own fork and cut into the stack. The first bite is perfect. Fluffy, sweet and exactly what I didn't know I needed.

"Oh my God," I say through a mouthful of pancake. "This is amazing."

Angel's mouth twitches into something that's almost a smile. "Lou knows what she's doing."

Chapter 2 - Angel

I watch Bree take another bite of pancakes, and the way she's eating, like this is the first real meal she's had in days, tells me more than any words could.

She's wearing my cut.

I gave it to her.

I know what that means. I know exactly what that means in the MC world, and I did it anyway without thinking, without hesitating, because she was cold, I had something that would fix it and everything else seemed irrelevant in comparison.

But it's not irrelevant.

Giving a woman your cut is a claim. It's a statement. It's saying *mine* without speaking the word out loud, and every patched member knows it. Every hang-around knows it. Every prospect who's been around longer than five minutes knows it.

And I just handed it to a stranger because she shivered once and tried to hide it.

Phoenix is going to have questions.

Judge is going to have more questions.

And I'm going to have to answer them, because the Iron Phoenix doesn't tolerate prospects who make decisions like this without thinking them through. The entire point of prospecting is proving you can think before you act, that you understand consequences, that you're not going to bring chaos into a club that just spent six months rebuilding after a war.

Except I don't think this is chaos.

I look at Bree again. She's got syrup on her bottom lip and she's completely unaware of it, too focused on the pancakes to notice. Her blonde hair is falling out of whatever she tried to do with it earlier, and the Fleetwood Mac shirt is so big on her it's sliding off one shoulder.

She doesn't belong in O'Malley's. She doesn't belong in Millhaven. Everything about her screams a different life: one with money, manners and people who taught her to say please and thank you even when she's terrified.

But she's here anyway.

And I'm not walking away.

Bree finishes the last bite and sets her fork down with a satisfied sigh. "I think that might've saved my life."

I want to know more, but I don't push for it. It's too soon for that. Too soon to ask what brought her here or what she's running from or why she looks like she hasn't slept in two days. She'll tell me when she's ready, or she won't. Either way, it's her choice.

Lou appears at the edge of our booth, two bottles of water in her hands. She sets them down without a word, glances at my cut wrapped around Bree's shoulders, and gives me a look that's half knowing and half amused.

"You need anything else, Angel, you let me know," she says.

"Appreciate it, Lou."

She nods and walks away, and Bree watches her go.

"She's nice," Bree says.

"She's good people. Most folks in Millhaven are."

Bree picks up one of the water bottles and takes a long drink. When she sets it down, she looks more awake than she did twenty minutes ago. The food helped.

"Can I ask you something?" she says.