Page 16 of Claimed By The Club

FROST

I wake before dawn, body tight with lingering tension.

Ever since last night, my mind has been hijacked by images of Sierra—her warmth, her wide eyes, the way her voice trembled when she gasped my real name.

Now I’m supposed to snap back into my role as President of Renegade Cross, the methodical, composed leader who keeps everything under control.

But a single memory of her face obliterates that veneer.

Pushing out of bed, I dig for a clean shirt in my locker.

The old army cot in the back of the clubhouse has never felt so claustrophobic.

I should find my own space, especially after crossing that line with Sierra, but living on-site helps me respond fast when trouble calls.

And trouble is a constant shadow these days.

I head to the small bathroom down the hall, flipping on a single fluorescent light.

My reflection stares back—a man with stubble, dark hair cropped neat, faint lines bracketing his mouth.

I look the same, but my thoughts are miles away, back in that moment we collided at the bar, letting unspoken tension erupt into something neither of us could stop.

As water runs across my face, I replay the final moments of the night: Sierra slipping from my arms, breath shaky, cheeks flushed.

We agreed to keep our connection quiet—no need to feed the rumor mill or invite unnecessary complications.

I want to protect us both from prying eyes.

The club has enough drama without throwing our personal lives into the fray.

Steeling myself, I leave the bathroom and make my way to the main lounge.

Dawn light seeps through the grimy windows, illuminating battered couches and a pool table that’s seen better days.

A couple of prospects doze on the sofa, arms folded, heads bowed.

I pass them quietly and step outside, inhaling the cool desert air before the heat takes over.

The yard is scattered with a few bikes, each one reflecting personal touches: custom tanks, unique paint jobs, specialized handlebars. Our row of motorcycles stands out in a place this small, but that’s our statement. We protect our own turf, no questions asked.

My phone buzzes with a text from Ghost—Luke.

He’s running security at Bluelight this morning, making sure the night crew locked up properly.

I lean against a weathered picnic table while I read his update.

Apparently, everything’s quiet so far, no sign of rival MCs sniffing around.

Still, I can’t relax. The Iron Reapers have a habit of striking when you least expect it.

A door creaks behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.

Sierra steps out, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, wearing jeans and a simple black tank top.

Her gaze flits around before landing on me.

For a second, neither of us speaks. My heart does that inconvenient flip, and I force myself to maintain a casual expression.

She makes her way across the yard, footsteps stirring dust. “Hey,” she says softly, stopping a few feet away.

“Morning,” I reply, fighting the urge to close the gap. The memory of her skin under my hands is impossible to ignore.

Her lips press together, and I notice a brief flash of uncertainty in her eyes. “I wanted to go over a few updates about the new T-shirt designs. Viper told me they might be ready by next week.”

I nod, pretending that’s all I’m thinking about. “Yeah, they should be. He’s been coordinating with the local printer.”

She fidgets with the hem of her tank top. “Cool. I’ll finalize the rollout plan.” Another pause stretches. We both sense the unresolved electricity crackling. “We, uh, still good?” she asks, voice quieter.

I meet her gaze. “We are. I just need to keep it under wraps for now. You understand why.”

She inhales, tension visible in her shoulders. “I do.” Then she glances around, ensuring no one’s eavesdropping. In a sudden burst of vulnerability, she steps closer, invading my space with a boldness that makes my pulse spike. “But that doesn’t mean last night didn’t matter.”

Her words jolt me. I reach out, letting my fingertips graze her hip. “It mattered,” I admit, voice low. “Trust me.”

She exhales, relief mingling with longing. We stand there for a charged moment, the desert wind kicking dust past our boots. If anyone walks out and sees us, they’ll know exactly what’s going on. Yet neither of us moves away.

At last, she catches herself. “I should—” She gestures vaguely toward the garage. “I have tasks, finances to check.”

I nod, fighting the urge to pull her in. “Later, we’ll talk.” My voice dips on that last word, hinting at more than conversation.

She nods, turning and walking off, tension rolling in her wake.

Once she’s gone, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Keeping secrets inside the club is a gamble, but I’m not ready to explain my personal life to every patched member or prospect.

