Thugs Assaulted the Biker VP’s Wife — Watch What the Club Did

By the time Jenna Walker realized the men weren’t just there to scare her, the taller one already had his hand around her throat.

The alley behind the yoga studio smelled like damp cardboard and fry oil from the taco truck down the street. It was a Tuesday night in late September, downtown Copper Ridge all but rolled up for the evening. Jenna had stayed late closing out the register, double-checking schedules, doing all the quiet, boring things small business owners do when everyone else has gone home.

Normal. Safe. Familiar.

At least, that’s how she’d always thought of it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the tall one said now, breath sour with cigarettes as he shoved her backwards against the brick. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

His buddy stood half a step behind him, hoodie up despite the mild weather, hands buried in the kangaroo pocket. He had that jittery, twitchy energy Jenna instinctively recognized from a dozen ER shifts: meth or coke, maybe both, somewhere between wired and ready-to-crash.

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

“Take my wallet,” she rasped. “Just—just take it. There’s cash inside. We keep some on hand for—”

“This ain’t a one-time thing,” the tall one interrupted, digging his fingers deeper into her throat until her words broke off. “You got a nice little studio here. Good clientele. Ladies with money. That means you got money. Which means you’re gonna start paying for protection.”

Protection.

The word clicked into place like a puzzle piece, and dread pooled in her stomach.

She’d heard whispers at the diner—business owners talking about some new crew shaking people down on the east side of town. The cops were “looking into it.” Nothing had come of it yet.

She hadn’t thought they’d come for her. Bikers, sure. The bar down the street, maybe. Not a small yoga and wellness studio with reclaimed-wood shelves and succulents in macramé hangers.

Shows what you know, Jen.

“I… I don’t have,” she forced out, nails digging into the man’s wrist. “I barely cover rent some months.”

He smiled, slow and cruel.

“Funny thing about that,” he said. “We don’t actually care. Starting next week, you leave a white envelope under your back door mat, every Tuesday night. Thousand bucks to start. We’ll let you know if the rate goes up.”

A thousand.

She made a strangled sound. “That’s not— That’s more than—”

His thumb pressed into her windpipe, cutting her off.

“Or,” he continued conversationally, “we come back. But next time, we don’t just talk to you. Maybe we catch one of your rich lady clients getting out of her Lexus. Maybe we follow you home. Maybe we find out who matters to you.”

Her vision blurred at the edges. Spots formed.

“I can’t,” she gasped. “I—”

He slammed her harder into the brick.

Something white-hot exploded along her shoulder, and she bit back a scream.

“Wrong answer,” he said.

The other one stepped forward, nervousness ratcheting up to something mean.

“Wrap it up, Kade,” Hoodie muttered, glancing toward the mouth of the alley. “Cameras, man. Cop shop’s like a block away.”

Kade—so that was his name—ignored him.

“Listen up, Jenna from Inner Light Yoga,” he said, rolling her name like he’d tasted it. “We know who you are. You think we just picked this alley out of a hat? You’re on the list. You pay, or we make an example. You paying makes my life easy. You as an example… still gets me paid.”

The back door to the studio was ten feet away, heavy steel, locked from the inside. Her phone was in her purse on the desk, just past that door. Her keys were in her pocket, digging into her hip.

If she could get a hand free—

A flicker of anger cut through the fear. Not at them—in that moment, they were almost a force of nature, like a storm, terrible but predictable.

At herself.

For thinking she could build something soft at the edge of something hard and never have the two collide.

“I’m not paying you a damn thing,” she heard herself say.

It came out ragged, but the words were clear.

His eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

“You heard me.” Her voice shook, but anger lent it steel. “I’m not paying you. Get off my property.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

She knew it as soon as the words left her mouth.

His hand left her throat long enough to backhand her across the face.

Pain exploded along her cheekbone. Her head snapped sideways, skull cracking against brick. The world flickered to white for a half-second.

“Dumb bitch,” Hoodie muttered.

Jenna slid down the wall, knees hitting asphalt. The taste of copper filled her mouth.

She was distantly aware of the tall one—Kade—still talking. Something about “respect” and “learning her place.”

Her ears rang.

You’re gonna pass out, a clinical voice in her head observed, cool and detached. Concussion, probably. Maybe worse if you hit that corner.

No.

The thought sliced through the fog with surprising clarity.

