Page 34 of Claimed By The Club

SIERRA

T he hush inside the safe house feels louder than a crowded stadium.

I sit on the edge of a sagging couch, restless energy thrumming in my veins.

Outside, dawn has barely touched the sky, but the men have already rolled out for their ambush.

Frost led a tight group into the desert to corner the Iron Reapers once and for all, leaving me behind under strict orders to stay locked down. Again.

Viper is posted near the door, arms folded across his chest. His gaze flicks between me and the small window overlooking the compound’s yard.

Neither of us has slept. We can’t erase the tension from last night’s final briefing—the talk of a “bogus shipment,” the lure for the Reapers, the rumor that’s spreading fast enough to draw them in like moths to a flame.

But Frost made it clear I was to remain behind, guarded, not physically present to risk myself.

The plan was for me to keep safe while the club flushes out any last traitor and cripples the Reapers.

But the thought of them out there, facing bullets and betrayal, churns my stomach.

I recall the frantic nights when the Reapers attacked us head-on, and it makes me sick that I’m once again sidelined.

“Any update from Frost?” I ask quietly, staring at Viper’s phone resting on the coffee table. We’ve had no texts, no calls.

He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re waiting for the Reapers to show.” His tone carries a weary edge, as if he’d rather be out there fighting beside them.

We lapse into silence. I cling to the memory of Frost’s last words: “You stay here, guarded. I won’t let them near you.” But while I understand the logic, I hate feeling powerless. My ex-partner’s involvement, the traitor’s sabotage—it’s all swirling around me like a storm I can’t break.

After a long pause, Viper sighs. “Sitting here is killing you, isn’t it?”

I nod, throat tight. “Every minute feels like an hour. If something goes wrong?—”

He presses his lips together, gaze flicking to the window. “We gotta trust Frost. He knows what he’s doing.”

My chest twists. “Doesn’t mean something can’t go horribly wrong. I can’t stand waiting around for a text that might never come.”

Viper exhales, raking a hand through his sandy hair. The tension in his posture mirrors my own. “I get it, believe me. But Frost gave an order.”

I clench my fists. “And you’re following it.”

He looks away, conflict swirling in his green eyes. We’ve all got complicated loyalties to juggle. The MC depends on structure, but we also share personal ties that defy rules. Part of me wants to run outside, hop on a bike, and chase after them, but I know that could compromise the entire plan.

Finally, the phone buzzes, making both of us jump. Viper snatches it, eyes scanning the screen. I hold my breath. A moment later, he curses under his breath, tension etching lines in his face.

“What is it?” I demand, heart pounding.

“It’s one of the prospects. They haven’t heard from Frost’s team yet, but they saw a small group of Reapers heading that way—maybe more than we expected.” He looks up, anxiety blazing. “Something about them bringing reinforcements.”

Fear lances through me. “So if they’re outnumbered…”

Viper’s jaw clenches. “We can’t just barge in. Frost said if we ride in unannounced, we blow the ambush.”

I push off the couch, pacing the length of the tiny living room. “Then we risk them getting slaughtered if the Reapers show in bigger numbers.”

He stands, stepping into my path. “We gotta trust the plan.”

Anger and worry boil in my chest, mixing into a single, desperate urge to do something.

My old life taught me never to be a passive victim, but the club keeps trying to protect me by shutting me away.

That might make sense logically, but it tears me up inside.

My eyes sting with tears I refuse to shed.

“How can I just trust that everything will be okay? Who’s to say the Reapers don’t have another trick up their sleeve? ”

Viper sighs heavily. He sets the phone on the table, then grips my shoulders, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Sierra, Frost is no fool. Neither is Ghost, or Axel. They’ll adapt if the Reapers bring more men. That’s how we survive in this world.”

I stare at him, frustration mounting. “Then why am I here with you, caged, while they face bullets? I could help.”

He shakes his head, though not as firmly as before. “You heard Frost. They want you safe. You get caught in the crossfire, or the Reapers snag you, and all of this is for nothing.”

I grit my teeth, stepping away, arms folded tight across my chest. My mind flashes to the day I discovered my ex-partner’s betrayal, to the times I got threatened. Every memory screams that passivity is the worst form of risk. “I can’t stand it,” I murmur, voice trembling. “I’m going.”

