Page 7

I leaned against the brick wall outside Dr. Wilson's clinic, letting the night air cool the sweat at my temples. Inside, fluorescent lights turned everything harsh and unreal, but out here in the dark, I could think.

Through the window, I watched the woman—Mia—hunched on the edge of the cot Wilson had brought in, eyes fixed on her dog. She hadn't noticed me step out. Good. It gave me time to really look at her.

Her frame was too thin, all angles and bones wrapped in clothes that hung from her shoulders like they belonged to someone else. The hoodie she wore had seen better days—frayed cuffs, a small tear at the elbow she'd clearly tried to mend herself. Beneath it, a faded t-shirt that might have once been blue. Her jeans were clean but worn thin at the knees. Everything about her screamed hard times.

But it was her face that held my attention. Dark circles smudged beneath wary eyes that never stopped moving, scanning the room, the exits, the windows—constantly alert for threats. Her hair was a tangle of dark waves that hadn't seen proper shampoo in days, though she'd clearly made attempts to keep it neat. A rubber band held it back in a loose ponytail, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She tucked one behind her ear with a gesture that seemed unconsciously delicate.

She hadn't cried once since we'd arrived, not even when Wilson had explained the severity of her dog's condition. But the rigid set of her shoulders told me everything her face tried to hide. She was terrified, exhausted, and hanging on by threads so frayed they might snap at any second.

I'd seen desperate people before. Hell, in my position, I'd seen the full spectrum of human desperation. But something about her hit different. Maybe it was how fiercely she'd fought for her dog. Or maybe it was the flash of defiance in her eyes when she'd first spotted me and Thor, the way she'd shifted immediately to place herself between us and her dog despite being half our size.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, breaking my train of thought. Thor's name flashed on the screen.

"Yeah?" I answered, keeping my voice low, eyes still on the window.

"Found her car," Thor's gruff voice rumbled through the speaker. "Beat-up Honda with California plates, parked a block from the tavern. You called it, brother."

"And?" I pressed, knowing Thor wouldn't have stopped there.

"And it's a fucking mess, Duke. Back seat's made up like a bed—blanket, pillow. Clothes stuffed in garbage bags. Some books, a few personal items. Woman's been living in it."

My jaw tightened. I'd suspected as much from her appearance, but confirmation still sent a surge of something dangerously close to sympathy through me. "Anything else?"

"Nothing obvious. No drugs, no weapons. Just . . . sad shit, man. Half-empty water bottles, some canned food, kibble. She's been rough for a while."

"Run the plates," I instructed Thor, "but keep it quiet. And have someone move her car to the lot behind the clubhouse. Don't touch anything inside."

"You think that's smart? We don't know shit about her."

"I know she's alone and scared, and now I know she's homeless," I replied, my tone making it clear the decision wasn't up for debate. "Move the car, run the plates. I'll handle the rest."

"Your call, brother," Thor conceded, though I could hear the reservation in his voice. "I'll text if anything comes up."

I didn’t have anything pressing to do, so I decided to stay at the clinic, stand guard in case of any issues. An hour later, my phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it from my pocket, expecting Thor with an update on the plates. Instead, Tyson's name flashed on the screen, along with a text that made my blood run cold: "Honda registered to Mia Delgado, 27, from Coldwater. Last known address connected to Jesse Malone. Iron Serpents." I kept my expression neutral, but my mind raced through the implications. Jesse Malone. Venom's volatile younger brother. The same piece of shit we'd heard was asking questions about a woman at the gas station yesterday.

Of course it was her—it had to be.

I read the message twice, forcing my face to remain impassive despite the alarm bells ringing in my head. Coldwater. Iron Serpents territory. Jesse Malone's name attached to her address explained everything—why she was living in her car, why she'd nearly panicked at the sight of bikers, why she carried herself like someone expecting violence to erupt at any moment.

My gaze drifted back to Mia, who had finally succumbed to exhaustion in the cot. How long had she been running? How desperate must she have been to flee with nothing but a car, some clothes, and her dog?