Not here. Not like this. Not on her knees in a damn alley.

Not without at least trying.

She felt his boot move closer.

Her fingers closed over the weight in her pocket.

Keys.

She’d walked to the back door with them still in hand, as she always did. Now the ring dug into her palm, the jagged teeth of the studio key biting her skin.

When his hand grabbed her hair, yanking her head back, she struck out blindly, raking her fist across his face.

Metal met flesh.

He howled.

“Fuck!”

Blood spattered across her vision. He stumbled back, clutching his cheek, one eye squeezed shut.

“You crazy—” Hoodie started, moving toward her.

Her lungs burned. Her head swam. But adrenaline gave her a burst of strength, and she used it.

She scrambled on hands and knees for the door.

A hand closed around her ankle, yanking her back.

She kicked, heel connecting with something soft and yielding. A grunt. Fingers loosened.

For a second, she thought she might actually make it.

She got one hand on the door handle, the other fumbling for the lock—

The first kick caught her in the ribs.

The second drove the breath from her lungs.

She folded around the impact, a sharp, jagged pain ripping through her side. Something cracked. Or maybe she just imagined it.

The alley tilted. The world narrowed.

Someone laughed. Someone else swore.

Boots.

Always the boots.

They didn’t go for her face again. Some cruel calculus decided that would be too much, too visible. Ribs, stomach, hip. Enough to make a point. Not enough, in their minds, to put them away for long.

Every blow lit up her nerves like lightning.

Her body curled reflexively, trying to protect her head, her organs.

Somewhere, someone shouted. Not one of them. From the street, maybe. A voice high and panicked.

“Hey! Hey, leave her alone! I’m calling 911!”

The boots stopped.

“Shit,” Hoodie hissed. “We gotta go.”

“Grab her purse,” Kade snapped.

“Door’s locked, man!”

“Then move.”

Hands, rough and impersonal, rifled through her pockets. They took her wallet, the folded cash she kept for petty change, maybe her phone—she couldn’t tell.

Then the sound of sneakers pounding down the alley. The echo of a van door. An engine revving.

Tires squealed, fading into the night.

Silence, except for her own ragged breaths.

For a long moment, she lay there, cheek pressed to the cool asphalt, tasting blood and dirt and the metallic tang of terror.

She thought about trying to get up.

Her body voted no.

She closed her eyes.

“Ma’am!” a voice called, closer now. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Don’t move, okay? Ambulance is on the way!”

She let the words wash over her, clung to them like a raft.

Ambulance.

Hospital.

Safe.

Safe.

The last coherent thought she had before the darkness took her was a single flash of her husband’s face.

Logan.

How the hell am I going to tell him?

---

Logan Walker was halfway through a bottle of cheap domestic beer and a heated argument about spark plug gaps when his phone buzzed.

The Steel Vipers’ clubhouse sat on the edge of Copper Ridge’s industrial district, all corrugated metal and faded paint on the outside, warmth and noise on the inside. The bikes lined up out front—Harleys, mostly, all chrome and attitude—were the real signpost. So was the mural on the cinder block wall: a coiled viper wrapped around a winged skull, fangs bared, eyes painted the same icy blue as the club president’s.

Inside, a country-rock song wailed from the jukebox. Laughter and curses bounced off the ceiling. Someone yelled at someone else for cheating at pool. The air smelled like beer, leather, and the faintest hint of lingering engine grease.

“Two thousandths, tops,” Rook insisted, jabbing a greasy finger at the napkin between them, where he’d drawn a crude diagram of a spark plug. “Any more than that, you’re just burning gas.”

“Man, you drive a ‘98 pickup that sounds like a dying cow,” Diesel shot back, raising his beer. “Nobody’s asking you for performance specs.”

Logan smirked, watching the banter with half his attention. He’d been part of the Steel Vipers for twelve years now, the last four as VP. He’d seen fights, wars, brothers bury brothers. He’d seen the ugly side of the life and the rough-edged grace of it, the way these men would bleed for each other without hesitation.

He’d also seen the way their reputation gave them cover—and occasionally trouble—in a town that alternately hated, needed, and mythologized them.

“Saint,” Hawk called from behind the bar, using Logan’s club name. “You want another or you pacing yourself? You look like you got an early morning.”

“All Jenna’s classes are early morning,” Mama Jo said, sliding a basket of fries onto the bar. “Man hasn’t slept past six since he married that girl.”