We’re all on edge. If the Reapers attack, I can’t afford distractions. Or so I keep telling myself.

It’s late morning when I meet up with Ghost, who’s just returned from his patrol.

We gather in the makeshift office, a small room that used to be a storage closet.

The overhead fan squeaks as it spins. He hands me a few notes about the bar’s inventory and last night’s receipts.

His posture is typically rigid, eyes scanning the space for any sign of trouble.

“How’s Bluelight?” I ask, sifting through the papers.

“No issues overnight,” he replies. “We had a couple of rowdy drunks, but that’s normal. The morning staff took over without a hitch. No sign of the Iron Reapers or their associates.”

I grunt in acknowledgment. “Good. That means we can focus on the new expansions Sierra’s pushing.” Just saying her name sets off a flutter of conflicting thoughts. “By the way, keep the watch tight. I don’t trust the Reapers to stay quiet for long.”

Ghost nods. “Will do.” He studies me for a moment. “You seem… tense. More than usual.”

I bristle, but force a calm facade. “Just the usual stress of running this place.”

He doesn’t press. That’s one thing about Ghost—Luke—he asks once, then leaves it unless it’s mission-critical. He knows I’ll share if there’s a direct threat. Personal stuff is rarely on the table for open discussion.

After he leaves, I skim through more receipts and notice a small budget discrepancy in our supply orders. It might be a math error or something else. Either way, I need to straighten it out. Sierra’s the one with a sharp eye for details, so I figure I’ll track her down.

I find her in the bar’s back office, hunched over a laptop.

The cramped space smells like stale beer and old receipts.

She’s wearing reading glasses—I didn’t even know she had them—and they perch on her nose as she types.

She looks unexpectedly vulnerable, hair still in that messy bun from earlier.

My chest does that clench again, the one that reminds me everything is different now.

Her eyes lift. “Frost,” she says, blinking in surprise. “Something up?”

I step inside, letting the door click shut behind me. “Found a small discrepancy in supply costs. Thought I’d get your take.”

She gestures for me to come around the desk.

I set a folded paper beside her laptop, leaning over to point out the questionable numbers.

The subtle smell of her perfume draws me in, messing with my concentration.

Her fingers brush mine as she traces the column of digits, and my heart stutters.

We just talked about keeping things quiet, but the tension is thick.

“Yeah, that’s strange,” she murmurs, frowning at the screen. “Seems like we were overcharged for shipping. I can call the distributor?—”

Before she finishes, the back of my hand accidentally grazes her thigh. I didn’t mean to, but the closeness is too much. She goes still, lips parting, eyes locked on mine. In the dim office light, the memory of last night’s urgency floods back, stirring heat in my veins.

Her gaze flicks to the door, verifying it’s closed. Then she inhales sharply, shifting her chair so she faces me fully. Every rational thought in my head says to keep it professional, but my body has other ideas. My pulse kicks up. She sets the laptop aside, resting her hand on my arm.

I can’t stop myself from leaning in, mouth hovering near her ear. “We shouldn’t,” I manage, voice low, not sounding convincing even to myself.

“I know,” she breathes. “But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

A faint groan escapes my chest. In one smooth motion, I slip my arms around her waist and pull her against me, the chair rolling back a few inches.

She arches forward, tugging me by the front of my shirt until our lips crash together.

The kiss blots out every bit of logic. There’s only the taste of her, the softness of her hair between my fingers, the desperate way we reach for each other as if we’ve been waiting years, not hours.

Her arms wrap around my neck, intensifying the embrace.

My knees buckle, so I brace a hand on the desk to stay upright, ignoring the papers that flutter to the floor.

She moans softly when I trace my fingertips along her shoulder, under the strap of her tank top.

The sound triggers a rush of need that leaves me dizzy.

We break apart for a split second, panting. She looks up, cheeks flushed. “Door’s locked,” she whispers, anticipation shining in her eyes.

A surge of adrenaline pulses through me, hot and electric. This is madness—slipping into the bar’s back office like thieves, voices and laughter just a thin door away from catching us. But the hunger burning through my veins turns caution to ash.

“Sierra,” I mutter her name, half curse, half prayer, my voice rough with need.