Page 4

I stood at the window of my apartment above King's Tavern, rolling a knot of tension between my shoulder blades. The amber whiskey in my glass caught the fading light as I surveyed the street below—my territory, my responsibility. Two hours had passed since the meeting, but the weight of command still clung to me like a second skin, impossible to shed even in private.

The apartment was spacious but spartan. Like me, it didn't have any unnecessary frills. A worn leather couch faced a modest TV I rarely watched. Bookshelves lined one wall—history, strategy, biographies of men who'd built empires and lost them. My father's collection, expanded over the years as I added my own volumes. The kitchenette gleamed with the cleanliness of disuse; I ate most meals downstairs with the club.

Beyond the main room, a short hallway led to the bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed built to accommodate my frame. The bathroom beyond that, and a small office where I handled club business too sensitive for the common areas.

Everything in its place. Everything under control. Just the way I needed it to be.

I took a slow sip of Jameson, savoring the burn. Outside, motorcycles lined up along the curb as evening settled over Ironridge. Our members arriving for drinks, for brotherhood, for the security of a place where they belonged without question.

From this height, I could see the neon sign of Iron Kings Auto down the street, the glow of the corner market where Mrs. Peterson still gave discounts to anyone wearing our patch. The streets were quiet—they always were in our territory. We made sure of it.

The whiskey glass clinked against the window sill as I set it down. I rolled my neck, feeling vertebrae pop in protest. I was getting older now, almost fifty, and boy did my body know it. The constant vigilance, the weight of every decision, the need to maintain perfect control—it added up in tension headaches and knots between my shoulders that never fully disappeared.

The Ryder situation had been straightforward enough. Caught early, handled cleanly. But for every problem solved, three more waited. The protection arrangement with the new microbrewery on Jefferson. Rumors of Iron Serpents testing our eastern border. A prospect with attitude problems but undeniable mechanical talent. Each required a different approach, a different face.

I stretched my arms above my head, feeling my shirt pull tight across my chest. The president's cut hung over a chair nearby, the Heavy Kings insignia watching me like a silent sentinel. Even without wearing it, I felt its presence. The responsibility never left.

My reflection stared back from the darkening window—broad shoulders, dark hair with silver at the temples, the strong jawline I'd inherited from my father. The face of Duke Carson, Heavy Kings President.

As a boy, I'd watched my father balance this same weight. Big Mike Carson had been larger than life—his booming laugh filling rooms even as his quiet authority commanded instant respect. I'd studied him obsessively, knowing I would someday step into his boots, never imagining it would happen when I was barely twenty-five.

"Never show weakness," he'd hammered into me. "They need to believe you're unshakable."

I'd taken that lesson to heart, perfected the mask of control and confidence. Even Thor and Tyson rarely glimpsed beneath it. But alone, in the sanctuary of these rooms, I sometimes allowed the facade to slip.

The whiskey burned pleasantly in my stomach as I picked up the glass again, savoring the quiet. Downstairs, music thumped through the floorboards, the heartbeat of King's Tavern growing stronger as evening deepened. Soon, I'd need to make an appearance. The president was expected to preside, to be visible, approachable yet untouchable.

I thought of Tammy, the pretty bartender who clearly had a thing for me. She'd be working tonight, expecting me to catch her eye across the crowded bar. Truth was, she wasn’t right for me, and I wasn’t right for her. She didn’t know what I was really like, that I had a very specific type.

Sure, over the years I’d had the odd hook-up. But it was getting harder to ignore the emptiness that followed these encounters. Women came to my bed eager to fuck Duke Carson, President of the Heavy Kings MC. None of them ever looked for Marcus underneath. Why would they? The patch, the power, the reputation—that was the attraction. The man wearing them was incidental.

And none of them were ever who I was searching for. My forever Girl. Maybe I’d never meet her. Not like I was spending much time trying to find her. Was I expecting a kind-hearted Little with a sweet, strong personality to just fall into my lap?

Unlikely.

I drained the whiskey, welcoming its fire. Self-pity was a luxury I couldn't afford. I'd chosen this life—or perhaps it had chosen me, written in my blood since birth. Either way, loneliness came with the territory. My father had understood that, had kept women at arm's length after my mother left, focusing his love on the club and on me. I'd followed his example in everything else; why should this be different?

The street below had grown busier, the normal evening traffic of bikes, cars, and pedestrians. Regular citizens heading home from work or out for dinner mingled with club members arriving for the night's entertainment. This delicate balance of normal life alongside outlaw existence was what we protected—a community where regular folks thrived under our watchful eye.

A movement caught my attention—a female figure hurrying along the opposite sidewalk, head down, shoulders hunched against nonexistent cold. Something about her posture radiated fear or worry. She walked quickly, almost jogging, constantly glancing over her shoulder.