Logan’s mouth crooked up of its own accord. “Worth it,” he said, taking the fries.

“You get soft on me, I’m demoting you to secretary,” Hawk warned, though there was no real heat in it. The president of the Steel Vipers had eyes like chipped ice and a voice like gravel in a blender, but when it came to Jenna, he’d always been a soft touch. She’d been the one to patch him up after the wreck five years back, the one who refused to let him chain-smoke in her studio when he’d tried stretching “as a joke” and ended up liking it.

“Soft?” Logan snorted. “Ask the guy who tried to steal her car last winter how soft I am.”

“Damn right,” Diesel said. “You still got that dent in your garage wall from his head?”

“Allegedly,” Logan said mildly.

His phone buzzed again.

He pulled it out, expecting a text from Jenna about some grocery item he’d forgotten. Instead, the screen showed a number he didn’t recognize and the word “UNAVAILABLE” where the name would be.

His stomach tightened.

He thumbed to answer. “Yeah, this is Logan.”

“Mr. Walker?” The voice on the other end was female, professional. “This is Dispatch with Copper Ridge PD. Are you the emergency contact for a Jenna Walker?”

His heart stopped.

“What happened?” His chair scraped back. The bar, the music, the banter—all of it faded to static.

“There’s been an incident,” the dispatcher said. “Your wife was assaulted outside her place of business. She is conscious and en route to Copper Ridge General. We need you to—”

He didn’t hear the rest.

The phone was still in his hand when he turned.

“Jenna?” Hawk asked, already reading his face.

“Hospital,” Logan managed, the word ripped from the space between his ribs. “Somebody—”

Something primal snarled inside his chest.

“Keys,” he barked at Diesel.

“Got ‘em,” Diesel said, already moving. “I’m driving.”

Hawk vaulted the bar in one smooth motion. “Ghost, you’re with us,” he said. “Rook, lock it down. Nobody does anything stupid ‘til we know what we’re dealing with.”

Chairs scraped. Boots pounded. A dozen conversations died mid-sentence.

Logan only knew one thing in that moment: his wife was hurt.

Everything else could burn.

---

The ER at Copper Ridge General smelled like antiseptic and cold coffee.

Logan pushed through the sliding glass doors, the fluorescent lights setting his teeth on edge. Diesel and Ghost flanked him, both still in their cuts, the Steel Vipers’ patch stark against faded denim. Hawk had hung back to make a phone call, to who, Logan didn’t know.

The triage nurse looked up, clearly ready to give them hell for storming in, then hesitated when she saw Logan’s face. Something in it must have told her this was not the moment.

“Can I help you?” she asked, voice edging toward cautious.

“Jenna Walker,” he said. “They brought her in. I’m her husband.”

She glanced at the monitor, fingers tapping. “She’s in imaging right now. CT scan.”

“CT—” He swallowed against the sudden dryness in his mouth. “Head? Neck?”

“Head and ribs,” the nurse said. “She’s stable. Breathing on her own. Alert and oriented. We’re just checking for internal injuries.”

The words oriented and internal injuries swam in front of his eyes.

“Who did this?” Ghost asked, his voice quiet and dangerous.

The nurse’s eyes flicked to the patches on their backs, then to the security guard lingering near the metal detector.

“I don’t have that information,” she said, less cautious now, more clipped. “The police will be here if they’re not already. Sir, you can have a seat in the waiting area. The doctor will talk to you as soon as he can.”

“Is she alone?” Logan asked.

“The tech is with her,” the nurse said. “She was asking for you.”

That made something in his chest break and re-knit.

“I’m not leaving,” he said.

“You can wait over there,” she repeated, gesturing to a row of plastic chairs.

He sat because his knees were shaking more than he wanted to admit. Diesel sank into the seat beside him, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Ghost paced, restless energy in motion, boots squeaking on the polished floor.

A cops-and-doctors show played muted on the TV in the corner, someone shouting silently at someone else about a missed bullet fragment.

“Gonna be okay, brother,” Diesel said quietly. “Jenna’s tough.”

“She’s five-four and weighs a buck twenty in wet clothes,” Logan said, staring at the scuffed tile. “They could’ve…”

He didn’t finish.

His mind built images anyway. Faces he hadn’t seen yet. Hands he would break.

