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THIRTY-ONE

DASH

It’s two days after the run-in with Dayna’s mum, but it’s not Evelyn Harrington on my mind. It’s Blade.

I’m standing in the clubhouse, my mind going a hundred miles per hour as I peer down at him. His face is a patchwork of purple and black bruises, like someone took a mallet to his face.

There’s blood on his teeth, and his left eye is almost shut from the swelling.

Riley hands him an ice pack from behind the bar, and he tosses the tissue he was using on the table in front of him. The blood is bright and dripping off his chin onto the floor. He took a hammering, there’s no denying that, but why?

“I’m so fuckin’ stupid.” He presses the ice pack to his face, hissing the moment it touches his skin. “Didn’t even clock them waiting. I was distracted.”

I don’t say anything, but I’m clocking everything he says and does. I thought these attacks were aimed at me, but now Blade’s sitting there, beat to fuck, and I don’t know what to think.

He’s wrecked, sure, but something about this feels wrong. It feels… rehearsed.

“I want those fuckers found. I want their fuckin’ heads.”

“Tell me what happened.”

I glance at Crank as Nic asks this—give a reaction, any fucking response to one of your members sitting here bleeding.

He doesn’t.

And Nic isn’t waiting for Prez to take control. He’s seizing it. He’s walking a line, a very fucking narrow one. As Sergeant at Arms, it’s Nicky’s job to make the club safe, but Crank should be calling for blood.

The unbothered look on his face tells me whatever justice Blade thinks he’s getting isn’t coming.

“I was walkin’. This van fuckin’ screeched up to the kerb. Next thing I know, three guys are on me, pounding the hell out of me. I fought them off and got the fuck out of there.”

Is this a strike against the club? Against anyone wearing the Sons name?

I don’t like the fucking guy, but he’s club, which means someone needs to pay for this shit.

“You see anything?” Mace asks.

He shakes his head and then winces at the movement. “They were wearing masks.”

Convenient . “Funny how it’s only you two who’ve been targeted,” Grub says. “Makes it feel personal.”

“Three,” Diesel corrects.

“Three, what?”

“I was there at the first shooting.”

Grub scowls, but it’s Riot who speaks.

“It’s the patch. Someone’s coming for all of us, and they’re just gettin’ warmed up.”

Crank scoffs. “And what evidence do you have of that? And don’t come at me with that fucking stupid note. That could have been written by anyone.”

I swear, one of these days, I’m going to wrap the fucking gavel around his throat.

“Whatever the fuck is going on,” Blade says, “we need to act. I got jumped in our territory, Crank. That’s fuckin’ disrespectful.”

King rushes into the room, his cheeks flushed, eyes hard.

“Temptation just got hit,” he says. My spine snaps. What the fuck is going on?

“Hit, how?” Mace demands. Maylie’s not working this close to giving birth, but the look in his eyes says he doesn’t give a fuck about that.

King’s jaw flexes. “They firebombed the place. It’s fucking ash.”

“Fuck,” he growls, his phone already in his hand as he steps away. Riot follows, his shoulders taut.

“His old lady works there, right?” Crank asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Not sure I’d let my woman work in a place like that,” Grub adds. “Never know what might happen.”

I freeze. Was that a threat or a throwaway comment?

My stomach twists, and I brace, not sure what the fuck is happening.

Nic puts his hands on the table, leaning in. “This is beginning to look like coordinated attacks. Are you really gonna sit there and say this isn’t a campaign to undermine us?”

Crank takes a sip of his beer, everything about his demeanour infuriating. “Four attacks, four different styles. You seriously think that’s all connected? Maybe stop looking for conspiracy where none exist.”

I clench my jaw so tight it aches. If this prick quotes one more fucking proverb instead of protecting his brothers, I’m going to snap his neck.

Nic slams a hand on the table. “Four attacks ain’t coincidence, Crank. Get off your fuckin’ arse and do something. You’re supposed to be president.”

The air changes. Suffocating and thick. Crank stands, slow and measured. It feels like the room holds a breath.

My fingers hover over my knife sheathed at my side. I sidle closer to Nic, my gaze sharp, probing.

Fuck, I’m not dying in this room.

