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My stomach dropped. "Duke, I'm so sorry—"

"For what? Making him happy?" His laugh was humorless, edged with something that might have been fondness. "Kid hasn't smiled in years, suddenly he's whistling while working on his spreadsheets. Wasn't hard to figure out."

I blinked, trying to reconcile this casual acceptance with the fear Tyson and I had carried. "He whistles?"

"Terrible at it too. Off-key enough to make dogs howl." Duke took a long drag, ash glowing in the dim light. "But that's not the point. Point is, he's been different since you. Better. More like the brother who came back from the sandbox before the nightmares got their hooks in too deep."

"I didn't mean for it to happen," I said quietly. "The lying, the secrecy. It just . . ."

"It’s my fault,” he sighed, before flicking ash onto the sidewalk. “Sometimes I enforce rules just for the sake of it. And it leads tosecrets like this. And I get why he lied. Protecting you, protecting the club, trying to do the right thing. That's Tyson. Always carrying the world on his shoulders."

"It’s all my fault. Rico and Johnnie."

"Stop." His voice was firm but not unkind, carrying the same tone I'd heard him use with younger brothers who needed guidance. "You didn't pull those triggers. You didn't declare war. You're just the excuse Cruz is using."

He turned to face me then, and I saw past the presidential mask to the man underneath. Tired, hurting, but resolute. This was a man who'd lost brothers before, would lose them again, and had learned to carry that weight without breaking.

"Question is," he continued, studying me with those sharp eyes, "you staying? Because after last night, things get darker. I know you’ve been a part of our family for a while, but this is the first time anything like . . . this has happened to you. This life, it's not romantic. It's blood and brotherhood and burying friends too young."

The fairy tale was definitely over, if it had ever existed at all.

"I love him," I said simply, meeting Duke's gaze without flinching. "He loves me. Everything else . . . we'll figure it out."

"Christ, you're both idiots," Duke muttered, but there was fondness there, the same tone he'd used talking about Tyson's terrible whistling. "Fine. You're under official protection now. Where you go, a brother goes. Non-negotiable."

The words should have made me feel safer. Instead, they felt like another chain, another way my presence put targets on backs.

We walked back into the waiting room to find Tyson exactly where I'd left him, but his entire body was coiled with tension. The relief in his eyes when he saw me was almost painful.

I sank back into my chair, and Tyson immediately took my hand, examining me like Duke might have damaged me with words alone.

"What did he say?" he asked quietly.

"That he's known about us for weeks. That you whistle off-key when you're happy. That I'm under official protection now."

Tyson's expression cycled through surprise, embarrassment, and finally settled on resignation. "My whistling is fucking first rate."

"Apparently dogs howl."

"One time. One dog. And it was already howling." But his thumb was stroking over my knuckles, and some of the tension had left his shoulders. "You're really okay with this? The protection detail, the lack of privacy, the target it paints?"

I thought about Duke's words, about family and sacrifice and the weight of belonging. About the women inside who'd welcomed me without question, who cleaned blood from my hair like it was normal Tuesday activity. About two young men who'd died protecting strangers because that's what brotherhood meant.

"I'm okay with it," I said, and meant it. "We'll figure out the rest as we go."

Theclubhousefeltdifferentwith death hanging in the air—all the usual noise and chaos muted under black drapes that covered every mirror. It was only a couple of days after the party, but someone had already set up the memorial—two empty chairs at the long table, Rico's and Johnnie's cuts draped over the backs, their patches catching the overhead light.

I wasn't supposed to be here. Church was sacred, members only, prospects by invitation. The wives and girlfriends waitedoutside, understanding the boundary. But Tyson's hand on my back had guided me through the doors, and Duke hadn't protested. After last night, normal rules seemed to matter less than the blood drying on our souls.

"Sit," Tyson said quietly, pulling out a chair near the back. Not at the table—that would have been too much, even now—but against the wall where I could see everything without being officially part of the proceedings.

The brothers filed in with none of their usual rough humor. Tank's head was bandaged, white gauze stark against his dark skin. Thor's arm was strapped to his chest, immobilized but not enough to hide the way his whole body vibrated with barely contained violence. Others showed their own battle scars—stitches, bandages, the thousand-yard stare of men who'd watched brothers fall.

Duke took his position at the head of the table, moving like every breath hurt. Which it probably did, with those cracked ribs. But he sat straight, presidential, carrying authority like armor.

"We all know why we're here," he began without preamble. "Two prospects died protecting innocents. The Serpents, backed by Cruz and his cartel connections, attacked a yacht full of civilians. They've crossed every line we've held sacred."

"We hit them back hard and fast," Thor growled, his good hand clenched into a fist that made his knuckles white. "Find their cook houses, their safe houses, burn it all down. Make them regret ever hearing the Heavy Kings name."