Hawk arrived ten minutes later, wearing his cut over a black Henley, hair drawn back in a leather tie.

“What’ve we got?” he asked, dropping into a chair across from Logan.

“CT, ribs,” Diesel said. “Stable. He hasn’t punched a hole in the wall yet, so we’re calling that a win.”

“You find out where?” Hawk asked.

“Alley,” Ghost said. “Behind the yoga place. Dispatch said ‘assault’ and ‘robbery.’”

“Anyone see anything?” Hawk’s voice was deceptively mild.

“Don’t know yet,” Ghost said. “Cops’ll have more.”

As if conjured by the word, a man in a rumpled sport coat appeared around the corner. He was late thirties, maybe early forties, with kind eyes and lines etched into his face from too many night shifts and not enough sleep.

“Logan Walker?” he asked.

“That’s me,” Logan said, standing.

“I’m Detective Luis Alvarez,” the man said, flipping open a badge. “We haven’t met officially, but I’ve seen you around. I’m sorry we’re doing this here.”

Logan’s jaw clenched. “How bad?”

“She’s lucky,” Alvarez said. “Could’ve been a lot worse. EMTs said she was lucid the whole ride. She gave us a basic statement.”

“Basic?” Logan repeated.

“A tall white male, mid-twenties, dark hoodie, jeans. Another male about the same build behind him,” Alvarez said. “No visible weapons, but they were aggressive. She fought back. They took her wallet, maybe her phone. We’re still verifying.”

Ghost snorted. “Real men, jumping a woman half their size.”

“You got cameras back there?” Hawk asked. “Alley, parking lot, street?”

Alvarez nodded. “The studio’s got one over the back door. Grainy, but it’s something. There’s also a traffic cam at the end of the block. We pulled the footage. We’re working on IDs.”

“You got a crew in mind,” Hawk said. It wasn’t a question.

Alvarez studied him for a beat.

“We’ve had some new faces running around the east side,” he said. “Guys we haven’t seen before. Hitting small businesses. Asking for ‘protection.’ Your wife mentioned they mentioned that word, too.”

Logan felt something hot and sharp twist inside him.

“They touched her,” he said. “They put their goddamn hands on her.”

Alvarez didn’t flinch. “I know,” he said. “And we’re going to do everything we can to find them. But I need you to do something for me.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Let us do our jobs,” Alvarez said. “I know your rep. I know the club’s rep. I know the shortcuts you like to take when someone hurts one of yours.”

Diesel’s mouth opened, ready to protest. Hawk lifted a hand and he shut it.

“You got something specific you want to accuse us of, Detective?” Hawk asked, calm.

Alvarez met his gaze. “Not yet,” he said. “I’m asking, not accusing. I’m asking you to give me time. I get that you’re angry. You should be. But if you go off half-cocked, you’re going to screw my case. You’ll scare these guys underground or light off a war I don’t have the resources to contain. And you might just land your VP in a cell instead of next to his wife.”

The words landed with the weight of a gavel.

Logan stared at him for a long moment.

“Can I see her?” he asked finally, voice rough.

“Doctor’s with her,” Alvarez said. “Soon as he’s done, yeah. In the meantime, if you remember anything—anyone who’s been sniffing around the studio, anyone who’s talked about this protection racket—you call me.”

He handed Logan a card.

“You find them before you do, you really expect us to sit on our hands?” Ghost asked.

“I expect you not to kill them,” Alvarez said bluntly. “You want to scare them a little, fine. I didn’t hear that. But you bring me something I can use. Video, names, witnesses. I can put them away for ten years on aggravated assault alone. More if this extortion thing pans out.”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’” Hawk said.

“It’s more than ‘nothing,’” Alvarez shot back.

A door hissed open.

“Family of Jenna Walker?” a man in blue scrubs called.

Logan’s heart jumped into his throat.

He didn’t remember crossing the room, only the feeling of his boots on tile and the way everything tunneled down to that one doorway.

“I’m Dr. Patel,” the man said. “She’s asking for you.”

---

The first thing Jenna saw when she opened her eyes was a ceiling tile with a coffee-colored stain in the corner.

The second was Logan’s face.

He sat in the plastic chair by her bed, elbows on his knees, hands laced together so tightly his knuckles were white. His dark hair was pulled back in a low knot, though a few strands had worked loose at his temples. A bruise colored the skin under one eye—not from tonight, but from sparring two days ago.