The implications were serious. Jesse Malone wasn't just any Serpent—he was Venom's blood, unstable and violent even by Serpent standards, with a particular reputation for how he treated women. If Jesse was looking for her personally, this wasn't just about a relationship gone bad. The Serpents didn't waste resources hunting down ex-girlfriends unless something bigger was at stake.

Harboring someone connected to an enemy MC could threaten everything I'd built for the Heavy Kings. Tensions with the Serpents were already at a breaking point after their attempted push into our northern territory last month. Three of our members had ended up in the hospital after that clash. Adding a personal dispute with Jesse Malone to the mix could be the spark that ignited a full-scale war.

My phone vibrated again with another message from Tyson: "This the woman Serpents looking for? Could be trouble. Need instructions."

Tyson's concern was valid. As club president, my priority should be the Kings' security and interests. The logical move would be to distance ourselves from Mia Delgado immediately. At minimum, I should bring this to Thor and Tyson, put it to a vote before making any decisions that could affect the entire club.

I leaned my head back against the wall, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down. Looking through the window at Mia asleep in the cot, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of protective feeling. Sleep had temporarily erased the wariness that had marked her features since I'd first spotted her. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing deep and even. She looked impossibly young without fear tightening her expression—maybe mid-twenties at most. The defensive mask had dropped, revealing the vulnerability she worked so hard to conceal when awake.

A bruise I hadn't noticed before peeked out from beneath her sleeve—yellowish-green, fading but still visible. Old enough that it hadn't happened in the past few days. Recent enough that she'd received it before leaving Coldwater. I didn't need to guess who might have put it there.

Against my better judgment, against years of careful leadership where club interests always came first, my instinctual response wasn't to see a threat or liability. Instead, I saw someone who desperately needed protection. Someone the Heavy Kings' code would not abandon to enemies like Jesse Malone, regardless of her past associations.

My father's voice echoed in my memory: "We protect our own, and we protect those who need it most. That's what separates us from animals like the Serpents." It was one of the core principles he'd built the Kings on, one I'd fought to maintain through the years despite pressure to become more ruthless, more profit-driven like other MCs.

I looked down at my phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. This wasn't just club business anymore. Something about Mia had triggered protective instincts I hadn't felt in years—instincts that went beyond the club's code into territory far more personal.

I typed my response to Tyson: "Confirmed. Keep intel tight. Need-to-know only. I'll handle."

The message felt inadequate given the potential consequences, but I needed time to think, to get more information directly from Mia before bringing the club into it. Three dots appeared as Tyson typed his response.

"Your call. Thor knows?"

"Not yet. I'll brief him. No one else until I say." I added after a moment's consideration.

"Understood. Be careful."

I slipped the phone back into my pocket, well aware I was making a potentially dangerous choice. My position as president meant weighing every decision against the club's welfare, and right now, I was operating on instinct rather than logic.

I needed more information before deciding how to proceed, and the only way to get that was from Mia herself. I'd extract her story, assess the actual threat level to my club, then make decisions accordingly. If she was hiding something that could endanger the Kings, I'd have to prioritize my brothers over this unexpected pull I felt toward her.

I rolled my shoulders, feeling the tension knotted there. This situation was a potential powder keg—introducing Mia Delgado into Heavy Kings territory while the Iron Serpents were actively searching for her could have consequences that affected everyone wearing our patch. Yet the alternative—abandoning her to Jesse's mercy—wasn't something I could stomach.

I headed back into the vet to stand guard over her and wait for her to wake. It didn’t take long. A hour later, she jerked upright, momentarily disoriented. Her eyes darted around the room before landing on Diesel, still sleeping in his cage. Only then did her shoulders relax, though the wariness remained. She registered my presence with a subtle stiffening, then a slight nod of acknowledgment. Dark smudges beneath her eyes told me the brief nap had barely dented her exhaustion. I stood, decision made before I'd fully thought it through.