Viper tenses. “You’re not supposed to?—”

“I don’t care,” I snap. “We have a vantage if we approach from the hillside. I won’t blow the plan if I keep my distance. I just need to see for myself that they’re okay.”

He hesitates, conflict twisting his features. “And if we get there and the Reapers do spot you? That’ll shift everything.”

I square my shoulders, refusing to back down. “We’ll be careful. Please, Carter. Let me do this.”

For a second, I think he’ll shut me down. Then he swallows hard, gaze shifting to the phone. “Frost will kill me if something happens to you. But if the Reapers really brought more men, maybe we can slip in behind them, offer backup.”

Relief floods me, tempered by fear. “Exactly. If the plan still works, we won’t need to interfere. But if everything goes to hell, at least we’ll be there to help.”

Viper gives a shaky nod. “All right. Let’s do it.” He pockets the phone. “We take one of the trucks, keep it quiet. We approach from the back roads, no headlights once we’re close.”

Adrenaline pulses in my veins. I gather my jacket, slipping out the door into the brightening morning.

The compound stirs with minimal movement—only a few prospects on patrol.

They’re used to me wandering, but Viper leads me to a dull gray pickup, partially hidden behind some storage crates.

We climb in, hearts pounding with the weight of what we’re about to do.

We roll out quietly, the truck’s engine rumbling at a low pitch. My stomach churns as we leave the compound gates behind. The knowledge that we’re disobeying Frost’s direct instructions chews at me, but I can’t ignore the dread in my gut. If the Reapers arrived in force, the MC might be in trouble.

The desert stretches ahead, an endless expanse of dust and prickly scrub. The route Viper takes bypasses main roads, winding through narrow dirt trails. The sun peeks over the horizon, washing everything in pale gold. Despite the rising heat, I feel a chill. We’re driving straight into the unknown.

After thirty tense minutes, Viper cuts the headlights. We maneuver up a rocky slope, parking near a vantage point overlooking the highway below. The engine goes silent, dust settling around us. We exchange a charged look, then step out, crouching behind some boulders.

From our elevated position, the blacktop stretches in a ribbon.

Half a mile ahead, I see the vague shapes of motorcycles, parked in a cluster.

It must be the MC’s hidden staging area, though I can’t see Frost or Ghost. My pulse spikes when I notice a group of bikes further down the road—most likely the Reapers.

They appear to be milling around, as if uncertain whether to proceed.

Viper and I creep along the ridge, taking cover behind scraggly shrubs. A sense of déjà vu sweeps over me—same desert hush, same threat of violence. Only this time, I’m not locked away. I’m here, braced for whatever might unfold.

Down below, two vantage lines stand opposite each other across the highway. I spot Axel’s silhouette at one end, partially hidden behind a rock formation. Then I see Ghost’s ash-blond hair near the other side, gun in hand. Anxiety gnaws at me—where is Frost?

A hush blankets the scene. For a long stretch, no one moves.

The Reapers idle, exchanging wary glances.

Then a van crawls into view, an older model with tinted windows.

My breath catches. That must be the “bogus shipment,” driven by a couple of trusted members.

If the Reapers suspect an ambush, they might hold back.

Tension thrums in the air so sharply I feel it in my teeth.

Sure enough, as the van stops, a handful of Reapers approach, brandishing weapons. A short exchange ensues—shouts drifting up to us, too far to distinguish words. Something feels off. They haven’t been lured fully in. Frost must be waiting to see if they commit to an attack. Where is he?

Suddenly, gunfire cracks the stillness, echoing across the desert. My pulse skyrockets. The Reapers either discovered the trap or decided to shoot first. A chaotic dance unfolds—MC riders burst from hiding, engines revving, guns firing. Dust plumes in every direction.

Viper curses under his breath. “They’re engaged. We gotta?—”

We hear more shots. The Reapers scramble, some taking cover behind their bikes, others returning fire.

In the haze, I spot one rider sprinting behind a cluster of rocks near the van, raising his gun at an unsuspecting MC member.

A wave of horror hits me—this is the real war zone, and I’m witnessing it from above, powerless.

“No, we can’t rush in,” I whisper, voice trembling. “We’d be shot in crossfire.”

Viper grits his teeth. “We can at least pick off any Reaper flanking from our side.” He glances at me. “Stay low. I’ll try to help from here.”