His eyes were the only part of him that looked truly raw.

“Hey,” she whispered.

He shot to his feet.

“Hey.” His voice cracked on the single syllable. “Jesus, Jen.”

He hovered, then seemed to remember himself and leaned in carefully, as if she were made of glass. His hand cupped her uninjured cheek.

She winced anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmured, pulling back an inch. “Didn’t mean—”

“You’re fine,” she said. “I’m just… tenderized.”

He barked out a rough laugh that sounded entirely too close to a sob.

“How bad?” she asked.

“Concussion,” he said. “Hairline fracture in two ribs. Bruising everywhere. No internal bleeding, no surgery.” He swallowed. “They want to keep you overnight for observation.”

“Fun.” She shifted and hissed as pain lanced up her side. “Okay, not fun.”

“I should’ve been there,” he said suddenly.

“No,” she said, as forcefully as she could manage. “Don’t. You don’t get to do the ‘I should’ve’ thing. You were at the clubhouse. Where you’re supposed to be. I’m the genius who stayed late in a sketchy alley because I had to reconcile my freaking supply receipt.”

“They threatened you,” he said. “They said they’d come back. That they’d… find out who mattered to you.”

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

“You tell them who you’re married to?” he asked, something dark under the words.

“No,” she said. “I figured ‘my husband is biker club VP’ might… complicate things.”

His jaw flexed.

“What did they look like?” he asked. “Names. Tattoos. Anything. I need—”

“Logan.” She cut him off, forcing his gaze back to hers. “You promised me.”

He stared at her.

“Promised you what?” he asked, though from the way his shoulders tensed, she knew he remembered.

“That you’d be smart,” she said. “That you wouldn’t end up in prison over some idiot with a chip on his shoulder and a cheap pair of boots. That we would do this life our way. Together. Not with me visiting you through glass.”

“They hurt you,” he said, as if that overrode any promise ever made.

“I know,” she said softly. “I was there.”

He flinched.

“They could’ve killed you,” he said. “If that kid hadn’t yelled—”

“Kid?”

“Some teenager saw it,” he said. “Called 911. Alvarez said so.”

“Alvarez?” she echoed.

“Detective,” Logan said. “He’s on the case. He wants us to let him do his job.”

Her mouth twisted. “And what do you want?”

He didn’t answer.

She studied him—the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands flexed as if they wanted to be around a throat instead of hanging empty.

“I want you to find them,” she said. “I want you to help the cops do whatever they’re going to do. I want them behind bars. I want them where they can’t do this to anyone else. I want them to wake up every day and think about the people they put in hospital beds and know they did that.”

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes that looked a lot like agreement.

“And,” she continued, “I want you to avoid adding ‘and then my husband murdered them’ to that list.”

He blew out a breath. “You don’t ask for much.”

“Only everything,” she said, managing a small smile.

He shook his head, not smiling back.

“I can’t promise they won’t get hurt,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

“I know,” she said. “Life hurts. People get what’s coming to them sometimes. But, Logan… don’t let them take you from me. Don’t let them turn you into someone I don’t recognize.”

He closed his eyes for a second, chest rising and falling.

“When Alvarez came into the waiting room,” he said, voice low, “I thought he was gonna tell me… it was worse. That you were in a coma. That you were…” He swallowed. “I almost put my fist through a wall then. And that was just from imagining it. If I see them touch you in my head, I want to—”

“Then don’t see it,” she said gently. “See this instead.”

She lifted her hand—slowly, carefully—and curled her fingers around his wrist.

“See me,” she said. “Alive. Not whole—I feel like I went through a meat grinder—but here.”

His eyes opened.

He looked at her hand, small and bruised and stubborn on his skin.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said roughly.

The corners of his mouth twitched up.

It wasn’t enough to erase the fury. But it was something to hold onto.

A knock sounded at the door.

Detective Alvarez stepped in, carrying a small tablet and that same tired expression.

“Mrs. Walker,” he said. “Good to see you awake.”

“If you’re about to show us a bill, I’m sending you to collections,” she muttered.

His mouth quirked. “I wish it was that easy,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Already here,” Logan said. “Close it.”

Alvarez shut the door behind him.

“I won’t take much of your time,” he said. “I just wanted to ask a few follow-up questions while things are fresh. And show you something.”