"Dr. Wilson's running some additional tests on Diesel," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "There's an all-night diner across the street. Let's grab something to eat while we wait."

Her immediate response was a tight shake of her head. "I should stay with him."

The fierce protectiveness in her voice wasn't surprising.

"Diesel needs rest without disturbance. The diner's right across the street. Wilson has my number and will call immediately if anything changes. You need to eat."

After another long look at Diesel, she finally nodded, exhaustion and hunger winning out over reluctance. "Okay. But just for a little while."

The night air was sharp and cold as we crossed the empty street. The diner's neon sign hummed and flickered, casting alternating blue and pink light across the cracked pavement. Inside, the place was nearly deserted—just a tired waitress leaning against the counter and a couple of truckers hunched over coffee mugs at the far end.

I guided Mia to a corner booth with clear sightlines to both the door and the clinic across the street. Old habits. Always position yourself where you can see who's coming, with your back to the wall. I'd learned that lesson when I was a kid, watching my father conduct club business over endless cups of diner coffee.

Mia’s hands trembled slightly as she accepted the laminated menu from the waitress, studying it with unusual intensity—like it contained life-or-death information rather than just descriptions of eggs and pancakes.

"Order whatever you want," I said, noticing how her eyes widened slightly at the prices. Not that anything here was expensive, but when you're counting pennies, even diner food can seem like a luxury. "Something that’ll stick to your ribs."

She nodded without looking up, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. When the waitress returned, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and efficiently friendly manner, Mia cleared her throat.

"Just coffee, please," she said, her voice small.

Before the waitress could respond, I spoke up. "She'll have the breakfast special. Eggs over easy. Side of fruit instead of hash browns." I made brief eye contact with Mia, whose expression flickered between resentment and relief. Then I added my own order: "Steak and eggs for me. Medium rare. Coffee, black."

The waitress nodded and moved away. Mia's posture had stiffened at my presumption, but she didn't protest, which told me everything I needed to know about both her hunger and her conditioning to male authority. That combination sent a wave of both protectiveness and anger through me—not at her, but at whoever had trained her to expect control rather than care.

"You didn't have to do that," she finally said, voice carefully neutral.

"You need protein. Sugar too, from the look of you." I kept my tone matter-of-fact, not patronizing. "When's the last time you had a real meal?"

She shrugged, a deliberately casual gesture that didn't match the tightness around her eyes. "I've been eating."

"Protein bars and gas station sandwiches in the back of a Honda don't count."

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. Before she could respond, the waitress returned with our coffee. Mia reached for hers immediately, wrapping both hands around the mug like it was a lifeline. She added three sugar packets and a generous splash of cream, stirring slowly.

"How'd you know?" she asked finally, not meeting my eyes. "About my car?"

"Small town," I replied simply. "And it's my business to know what happens in Ironridge."

She processed this, taking a careful sip of her coffee. "Because you're . . . with a club."

I nodded. "Right."

Her eyes flicked to my cut, taking in the patches that confirmed my statement, then back to her coffee. New tension radiated from her shoulders, but she didn't bolt—a good sign.

When our food arrived, Mia stared at her plate for a long moment, as if not quite believing it was for her. Then, with visible effort, she forced herself to eat slowly despite her obvious hunger. Each bite was small, carefully chewed, swallowed with deliberate control. I recognized the behavior—someone who'd gone hungry enough times to know better than to wolf down food when it finally appeared.

I kept my questions casual as we ate, my tone conversational rather than interrogative. Where was she from?

"California, originally," she answered vaguely, cutting a small piece of egg.

How long had she had Diesel?

"Five years." For the first time, a hint of real emotion colored her voice. "Got him as a puppy."

Was she just passing through Ironridge?

"Maybe." Her eyes darted to mine, then away. "Depends."

With each carefully measured answer, I pieced together the profile of a woman in hiding—someone who'd learned to reveal nothing concrete, to keep her words vague enough that they couldn't be used against her later.

