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Chapter One

Knox

Iwalked into the room where we held Church, and stopped, sparing a glance at all the brothers who arrived early to avoid the wrath of the president of Iron Vows MC, my old man, Hatchet. I took my usual seat, directly to the left of the Prez. As VP, that’s where I sat. It was where I belonged because it was my role to always have my Prez’s back.

Hatchet pushed away from the table and rose from his seat the way he did every Saturday when we met for Church. He looked the same as always if you didn’t look too close, but the signs were there. The way he used both arms to push off the table when he’d only ever used one. The slower, more careful gait when he walked. The exhaustion written on his face. I knew, but I’d known him all my life, so I noticed things. He was older and grayer, and he didn’t move as fast as he used to, but he was still the toughest son of a bitch I’d ever met. He hadn’t said it yet but he was ready to retire. To pass the gavel on.

To me.

Eventually.

The room was packed with seven officers around the table, patched brothers lined along the walls. Rook sat to my right with his inked arms crossed, face unreadable in the usual way. He didn’t smile often and he was always reading every room he was in. Sizing it up. Assessing it for threats.

Hatchet let the room settle, before he spoke. “Been talkin’ to Rex Price,” he began in that slow tone guaranteed to get everybody’s attention.

Groans echoed around the room.

“I’m so fuckin’ tired of the Warlords. What’s that asshole want now?” Warden practically spit the name of the fuckers who’ve been our biggest rival for years.

Hatchet nodded to let his men know that he felt the same way we did. But he was tired. He wanted peace. Right now, he needed it. “He wants a truce.”

The silence lasted about four seconds before Torch grunted, “Bullshit.”

“Let him finish,” Rook shot back, without looking up.

Hatchet didn’t acknowledge either of them, he was as cool as he ever was. Nothing fucked with his chill.

He laid out Rex’s terms the way he always laid out bad news, without any fanfare or flowery language. “Marriage,” he began slowly, giving each of us a chance to hear his words. To absorb them. “A marriage bond, to be specific. His daughter to one of you.” He looked around at each of us, his gaze heavy yet neutral.

“That’s a fuck of a truce,” Torque snarled, his voice pitched so low we all had to lean in to hear him. “Marry into the fucking Warlords MC? That’s fucked and you all know it,” he accused, pointing a finger at each of us.

“Yeah, it is fucked, but it’s something we have to consider if we want any fuckin’ peace,” Hatchet said, looking around the table.

He wasn’t wrong. This constant back and forth with the Warlords MC, as fun as it was, couldn’t go on forever. We needed some goddamn peace, just as Hatchet said. Both sides needed quiet to regroup and get back on our shit. “So…” I sighed. “One of us has to marry Rex’s daughter.” It wasn’t a question, I just needed to say it out loud since, as VP, I was the logical choice. Whether I wanted it to be or not.

“Yep.” Hatchet nodded, staring at me as if he could read my fuckin’ mind.

Silence fell over the room before everybody started talking at once.

“So what the fuck does Rex get out of this marriage? For that matter, what do we get out of it?” Ace, the MC secretary, was all about the details so his question surprised no one.

“Trade routes,” for starters. “We don’t give up any territory, but we allow the Warlords safe passage through our territory. And neutrality on the northern corridor.” My dad looked tired, downright fucking exhausted honestly.

“How does this impact the books?” Judge asked because he was the treasurer and he lived and breathed numbers.

“It doesn’t,” Hatchet answered. “Except we won’t spend so much time and fucking money dealing with the Warlords.” He looked around at the other brothers.

Torque stayed quiet, which meant he was working his way through the pros and cons of this so-called truce. He was the road captain and had the patience of a saint. Until he didn’t.

Switch leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and watched the ceiling like the answer might be written there, instead of on the screen of one of his computers. He was our Tech Captain, and if anyone had answers, it was him.

Torch didn’t have questions. Torch had volume. He was the club enforcer, and he had loud opinions about everything. “We don’t make deals by selling women.” He spoke to the table at large, which had the impact he was going for. “That is not who the fuck we are. That’s what they are.” He folded his arms, just in case there was any doubt what he thought about this truce.

“Nobody’s selling any-fuckin’-body,” Judge said, barely able to hold back his annoyance.

“That’s exactly what this is,” he insisted angrily.

“It’s a diplomatic bond. Shit like this has been done forever.”