He set the tablet on the rolling tray and tapped the screen. Grainy black-and-white footage appeared—a view of the alley behind Inner Light Yoga, door centered, dumpster to the left.

“Security cam,” Alvarez said. “Yours.”

Jenna’s stomach twisted at the sight.

On screen, a petite figure—herself—stepped through the frame, keys in hand. She punched in the code, opened the door, then turned back to double-check the lock.

Two shapes slid into the frame behind her.

“It’s not easy to watch,” Alvarez warned.

“It already happened,” she said. “Might as well see the replay.”

The men’s faces were blurred by hoodies and pixelation, but their movements were clear. The taller one grabbed her. The altercation played out in jerky, silent monochrome—her key swipe, his recoil, the kicking.

Logan’s hands clenched on the bed rail hard enough to make the metal squeak.

“I’m gonna need a new key ring,” Jenna muttered, more to herself than anyone. “That one’s contaminated.”

Alvarez paused the video.

“We pulled stills and sent them to a couple of our gang units,” he said. “Nobody local. But we cross-referenced with some regional databases. The tall one, we’re pretty sure, is Kade Mercer. Goes by ‘Kade’ or sometimes ‘Kage.’ Twenty-four. Known associate of a low-level crew out of Spokane. The shorter one’s still fuzzy. Might be his cousin, might be some hanger-on. We’re working on it.”

“So they’re imports,” Hawk said from the doorway.

They all turned.

He’d slipped in quietly, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. Behind him, Ghost hovered, a shadow.

“More or less,” Alvarez said. “We think they came down a few months ago, chasing work. Or running from something up there. Either way, they’ve been testing boundaries. You’re not the first business they’ve hit.”

“Who else?” Logan asked.

“Deli over on Third, pawn shop on Maple, bar two blocks from your studio,” Alvarez said. “Couple places haven’t filed formal reports yet, but word gets around.”

“Why ours now?” Jenna asked. “We’re not exactly high-roller central.”

“Because you’re easy to get to and you close late,” Alvarez said. “And because men like this mistake kindness for weakness.”

Logan’s lip curled.

“Do you know where they are?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Alvarez said. “But we’re narrowing it down. There’s a van—beat-up white Ford—that shows up on a few cameras near the scenes. Plate’s stolen, but we traced some distinctive damage on the fender to a shop on the east side. We’re following that trail.”

“Define ‘we,’” Hawk said.

“Me, my partner, and anyone else I can rope in,” Alvarez said. “Point is, we’re on it. But it’d be a hell of a lot easier if any of those shop owners you just asked about were willing to testify.”

“They scared,” Ghost said.

“Exactly,” Alvarez said. “That’s why what happens next matters. If we take these guys down clean, with evidence, maybe the next victim feels safer coming forward. If this turns into a turf war between them and the Vipers, it’s just noise. And the next Jenna Walker might not make it to a hospital bed.”

The room went quiet.

“You’re asking us to stay out of it,” Hawk said.

“I’m asking you to work with me instead of around me,” Alvarez said. “You hear something, you bring it to me. You lean on the right people for statements, fine. You make it clear that anyone talking to the cops about this doesn’t have to worry about retaliation—from either side. You do that, you help me put these guys away for a long time. You do your usual cowboy justice routine, and I end up arresting you instead.”

Logan exhaled slowly.

“Say we find them,” he said. “Say we get names, addresses, maybe a little more. You expect me to hand over boys who broke my wife’s ribs without so much as a bruise?”

“I expect you to hand them over alive,” Alvarez said.

“Alive,” Hawk repeated. “He didn’t say unbruised.”

Alvarez’s jaw tightened.

“I’m not condoning anything,” he said. “But I’m also not naïve about how this town works. All I’m saying is… I need them breathing to testify against. Repeat offenders get longer sentences. Dead thugs get shrugged off as ‘occupational hazards.’”

Logan stared at the paused video—a boot frozen mid-kick, his wife curled on the ground.

“You use what we give you,” he said. “You don’t lose it in some bureaucratic shuffle.”

“I won’t,” Alvarez said.

“You’ve got sixty days,” Logan said.

“Your wife could’ve died,” Alvarez reminded him. “Any time you need a reminder why you shouldn’t kill these idiots, replay that tape.”

“I don’t need a reason,” Logan said quietly. “I need an outlet.”

Hawk stepped fully into the room.