I decided to shift tactics, offering something of myself first. "I grew up with German Shepherds. My father bred them as a side business. Always had two or three around the house."

The change in her was immediate and fascinating. Her face brightened, guard lowering slightly as she set down her fork. "Diesel was so tiny when I got him. Everyone said he'd be huge, but he was just this little ball of fluff that fit in my hands." She held her palms out to demonstrate, and her voice took on that subtly higher, more animated quality I'd noticed earlier. "He used to sleep on my chest because he'd cry if I put him down."

As she spoke about Diesel's puppy years, her entire demeanor transformed. Her gestures became more expressive, her smile genuine, her eyes briefly capturing a hint of joy in the memory. I found myself leaning slightly forward, drawn to this glimpse of who she might be beneath the layers of fear and caution.

"He ate my favorite shoes," she continued, a small laugh escaping her. "Completely destroyed them. I couldn't even be mad because he looked so proud of himself, sitting there with the leather all around him and this—"

She caught herself mid-sentence, suddenly self-conscious. The animation drained from her face, replaced by the guarded expression she'd worn before. It was like watching a light switch off—the carefree, almost childlike enthusiasm vanishing behind carefully constructed walls.

"Sorry," she muttered, eyes dropping back to her plate. "You don't need to hear all that."

"I like hearing about him."

She nodded, but the moment had passed. She returned to eating with the same careful precision, though I noticed she'd consumed nearly all her food now—hunger overcoming caution.

As she reached for her coffee, her elbow bumped her fork, sending it clattering to the floor. The sound wasn't particularly loud, but her reaction was immediate and alarming. She flinched violently, shoulders hunching as if expecting a blow.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, dropping to her knees to retrieve the fork before I could move. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I'll get another one. I'm sorry."

The disproportionate anxiety in her voice, the way her hands shook as she scrambled for the fork—her reaction spoke volumes about what she'd been conditioned to expect for small mistakes. Someone—Jesse Malone, most likely—had trained her to fear consequences for even the most insignificant errors.

"Mia," I kept my voice deliberately gentle but firm. "It's just a fork. Accidents happen."

She froze, still half-under the table, eyes darting up to my face as if checking for signs of hidden anger.

"Come back up here," I continued in the same calm tone. "It's nothing to worry about."

Slowly, she emerged, fork clutched in her hand, cheeks flushed with embarrassment or fear or both. I signaled the waitress. "Could we get another fork, please?" My tone was casual, making it clear this was a normal, insignificant request.

"Sure thing, hon," the waitress replied, returning seconds later with silverware.

Throughout the exchange, I watched Mia closely, noting how she responded to my calm authority—shoulders gradually relaxing, breathing slowing from the panicked rhythm of moments before. She accepted the new fork with a mumbled thanks, eyes still downcast.

"Mia," I said softly. When she didn't look up, I repeated her name with slightly more weight behind it. "Mia. Look at me."

She raised her eyes reluctantly to meet mine.

"You don't need to be afraid of making mistakes around me," I told her simply. "That's not how this works."

Something shifted in her expression—surprise, confusion, perhaps a flicker of cautious hope. She held my gaze for several heartbeats before nodding once, a small but significant acknowledgment.

The rest of our meal passed in more comfortable silence. I didn't push for more conversation, giving her space to process. As we finished our coffee, I found myself increasingly drawn to her despite the warning bells in my head about her Serpents connection. This woman was a contradiction—fierce independence wrapped around profound vulnerability, streetwise caution alongside moments of almost childlike openness. Every protective instinct I possessed responded to those contradictions, to the glimpses of her true self visible beneath the armor she'd built around herself.

And that, I realized as I paid the bill, was what made her so dangerous to me. Not her connection to the Serpents, but how perfectly she called to parts of myself I'd deliberately kept dormant for years.

Somewhere, deep inside me, a tiny voice said: she’s a Little .

I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. I needed to find out more about her connection to the Serps. That’s why I was here.