I narrowed my eyes, scanning for possible threats. The Heavy Kings didn't tolerate violence against women in our territory, particularly the kind of domestic situations that sent them running scared. But the street remained ordinary—no angry pursuer, no obvious danger.

For a brief moment, she glanced up toward the tavern, and something electric shot through me. Even from this distance, something about her—the angle of her chin maybe, or the way she carried herself despite her apparent fear—grabbed my attention like a physical touch.

Before I could process the strange reaction, she looked away and quickened her pace. I found myself stepping closer to the window, oddly reluctant to lose sight of her. A knock at my door broke the moment, and when I looked back, she had vanished around a corner.

I shook my head, puzzled by my own reaction. Women weren't exactly rare in Ironridge, and frightened ones weren't uncommon either, though we did our best to protect those under our umbrella. Something about this one had triggered an unexpected response—protectiveness mixed with curiosity, an almost primal recognition I couldn't explain.

The knock came again, more insistent. I set down my empty glass and rolled my shoulders, pulling the mantle of Duke Carson back around me like armor. Whatever momentary distraction the woman had provided faded as I prepared to face whatever club business had come calling.

Yet as I moved toward the door, her image lingered—head down, shoulders tense, that brief upward glance that had somehow reached across the distance and space between us. She was probably just passing through. Ironridge wasn't a destination for most—just a waypoint between larger cities. Still, a nagging feeling in my gut suggested otherwise, the same instinct that had kept me alive through territory wars and betrayals.

“What’s up?” I asked, seeing Tyson at my door.

"Got a minute?" Tyson's voice broke through my thoughts as he stepped into my apartment.

I reached for the bottle of Jameson on the side table and poured a generous finger into a second glass. Tyson accepted it with a nod, and we sat in comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between men who have said both everything and nothing to each other over decades.

"Ryder handled it well," Tyson finally said, breaking the quiet. His voice carried the steady calm that had talked down countless heated situations over the years.

I gave a single nod, appreciating Tyson's strategic mind.

"Think he learned his lesson?" Tyson asked, sipping his whiskey.

"He'll straighten out," I said, settling deeper into my chair. "Good prospect, just got greedy. Testing boundaries."

"Like someone else I remember." A rare smile crossed Tyson's face. "If I recall, you once liberated a case of Jack Daniel's from that warehouse in Denver without clearing it with your old man first."

The memory hit me unexpectedly—nineteen years old, prospecting, cocky and stupid. "Old man made me return every bottle. Then had me inventorying stock for a month."

"Character building," Tyson said with a knowing nod.

Our conversation shifted naturally to club business—the upcoming charity ride for veterans' families, territory concerns to the east where Iron Serpents had been spotted more frequently, supply runs that needed scheduling. The familiar rhythm of planning and problem-solving settled around us like a well-worn jacket.

Tyson's perceptive eyes missed nothing, including the way I stared into my whiskey rather than drinking it, the tension I couldn't quite roll out of my shoulders.

"Saw Tammy looking for you earlier," he mentioned casually, watching my reaction. "Told her you were busy."

I kept my expression neutral, but Tyson had known me too long to miss the slight tightening around my eyes, the almost imperceptible shift in my posture.

"Thanks." I rolled the whiskey glass between my palms, watching amber liquid catch the light.

"Not in the mood for company tonight?" Tyson asked with the directness only an old friend could manage.

I said nothing for a long moment. Tammy was beautiful, enthusiastic, uncomplicated. The problem wasn't her—it was me.

"You know me. A lonely soul.”

Tyson waited, giving me space to continue or retreat as I chose. That patience had always been his gift—the ability to create a pocket of calm where truth could surface without pressure.

"They only want the patch," I continued, surprising myself with the admission. "The reputation. Nobody sees past it."

The whiskey burned satisfyingly as I drank, washing down words that felt like gravel in my throat. Tyson nodded slowly, his eyes thoughtful rather than judgmental.

"Can't blame them entirely," he offered after a moment. "Duke Carson, Heavy Kings President, is a hell of a persona to compete with."

Something about hearing my title from Tyson's mouth—matter-of-fact, a simple statement of reality—crystallized the disconnect I'd been feeling.

"Ever think about wanting more?" I asked, my voice dropping slightly. “The kind of thing we talk about?”

We were Daddy Doms, the three of us. Me, Thor, Tyson.

Kept it from the rest of the club. Sometimes, we’d go to fetish bars out of town. Thor and Tyson would join in. Me, I never really felt like it.

“I think about it.”

Tyson's eyes softened in understanding. We'd grown up together, transitioned from boys to men under the shadow of the club. Bikers and kink often go hand in hand. Age play? Not so much.