“We’ll talk to our people,” he said to Alvarez. “You talk to yours. We’ll see who gets there first. But we understand the terms.”

Alvarez looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he nodded.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said to Jenna. “We’ll be in touch.”

Once he left, Hawk closed the door behind him.

“You really gonna give him sixty days?” Hawk asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m going to give you sixty days,” Jenna said before Logan could answer.

They all looked at her.

“I’m not naïve,” she said. “I married into this. I know how you work. But I also know you’re not stupid. You go off half-cocked and wipe these guys off the map, everything Alvarez just said happens. The extortion keeps going. The other shop owners stay scared. You look like the problem instead of the solution.”

“Jen, this ain’t our job,” Hawk said. “We keep our side of the street clean. We don’t babysit the whole damn town.”

“No,” she said. “But we live in it. And this isn’t just about me. They came for me because they thought no one would fight back. You show them—and everyone else—that they’re wrong? That matters.”

Ghost snorted. “She’s giving us a speech from a hospital bed,” he muttered. “I’m weirdly turned on and terrified.”

“Shut up, Ghost,” Jenna said without heat.

Logan squeezed her hand.

“We’ll find them,” he said. “We’ll make sure they can’t do this again. And we’ll let Alvarez slap a bow on it for the judge.”

“And you’ll come home to me,” she said.

“And I’ll come home to you,” he echoed.

For the first time since the alley, she felt something besides pain and rage.

Hope.

Fragile, yes.

But real.

---

Word travels fast in small towns. In Copper Ridge, it travels on wheels.

By the next afternoon, every member of the Steel Vipers knew what happened to their VP’s wife.

By the end of the week, every bartender, tattoo artist, mechanic, and corner dealer within a fifty-mile radius knew, too.

“Kade Mercer,” Rook said, slapping a printed mugshot onto the scarred wooden table in the clubhouse meeting room. “Spokane PD picked him up three times in the last five years. Bar fights, petty theft, one aggravated assault that got pled down. No major time served. Cousin is Tyler Mercer, also known as Ty. No priors, but hangs with the same crew.”

The photo showed a man with buzzed dark hair, a jagged scar along one cheek, and dead, flat eyes. Even without the bruise from Jenna’s keys, Logan recognized the angle of his jaw from the video.

“That’s him,” Logan said, voice tight.

“How we know he’s in town?” Hawk asked.

Rook flipped through a few more pages.

“Body shop on East Ridge,” he said. “Guy named Raymond Gutierrez. Alvarez leaned on him; I… followed up.”

“Followed up how?” Hawk asked, though curiosity, not judgment, colored his tone.

“Ray’s kid plays in that youth league we sponsor,” Rook said. “Nice kid. Real fast. Be a shame if his dad’s shop got caught in some crossfire because he accidentally didn’t mention something to the wrong people.”

Hawk’s mouth twitched. “And suddenly he remembered he did some work on a white Ford Econoline with a busted front fender,” he guessed.

“Yup,” Rook said. “Kade paid cash, no questions. But Ray’s cameras caught the plate they had on before they swapped it. Fake, but the van’s real. Registered to a woman in Spokane who reported it stolen three months ago. Cops think she’s a girlfriend doing him a favor. Either way, that van’s been seen three times in the last week—couple blocks from Jenna’s studio, outside the pawn shop, and behind a motel on 7th.”

“Which motel?” Diesel asked.

“Cedar Springs,” Rook said. “You know, the one with the flickering sign and the questionable stains.”

“Classy,” Ghost muttered.

Logan’s knuckles rapped the table.

“When?” he asked.

“When what?” Rook replied.

“When do we go,” Logan said.

Hawk studied him.

“You going to listen,” he asked, “or you going to blow our play because you can’t keep your temper?”

Logan stared back.

“My temper is the play,” he said.

“Not this time,” Hawk said. “This time, we’re doing it Jenna’s way.”

Someone snorted. Logan didn’t care who.

“What’s ‘Jenna’s way’?” Ghost asked. “We hit ‘em with yoga mats?”

Rook grinned. “Downward dog’ em to death.”

Hawk’s gaze didn’t leave Logan’s.

“Jenna’s way is we hit ‘em with something that sticks,” he said. “We don’t just beat their asses and send them limping back to wherever they came from. We give Alvarez what he needs to hang them in court. We stop this protection racket for everyone, not just us.”