Crank steps up to Nic, his mouth tight, his eyes like glaciers.

“Careful, Phoenix.” He full-names Nic, a move that is meant to unsettle. Nicky fucking hates that name. “Remember who you’re talking to.”

The snarl is fierce. “Titles are earned. And I haven’t forgotten shit.”

Crank smirks like he’s not standing in the grip of a fucking predator. Nic would tear his throat out with his teeth before Crank blinked.

“Your legacy only gets you so far.”

“It’s because of legacy that I’ll always stand tall for this club and for the patch. I bleed loyalty. Can you say the same?”

Fuck…

I wrap my fingers around the handle of my knife, ready to draw it, but Crank slow claps.

Like he’s not a breath from dying.

Like his club isn’t on the edge of implosion.

“And you’re doing such a good job of that.” The sarcasm drips from every syllable. “Multiple attacks. No one safe. Maybe you should be looking in the mirror when you say I should get off my arse and… do something .”

He walks off, and Nic looks like he’s swallowed glass.

Blade lifts the ice off his nose. “I agree with you. We’re being targeted. This is a systematic attack on our club, our territory.”

I blink. Blade’s always been so far up Crank’s arse, he could floss his teeth with his bootlaces.

This change of tune? It stinks.

Is it fear or strategy?

Is this part of a game, or is Blade really a fucking victim?

I don’t know what to believe, but what I do know is that words are cheap. Words mean nothing when bullets are flying, when buildings are burning, and when brothers are bleeding.

By the time I get out to my bike, I’m vibrating with tension, fury, and the need to destroy.

But all I want to do is get home to my woman, wrap her in fucking bubble wrap, and lock the world out.

I’m reaching for my helmet when Nic strides over. He looks fucking wrecked, fury bleeding off him in waves.

He doesn’t speak right away, just clenches his jaw like he’s trying not to unleash hell. Then he says, “I’m done with this game. I’m not gonna stand by and wait for someone to die.”

“Good,” I snap, “because when I got shot at the second fucking time, my pregnant old lady was right fucking there. I’m not doing that again. I want to clean house, Nic, but not at the expense of my family. If this shit doesn’t stop, I’m out.”

I expect him to lay into me, call me disloyal, but he just nods slowly.

“No one’s dying, but I’m done waiting for Crank to do his fuckin’ job.

I’ve been looking into the camera footage from both attacks.

I got plate numbers from the vehicles, but they were stolen.

” His eyes lose focus for a moment, distant, like he’s trawling the vaults of his mind.

“None of it adds up,” he says finally. “Where are the fuckin’ demands?

Where’re the messages calling to hand over territory or they’ll burn it all down?

The note said this was the start—the start of what?

They’re chipping the edges, but they ain’t moved in yet. ”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know.” He rubs his nape, the tension clear in the lines of his body. “Get home to your old lady and fuckin’ watch your back. Until we know what the hell is going on, we have to assume everyone in the club or connected to it is at risk.”

He pats my shoulder, squeezing as if he can infuse my body with strength I don’t feel.

With his words ringing in my ears, I’m fucking paranoid as I ride home. He’s right. This doesn’t feel like war. It feels like kids throwing eggs at the house. It feels purposeful but not aggressive.

It’s a statement, not a takeover.

Someone’s making sure we know they’re out there. A wolf in the dark, snapping its teeth in the shadows.

It’s a relief when I pull into my building, but I don’t breathe until I’m inside the apartment.

It’s fucking hard, but I let go of all the club shit at the door as I shrug out of my kutte, hanging it on the hooks in the hallways

I can hear the muted sounds of the TV, feel her presence in the walls, and it feels like I’m living two different lives right now—the one with Dayna, and the one with the club.

When I step into the living room, she’s passed out on the couch, surrounded by blankets, the hood of my hoodie pulled up. One of those fucking awful horror movies she loves is playing on the TV.

I just watch her, unable to move, unable to tear my gaze away.

Dayna and our kid, that’s what I’m fighting for. That’s why I’m still here.

But I meant what I said to Nic. I’ll bleed for the patch, but I won’t die for a club that can’t and won’t protect its own.

And I won’t let it touch her.

Never.

If I have to choose between the patch and the family I’m building, there’s no fucking contest.