"Been thinking about it more lately," he admitted, surprising me with his candor. "The lifestyle's got its perks, but—"

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. We both understood the unspoken truth—that a biker who came out as a Daddy Dom wouldn’t last long at the top.

We sat in silence for a moment, the admission creating a different kind of intimacy between us. Beyond brotherhood, beyond friendship—the simple recognition of shared human need.

"Thor would laugh his ass off if he heard this conversation," I said finally, a wry smile tugging at my mouth. It was true. Thor was much more open about his tastes, didn’t care much of what anyone thought of him.

Tyson chuckled. "Caught him looking at Lena's assistant the other day. That redhead with the accounting degree."

"Think she’s a Little?” I raised an eyebrow, briefly distracted from my own thoughts.

"No doubt Thor will ask her," Tyson said with a wry smile.

I tried to picture Thor—our human battering ram, all barely-contained violence and fierce loyalty—experiencing the same emptiness that had been growing in me.

"The three of us," I said, shaking my head. "Getting soft in our old age."

"Or just growing up," Tyson countered. "There's more to life than patch and party. Your old man knew that, even if he didn't talk about it much."

The mention of my father stirred memories—rare glimpses of tenderness beneath Big Mike's legendary toughness. The way he'd kept my mother's photo long after she left us. The quiet dignity with which he'd carried his private pain.

"Enough of this philosophical bullshit," I said, straightening in my chair and deliberately shifting the mood. "Tell me about this new supplier. His references check out?"

Tyson allowed the change of subject, though his eyes remained knowing. This was our pattern—moments of vulnerability balanced by retreat into the safety of club business.

As he outlined the details of the potential new gun supplier, I found myself grateful for history between us. Tyson had seen me at my worst—grieving my father's death, hell-bent on revenge against the Iron Serpents, struggling with the weight of premature leadership. He'd never used those vulnerabilities against me, never mistaken honesty for weakness.

That was the rarest kind of friendship—one that allowed a man to be both strong and human at the same time.

Our conversation shifted back to the comfortable terrain of logistics and strategy, but something had changed, however subtly. The admission hung between us, acknowledged and respected rather than exploited or dismissed. In voicing my discontent, I'd made it real—a problem to be solved rather than an emptiness to be ignored.

A soft knock interrupted us, three quick taps with deliberate pauses between—Lena's signature. Sure enough, the door swung open to reveal her petite frame silhouetted against the hallway light, bright blue streaks cutting through her black hair like lightning through storm clouds.

"Hey, boss," she said, the informality belying her important role. Lena might not wear our patch, but her loyalty to the Heavy Kings ran bone-deep.

I stepped aside with a nod, exchanging a silent look with Tyson that carried the weight of our interrupted conversation. Personal matters would have to wait—club business took precedence. Always had, always would.

"What's up, Needles?" I asked.

Lena moved with the casual confidence of someone comfortable in her skin, perching on the arm of my sofa rather than sitting properly. Her arms were canvases of intricate tattoos—her own work mixed with pieces from artists she respected. Multiple silver piercings caught the light as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Two Serps were spotted at the gas station off Highway 16 yesterday," she reported without preamble. Her brown eyes, usually warm with humor, had hardened with concern. "Asking questions about Ironridge."

My body shifted automatically—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening, center of gravity dropping slightly as if preparing for a physical confrontation. The Iron Serpents rarely ventured this close to our territory without purpose, and never with good intentions.

"Not their usual patrol route," Lena added, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against her thigh.

Tyson had already pulled out his phone, his military-trained mind immediately calculating threat assessments and response options. "Description?" he asked before I could.

"One tall, skinny guy. Greasy blond hair. Iron Serpents VP patch. Acting jumpy as hell." Lena's eyes narrowed. "Second guy was bigger. Dark hair. Kept his distance, watching while the blond one talked to the cashier."

"Jesse Malone," I said, the name tasting bitter on my tongue. Venom's younger brother was unstable at the best of times, dangerous and unpredictable at the worst. "The VP patch confirms it."

"He was showing the cashier a picture on his phone. Asked if they'd seen 'this woman' around town."

Something clicked in my mind—the hunched figure hurrying past the tavern, looking over her shoulder. The timing couldn't be coincidental.

"Did you see the picture?" Tyson asked, his fingers moving rapidly over his phone as he took notes.

Lena shook her head. "Julio—the night cashier—said it was some brunette. Young. Pretty. Nothing special that would make her stand out. Said Jesse got pissed when he couldn't give him any information."

"How pissed?" I asked, thinking of Jesse's notorious temper.

"Knocked over a display of energy drinks on his way out. Would've done worse if the other Serp hadn't pulled him back." Lena crossed her arms. "Julio said the bigger guy told Jesse they'd 'find the bitch eventually.'"

