Page 21 of Unbound By You (The Viper’s MC #1)

SILAS

T he compound is a whirlwind of movement, bodies weaving through the chaos as the noise crashes over everything like a relentless tide.

The growl of idling engines in the parking lot mixes with the sharp clatter of metal cooking tools in the kitchen as Tank and Fingers’ old ladies get to prepping food for the lot of us.

The constant murmur of loud and unyielding voices makes it feel like we’re getting ready to party on a Friday night. If only that were the case.

I strain to hear Chopper over the racket, his words nearly swallowed by the commotion. We’re on full lockdown. Every member, Old Lady, and kid are cramming into whatever space we can spare. The clubhouse is packed wall to wall, the air thick with nervous sweat and innocent, unknowing laughter.

Outside, behind the main building, hidden from the road, tents fill gaps in the yard between campers and a couple of vans for the overflow we don’t have space for inside. Being so spread and out in the open isn’t ideal, but we’re working with what we have.

Prospects rush to reinforce the perimeter, walking the chain link fence to ensure the barbed wire is still in place and no holes are cut through the links to let anyone in without our knowledge.

Gunner sets up trail cams throughout our blind spots, which Pierce will keep an eye on.

I had to give him something that required around-the-clock vigilance to keep his brain focused.

He peeled in here like a bat out of hell when the news went out.

He didn’t stop to ask any questions. He just shoved past me with a haunted look.

I found him in Branson’s room, completely losing his shit.

It took three of us to get him out so we could handle the body.

A few of the brothers I can see out the garage door pace restlessly, hands resting on holstered pistols, eyes scanning the fence line. Tension coils through the air, thick as the scent of burning oil from a shit engine.

A baby cries somewhere in the back. It must be Vik’s little girl since he’s the only one with a kid that young.

Nearby, an argument breaks out, their voices sharp before Chopper and I step in, snuffing the fight and sending them off in different directions to help keep them from starting trouble we’re too busy to clean up right now.

The weight of the situation presses down on me like a cinder block strapped to my chest, the kind of pressure that digs deep into the bones.

I haven’t said it out loud, but the truth gnaws at the back of my throat—I know this is my fault.

He was already after the club for the merch we stole.

That much was inevitable if we ripped it off him, but I was the one who doused the spark with gasoline, turning it into a goddamned inferno.

“We need to hold church. Send it out to the guys, and I’ll be ready in a few,” I call over the chaos, my voice cutting through the wall of noise.

Chopper doesn’t hesitate, giving me a quick nod before pulling out his phone. His fingers fly over the screen, sending out the message that will ripple through the compound like a starting gun.

Watching him type reminds me of something I should’ve done hours ago.

I need to check in with Harlow. She stormed out of here earlier, all fast and furious, rightfully so.

I had too much to take care of here to stop her from climbing on the back of her bike and leaving my sight.

But the tracker showed her stopping at Lexi’s before heading to the grocery store, so I knew she wasn’t likely in mortal danger.

My phone vibrates in my palm, Chopper’s message flashing across the screen.

I dismiss it without a second glance, my thumb already moving to open the app, needing to put metaphorical eyes on my wife.

She should be here, locked down with the rest of us, but that would never happen.

Keeping Harlow anywhere she doesn’t want to be is like trying to cage a wild animal.

Unless I’m willing to chain her to the cement floor in my workroom, there’s no stopping her.

T he atmosphere is dense, weighted down with unease. It rolls off everybody as we pack in like sardines. The smell of leather, sweat, and a lingering bite of whiskey from someone who’s not handling all of this well is suffocating.

Outside, the constant rumble of conversations from nonmembers reminds me to keep this brief. The three prospects patrolling the grounds, keeping watch while the rest of us gather around the thick, battle-worn wooden table, isn’t enough coverage for this whole place for long.

Pierce pulls the door shut with a solid thunk, sealing us inside, and every eye in the room shifts toward Chopper. As VP, the club’s fallen into his hands to steer until we vote in a new President. From the storm brewing behind his dead-eyed stare, it’s clear he’s not happy about it.

The power shift isn’t the issue, losing him is. Pres wasn’t just our leader; he was the backbone of this club, taking it over from his father and his great-uncle before that. It wasn’t just a club to Pres. It was a family legacy he couldn’t pass on as he wanted.

Dropping his body into the cold, crackling clay ground, right beside Branson, Stitch, and O’Malley, behind the goddamn warehouse, was never how any of them should have been laid to rest. But we didn’t have a choice in the matter.

It’s not like we could have called in the 5-0.

They’d have slapped crime scene tape all over the damn place just to kick us out, then lose the paperwork and evidence along the way.

There’s no justice for men like us in a town full of stuck-up rich people unless we serve it up ourselves.

Chopper finally speaks, his voice as hard and sharp as the blade Harlow keeps tucked at her side. “You all know by now the compound was hit this morning. Three of our brothers and Pres were taken out by a hit like we’ve never seen before. This wasn’t a rival club. This shit was personal.”

The second his gaze locks onto me, the whole table turns, the weight of their stares like an iron brand against my skin.

I clear my throat and push to my feet, needing space from the heat of their judgment burning into me over something they don’t understand. Not yet.

“My wife?—”

“When the fuck did you get married?” Vik cuts in, his voice thick with disbelief.

“Not important right now,” I snap, eyes darting to him before sweeping over the rest of them. “What is important is that my wife has connections to the man who orchestrated this.”

The table explodes. Voices rise in an instant, accusations are hurled like grenades, and anger spills out like the blood under Branson’s body I can’t stop picturing.

This was the part I couldn’t avoid: the chaos before my confession.

Crack!

Chopper’s gavel slams down against the table with a force that silences the room, and his voice cuts through the leftover grumbles of irritation.

“Shut the fuck up. Sit down. And let him finish.”

The noise dies, but the tension remains thick like the humidity after a summer thunderstorm.

I level them with a glare before speaking, my voice low, measured. “She wasn’t fucking involved if that’s what you assholes were thinking. But she works for him in a roundabout way. And she can give us the intel to take him and his men out for what they did to us.”

The room falls deathly silent, but the shift is unmistakable.

Calculating stares and clenched fists take up space on the tabletop.

A slow churn of vengeance settles around us like a dark cloak.

Gears turn loudly in their heads, their eyes a projector to bloody thoughts.

As our blood simmers in unison like a witch's cauldron, it becomes apparent I’ve given them a new target, someone to focus all that seething hatred on instead of my girl.

She thinks I’ll let her walk into that meeting alone and stand by to face him on her own terms. Like I could ever just step aside after what he did, after the blood he spilled.

She doesn’t understand it isn’t just about us now.

The boys want their retribution, and I don’t have the right to take that away from them.

His reckoning isn’t just coming. It’s in motion, raging toward him like a train on broken tracks without an emergency break.

It won’t arrive in the form of a lone avenging goddess on a red- winged chariot.

No, she won’t be riding in alone, as she thinks.

A den of vipers will accompany her, our black leather vests glinting like scales in the moonlight.

We’ll wait for her command, ready to strike the moment she so much as whispers the word.