I decided the direct approach was best. Dancing around the issue wouldn't help either of us, and I needed clear information to make decisions that could affect my entire club. I waited until the waitress had refilled our coffee cups and moved away, leaving us in relative privacy.

"Mia," I said, deliberately gentling my voice while keeping it serious. "I need to ask you something important."

Her posture changed instantly—spine stiffening, shoulders tensing, the fragile comfort we'd established evaporating like smoke. Her fingers, which had been idly tracing the rim of her coffee mug, went still. The wariness returned to her eyes, sharper now, more pronounced.

"The Iron Serpents," I continued, watching her face carefully. "Do you have history with them?"

The effect was immediate and dramatic. The color drained from her face so completely I thought she might faint. Her fingers gripped her coffee mug with white-knuckled intensity, as if it might anchor her to the table, to reality itself. For a heartbeat, I thought she might bolt—her eyes darted to the exit, calculating distance, chances. Fight or flight instinct in full effect.

But instead, she took a deep, shuddering breath. Her shoulders slumped slightly as resignation replaced the initial panic. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes. I do."

Then, with visible effort, she gathered herself, chin lifting slightly in a gesture of defiance that seemed more habitual than genuine. "How did you know?"

I weighed my words carefully. No need to reveal everything—that would only spook her more. "Small town. The way you reacted to seeing bikers earlier today." I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice low. "It wasn't hard to put together."

She digested this, eyes studying mine for deception. I kept my expression open, honest, though I'd omitted the plate check and Tyson's intelligence. No point scaring her with how thoroughly we could investigate someone when necessary.

"Jesse Malone," I said, watching her reaction closely.

She flinched at the name—a small but unmistakable tell, like someone touching an unexpected bruise. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, a nervous gesture that spoke volumes.

"He's been looking for someone. Asking about people in gas stations," I continued. "That someone is you, isn't it?"

Tears welled in her eyes but didn't fall. Her chin lifted higher, a display of defiance that seemed as much for herself as for me. "Yes."

The single word contained worlds of pain and fear. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to promise her Jesse Malone would never touch her again. But promises like that required backing them up, and backing them up meant war with the Serpents. A war that would affect every man wearing my patch, every family connected to us.

"He’s my ex. I left him three weeks ago," she continued, her voice stronger now, as if having admitted the connection had loosened something in her. "I took nothing that wasn't mine. My car, my clothes, my dog." She swallowed hard. "I just . . . couldn't stay anymore."

I nodded, understanding perfectly what she wasn't saying. Jesse Malone's reputation with women was well-known in MC circles, none of it good.

"The Serpents were spotted near Ironridge yesterday," I told her, keeping my voice low. "Asking questions at the gas station out by the highway crossing."

Her eyes widened, genuine terror flashing across her face.

"Including Jesse," I added, watching as her breathing accelerated, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"I need to go," she whispered, already calculating escape routes in her head, the panic evident in her quickening breath and darting eyes. "I can't be here. I can't—" she shook her head frantically. "I can't let them find me."

Her hand trembled so violently that coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug, splashing onto the table. She didn't even seem to notice.

"Diesel. I need to get Diesel and—" She started to slide out of the booth, movements jerky with fear.

I reached across the table, my large hand coming to rest beside hers—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from my skin. A grounding presence, not a restraint.

"Ironridge is Heavy Kings territory," I said, my voice steady and certain. "The Serpents don't come here without consequences."

She stared at my hand, then lifted her gaze to mine. A harsh, bitter laugh escaped her, surprising in its intensity. "You don't understand." Her voice cracked slightly. "They won't stop. Jesse won't stop."

The raw desperation in her tone stirred something primal in me, a fierce protectiveness I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't just about a woman in trouble anymore—it was about this woman, with her contradictions and vulnerability and unexpected courage.

"It’s more than just the fact you’re his ex, isn’t it? What else is gooing on?” I asked, watching her eyes widen in shock.

She glanced around the diner nervously, though the truckers had left and the waitress was busy at the far end of the counter. When she spoke again, her voice had dropped to a near-whisper.