"Could be nothing," Tyson offered, always the voice of measured analysis. "Could be an ex-girlfriend, a dealer who stiffed him..."

"Could be testing boundaries," I countered. "Or looking for something. Someone. They’re involved in trafficking."

For a moment, my mind flashed back to the woman I'd seen hurrying past earlier—head down, shoulders hunched, radiating vulnerability and fear. The timing was too neat to be coincidental, but I kept the observation to myself for now. No need to raise alarms based on a glimpse and a hunch.

"Whatever it is, they're getting bolder," I said, moving to the window and scanning the street below with new awareness.

Lena shifted uncomfortably. "There's something else. Jax was with them."

That got my full attention. "Venom was there personally? You sure?"

"He stayed in their van, but Julio recognized him. Said he never got out, just watched everything through the windshield."

The information changed everything. Venom didn't accompany his men on trivial errands. If he was personally involved, the matter carried significant weight.

"Three high-ranking Serpents, including their president, five miles from our territory," Tyson summarized, the implications clear in his tone. "Looking for a woman."

I turned to face them both, decision made. "Thor needs to know. We need extra eyes on all borders for the next few days."

Tyson was already texting. "I'll organize rotating patrols. Two members minimum at all times."

"Have them keep it subtle," I instructed. "No provocations. If the Serpents cross our borders, I want to know immediately, but nobody engages without direct orders."

The last thing we needed was an impulsive young member starting a war because they were eager to prove themselves. The Heavy Kings were strong, but conflict with the Iron Serpents would be bloody on both sides. If it came, I wanted it on our terms, not because Jesse Malone was chasing a woman who'd pissed him off.

"What about the woman?" Lena asked. "If she's in Ironridge and the Serpents want her . . ."

"Then she's under our protection," I stated firmly. "Whether she knows it or not."

This was one of our fundamental principles—within Heavy Kings territory, civilians were off-limits to outside threats. Especially women. Especially when those threats came from the Iron Serpents.

"I'll put the word out to our friends at the hotels and motels," Lena offered. "If she's new in town, she'd need somewhere to stay."

I nodded my approval. Lena's network of contacts throughout Ironridge was one of our greatest intelligence assets. People talked to her—the tattoo artist with the beautiful artwork, the confidante who listened without judgment. They rarely connected her to the imposing men of the Heavy Kings, which made her information all the more valuable.

"Keep this quiet for now," I cautioned. "No need to start a panic. Just alert our key people to watch for a woman who seems to be hiding or afraid."

Tyson finished his texting and looked up. "Thor's on his way. Says he'll organize the security rotation." A shadow of concern crossed his features. "You know how he gets when the Serpents are involved."

I did know. Thor's hatred for the Iron Serpents went beyond our usual club rivalry. For him, it was deeply personal—he'd been with my father the night of the accident that killed him, had carried the guilt of survival for years afterward. Any mention of the Serpents awakened his rage and his grief in equal measure.

"I'll talk to him," I assured Tyson. "Make sure he understands this is observation only for now."

Lena slid off the arm of the sofa, her duty discharged. "I should get back to the shop. Got a client coming in for touchups in twenty."

"Thanks, Lena," I said, genuine appreciation in my voice. "Keep your ears open."

"Always do, boss." She flashed a quick smile, her usual humor reasserting itself. "Just try to keep Thor from starting a war before we know what's happening, yeah?"

After she left, Tyson and I exchanged loaded glances. The Iron Serpents' appearance so close to our territory changed the calculus of everything. Our earlier personal conversation seemed distant now, overshadowed by the potential threat.

"Think it's related to the guns coming in next week?" Tyson asked quietly.

I considered the possibility. Our scheduled shipment was significant—worth enough to tempt our rivals if they somehow learned about it. But something didn't fit.

"Why send their president and VP for reconnaissance? And why ask about a woman?" I shook my head. "This feels personal, not business."

I didn't share my glimpse of the hurrying woman. It was pure speculation, and Tyson would want facts, not hunches. Still, the image lingered.

"I'll modify the security protocols for the shipment anyway," Tyson said. "Better safe than sorry."

I nodded, my mind already mapping contingencies. If the Serpents were planning something, we needed to be three steps ahead. If they were simply pursuing a personal matter for Jesse, we needed to make sure it didn't spill over into our territory.

Either way, trouble was brewing. I could feel it in the air like the electric charge before a storm. My years as president had taught me to trust that instinct.

"Whatever they're after," I said, my voice hardening with resolve, "they don't bring it to Ironridge without consequences."

As the street lights flickered to life below, I reached for my cut draped across the chair. The familiar weight of leather and patches settled on my shoulders, President rocker prominent across my back. Whatever personal desires or doubts I'd confessed to Tyson were tucked away now, replaced by the purpose that had defined my life.

Duke Carson had work to do.