Page 15 of Desert Loyalties

SKYE

“Come on, Skye, we gotta go!” I shout down the hall for the third time. She kicked me out of the damn bedroom twenty minutes ago, said she couldn’t get ready with me lurking, throwing my “smoulder” at her, whatever the hell that means.

“Stop yelling!” she snaps from behind the door.

I roll my eyes and mutter, “I’m not yelling.” But I shut up anyway. She’s cranky when she’s rushed, and I’ve learned to pick my battles.

Then the door creaks open and I forget how to breathe.

Skye steps out and everything else just fades. She’s in this tight shiny golden dress that wraps around her like sin, hugging her curves in all the ways that make me want to cancel whatever the hell we’re going to and throw her back on the bed.

The top is low-cut, pushing her tits up like an offering to the gods or me, which, honestly, same thing. The dress flares out slightly at the waist, short enough to show off her legs, but she’s got on these black patterned leggings that somehow make it sexier instead of covering her up.

She walks over and spins once like she’s unsure, biting her lip. “Is this, okay?”

Then she hikes her leg up onto the coffee table, balancing like a damn goddess, and gestures at the leggings. “These didn’t really come with the dress, but I figured if we ride the bike, I’d need something practical.”

I can't respond. My brain's still short-circuiting.

Her boots are sky-high, fuck-me red, matching her lips and her hair’s glossy and full, falling around her shoulders like she stepped off the set of a movie I’d definitely jerk off to. The whole look is dangerous.

I stare at her, speechless, for once in my goddamn life.

“You gonna say anything?” she asks, tilting her head.

“I—uh...” I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out hoarse. “You look like trouble.”

She smirks. “Good. That’s what I was going for.”

I step closer, letting my hands land on her hips, fingers sliding along the fabric. “You really expect me to take you out in public like this?” I growl, pulling her against me.

She leans in, brushing her lips over mine, teasing. “Only if you want to start a fight.”

“Sweetheart,” I say, dead serious now, “I was born to start fights over you.”

She lets out a low laugh and shoves me lightly, her palm warm against my chest. “Let’s go, biker boy. Before I decide to take you for a ride instead.”

She grabs her leather jacket off the couch, tossing it over one shoulder like a fuckin’ model.

I just stand there for a beat, watching her walk away, the click of her heels on the hardwood echoing like a warning bell.

The way her hips move in that dress makes me want to cancel this whole night and spend it inside her instead.

But I don’t. Because tonight’s not just for us, it’s for the club. Fuckin’ club.

I wasn’t lying earlier. Before Skye, I didn’t give a shit about anything but the Horsemen. Not a single goddamn thing. The club was my anchor, my identity, my home. The brothers were my blood. Loyalty was everything. And I believed that down to my bones.

My sponsor, every prospect needs one to even have a shot at wearing the patch, was Dave. Road name was Saint, which was funny as hell considering the guy was a tatted-up, six-foot-something black man with lip rings, neck ink, and a smile that scared the hell outta me when we first met.

Saint saved my life.

He was just visiting someone downtown when he found me, I was a half-starved, dirty-ass kid living out of my busted Honda Civic.

I’d parked behind his bike without thinking, and he came over looking like he was ready to crack skulls.

I remember that moment like it was yesterday.

Me, sitting in the front seat, staring at his Harley.

He knocked on my window, and I thought, Shit, here it comes .

But instead of decking me, he asked if I was hungry.

Real food. I was so wrecked, I figured he was trying to pick me up.

I wasn’t interested, but a free meal was a free meal. So, I went.

Best fuckin’ decision of my life.

He took me to a diner, bought me the greasiest, heaviest burger I’d ever had.

Sat across from me with those calm, intelligent eyes and told me about the Horsemen.

About brotherhood. About purpose. He didn’t sell it like some cult leader, just laid it out.

You want in, you work. You bleed. You earn your place.

I followed him back to the clubhouse that night and never left.

Saint brought me in. Taught me the ropes. Made sure I didn’t get my throat slit for mouthing off to the wrong guy. He wasn’t soft. He didn’t coddle. But he gave a shit in the way most people don’t.

Years later, he told me he was retiring. Said he’d put in his time, earned his peace. He was riding off with his old lady to a little house in the hills where no one knew their names. I thought he was crazy. Who walks away from the club? From the power, the money, the pussy, the adrenaline?

He just laughed. Told me one day, I’d get it.

And now… It’s someday .

I get it.

Because I’m standing in the middle of the place I once would’ve died for, and all I can think about is the woman at my side. Her laugh. The way she challenges me. Fights for this place like she was born for it. Fights for me .

The club made me a man. But Skye? She made me human .

When we step into the clubhouse, it’s already chaos.

A pulsing, living mess of too-loud music, flashing lights, and bodies, mostly half-dressed women draped over furniture, wrapped around brothers, grinding on whoever's standing still long enough. We don’t open the doors to outsiders often, but when we do, it turns into a goddamn circus.

And tonight? It’s a full-blown madhouse.

The second Skye and I walk in, the crowd shifts. Heads turn. Voices rise. There’s a sudden wave of noise, of cheers, whistles, clapping.

“Congratulations!”

“Claiming night!”

“Damn, finally!”

Brothers, prospects, even some random hangarounds crowd toward us.

I wrap an arm tight around Skye’s waist, pulling her into my side.

Partly to keep her close. Mostly to keep other people from getting too close.

My woman’s in heels, a gold dress, and giving off queen energy and everyone in this room can feel it.

That’s the thing with Skye. Even without the title, she’s already queen of this place. Most of the people recognize it. Some are stupid enough to need reminding.

She stiffens next to me when a few of the local girls approach, all fake smiles and syrupy voices.

“Aww, we’re gonna miss you, Mandrake,” one says, running a hand along my arm like she didn’t just see Skye standing right there.

“I thought we had something special,” another pouts, lips glossy and tits practically spilling out of her top.

I arch a brow. “Who the fuck are you?”

Skye’s eyes narrow, laser-focused, but she doesn’t say a word. Not yet. She doesn’t have to. The girls take the hint when I don’t let go of her, when my hand rests a little lower on her hip and I don’t even glance at them again.

They slink off, muttering under their breath, but I catch one of them whisper, “Jealous bitch.”

That’s when Skye finally speaks. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice all sweet poison, “were you invited tonight? Or did you just crawl in behind the scent of cock and desperation?”

The girl’s face goes red, but she turns and disappears fast. Smart choice.

Skye looks up at me, smirking. “I was being nice.”

I grin. “You’re perfect.”

We head toward the bar, the crowd parting just enough for us to get through. People keep congratulating us, slapping my back, trying to hug Skye but I block them.

She laughs, and then Ranger bursts out of his office, his voice booming over the music.

“Open bar! Tonight, we celebrate the claiming of Skye!”

The room erupts in noise. Bottles are popped. Music blares louder.

Skye leans into me, her lips brushing my ear. “Claiming of Skye? Like I’m property?”

I kiss the side of her head and say, “It’s claiming Mandrake too?”