"I wasn't supposed to be there," she began, fingers twisting together anxiously. "I heard them arguing about shipments coming up short. Something about counts being off three times in a row." She took a shaky breath. "Venom was . . . I've never heard him like that. Even Jesse is afraid of him when he gets cold like that."

The implications were serious—internal Serpent business, potentially involving their drug operations. Venom's reputation for calm cruelty was legendary; if he was angry enough to lose his composure, someone had crossed a significant line.

"It was terrifying. He said that they were going to kill someone. Axel. Torture him.”

I nodded, processing the information. Product coming up short meant one of two things: either someone was skimming from the Serpents' shipments, or they were being ripped off by their suppliers. Clearly, they thought Axel was to blame. It meant internal instability—the kind that made outlaw MCs particularly dangerous as they sought to restore order and make examples.

"Did they see you?" I asked quietly.

She shook her head. "Yes. Venom left, but Jesse said he was coming back to ‘tie up the loose ends’. I knew that meant me. So . . . I ran.”

The situation was worse than I'd initially thought. If Venom himself was involved in the hunt for Mia, this wasn't just Jesse's obsession. The Iron Serpents' president didn't waste resources on his brother's relationship drama unless club interests were at stake. He'd convinced himself that Mia posed a genuine threat to their operation—whether through what she might have overheard or what Jesse believed she'd taken.

"How long have you been in Ironridge?" I asked.

"Three days," she admitted. "I've been moving around, never staying more than a few nights anywhere. I was going to leave tomorrow, but then Diesel . . ." Her voice caught. "He got sick so suddenly."

The pieces clicked into place. Mia hadn't come to Ironridge by chance—she'd been working her way steadily away from Serpent territory, staying on the move to avoid detection. Diesel's illness had forced her to stop, to seek help, making her visible for the first time in weeks.

And now the Serpents were closing in, asking questions just miles from where we sat.

"If they find me—" she started, fear darkening her eyes again.

"They won't," I interrupted, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. I hadn't intended to make that promise, to draw that line in the sand. But sitting across from her, seeing the naked terror in her eyes at the mention of Jesse's name, I couldn't offer anything less.

The weight of that promise settled on my shoulders immediately—the potential consequences for my club, for the fragile peace we'd maintained with the Serpents despite our history. Yet I couldn't bring myself to regret it or take it back.

Mia studied my face, searching for deception or empty bravado. Finding neither, she let out a shaky breath.

"Why would you help me?" she asked, the question vulnerable and sincere. "You don't know me. I'm nothing but trouble for you and your club."

"The Heavy Kings have a code," I said simply. "We protect our territory and those in it. The club owns a couple of apartments above our tavern. You can stay in one until Diesel's back on his feet."

The words hung between us, surprising me almost as much as her. I hadn't planned to offer her shelter, hadn't consulted Thor or Tyson, hadn't weighed all the implications for the club. Yet the thought of her returning to that car, sleeping in parking lots while hiding from the Serpents, was suddenly unacceptable.

"Just until he's back on his feet," I emphasized, keeping my tone businesslike to mask the protective impulse driving the offer. "It's secure. The Serpents won't look for you there."

Mia's face became a battlefield of emotions—desperate need warring with instinctive distrust. Her hands twisted together nervously, a gesture I'd come to recognize as one of her tells when she felt vulnerable or uncertain.

"Okay," she said finally, the word barely audible. "Just until Diesel's better. Then we'll go." She straightened her shoulders, finding resolve in the decision. "But I need to work, to pay you back. I'm not—I don't take charity." The pride in her voice was fierce despite her circumstances.

I nodded, respecting her need for independence. "We'll figure something out. You're safe with me. I need you to know that."

She glanced at me, then away, fingers fidgeting with the frayed edge of her jacket sleeve. "I don't really know what 'safe' means anymore," she admitted, the words holding a weight that settled in my chest.

“Well, I’ll just have to show you.”

There it was: the faintest hint of a smile.