Page 46 of Tinsel & Chrome

He turns and stalks off without another word. Larissa and I exchange a look, and she lets out a shaky breath.

“Ready to face whatever fresh hell this is?” I ask, my voice low.

She lifts her chin, her eyes hard. “Bring it.”

The war room is crowded when we walk in, the air thick with smoke and tension. Cyclops is at the head of the table, his one good eye sharp and unyielding. The rest of the club’s key players are gathered around, faces grim.

I spot Doc, the club’s resident medic, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Chains, the sergeant-at-arms, sits with his hands folded on the table, his knuckles white.

Cyclops’s gaze lands on us, lingering on Larissa for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. A flicker of relief crosses his face before the mask of the President slams back into place.

“Glad you could join us,” he says, his voice rough.

Mace scowls, but he doesn’t say anything. He takes his seat, and Larissa and I follow suit. The room is silent, the weight of whatever’s coming pressing down on us like a goddamn avalanche.

Cyclops clears his throat. “We’ve got a problem. Word’s out that someone’s been sniffing around our territory, asking too many questions. Someone who doesn’t belong.”

I lean forward, my muscles coiled tight. “Cops?”

Cyclops shakes his head. “Worse. A rival crew. The Hell Reapers.”

A low murmur spreads through the room, curses and growls blending together. The Hell Reapers are trouble with a capitalT. They don’t just encroach—they annihilate.

“They’re lookin’ for weakness,” Cyclops continues. “And they’re getting bold. Too bold.”

Larissa’s hand is on her lap, her fingers curled into a fist. I can practically feel the rage rolling off her.

“What do they want?” she asks.

Cyclops’s eye narrows. “We’re not sure yet. But they’re stirring shit up. And they know we’ve got a potential vulnerability.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Vulnerability. My gut twists, and I don’t need him to spell it out.

Larissa.

They know she’s back. They know she’s Cyclops’s daughter. And they know she’s been gone long enough to make her a potential target.

Her spine goes rigid beside me, and her voice is cold. “Let them come.”

Cyclops’s gaze softens for a heartbeat before hardening again. “Not happening, kid. We’re not letting them get anywhere near you.”

She grits her teeth. “I’m not hiding.”

“You’re not running this show,” Cyclops snaps. “This is club business.”

Her eyes blaze. “Iamthe club.”

Pride and fear war in his gaze, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better. Larissa might be his daughter, but she’s also a Merciless Few through and through.

Chains clears his throat. “So, what’s the play?”

Cyclops’s gaze sweeps the room, settling on me. “Tex, you’re on Larissa. You don’t let her out of your sight.”

I nod, even though the weight of the responsibility feels like a loaded gun pressed to my back. “You got it.”

Cyclops’s jaw clenches, and he nods. “Good. The rest of you, keep your eyes open and your triggers loose. If the Hell Reapers want a fight, we’ll give ‘em one.”

A rumble of agreement rolls through the room. The scent of war is in the air, sharp and electric.