“You’re suddenly a civic-minded citizen,” Diesel said.

“We’ve always been civic-minded,” Hawk said. “We just got a different definition of ‘civic.’”

He dropped his gaze to the mugshot.

“These assholes thought they found a town full of sheep,” he said. “They picked the wrong shepherd’s wife.”

A rumble of agreement went around the table.

“So what’s the move?” Logan asked.

“We watch ‘em first,” Hawk said. “We see who they roll with, where they stash their cash, what their routine is. We find the right place, the right time, the right pressure point. Then we squeeze.”

“And when we’re done squeezing?” Ghost asked.

Hawk’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Then we hand ‘em to Alvarez with a bow,” he said. “And if they happen to trip and fall a few times on the way to the squad car, well… clumsy guys like that were bound to get hurt sooner or later.”

Logan’s fists unclenched a fraction.

He could work with that.

---

The Cedar Springs Motel looked even worse up close.

Logan and Ghost sat in a battered sedan three blocks away, pretending to be two guys killing time scrolling their phones. In reality, their eyes tracked every vehicle pulling in and out of the motel lot.

“Tell me again why we’re not just walking in there and dragging them out by their ears,” Ghost muttered, tapping ash into an empty coffee cup.

“Because that’s how you end up on the evening news,” Logan said. “And not in the fun ‘bikers rescue orphan kittens’ kind of way.”

Ghost snorted. “I’d watch that show,” he said.

“Jenna would make us actually rescue some,” Logan replied.

Ghost’s smile faded.

“How is she?” he asked, tone softening. “Really.”

“She’s… pissed,” Logan said. “Hurts like hell. But she’s home. Jokes more than she cries. That’s something.”

“And you?” Ghost asked.

“Ask me once I’ve seen these guys bleed,” Logan said.

Ghost nodded once, like that made perfect sense.

The van showed just after three.

White Ford Econoline, one headlight a little cloudier than the other, fender still bearing the faint ripple of the patched dent. It pulled into a spot near the back, as far from the street as possible.

“That’s our girl,” Ghost said.

Logan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

The driver’s door opened.

Kade stepped out first, hoodie up despite the afternoon sun, the faint line of a bandage visible under the edge where Jenna’s key had raked him. Ty climbed out the passenger side, lighter build, baseball cap pulled low.

They talked for a minute, gestures sharp. Kade lit a cigarette. Ty scanned the lot, jumpy.

“Jumpy’s the cousin,” Ghost said. “He didn’t like the beating as much as big brother did.”

“Good,” Logan said. “Fear’s a foothold.”

They watched the pair head up the motel stairs, disappearing into a second-floor room.

“Rook’s got a line on the motel’s guest list,” Ghost said. “Lady at the front desk likes him. Might be because he’s been buying coffee there all week, might be because he used to bang her in high school. Either way, we got ears.”

“Room number?” Logan asked.

“Two fourteen,” Ghost said. “Registered under ‘Tyler James.’ Cash paid. No ID on file, though, which is against policy, but the Cedar Springs isn’t exactly known for following policy.”

“Easier to keep the cops off your back when you don’t know who’s checking in,” Logan muttered.

He watched the door to 214 like a hawk.

Six minutes later, it opened again.

This time, Kade walked out alone, tightening his hoodie around his face. He headed to the van, grabbed a backpack from the back, then started toward the stairs.

Logan straightened.

“Here we go,” he said.

“Showtime,” Ghost agreed.

They followed at a distance.

---

The thing about being an outlaw club in a town like Copper Ridge was this: you learned the blind spots.

The alley behind the Cedar Springs was one of them.

No cameras. No windows overlooking it. Just dumpsters, cigarette butts, and the occasional used condom.

Logan and Ghost waited there.

When Kade came around the corner, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in his hand, he barely glanced up.

He should have.

Logan stepped out of the shadows.

Kade’s eyes widened. His hand went instinctively toward his waistband, where a bulge under the hoodie suggested a weapon.

Ghost was faster.

One solid punch to the solar plexus stole Kade’s breath. The backpack slid off his shoulder. He doubled over, wheezing.

Logan grabbed the front of his hoodie and slammed him back against the wall.

The impact rattled the brick.

“Evening,” Logan said, voice calm in a way that felt almost detached. “We need to talk.”

Kade coughed, spit flying. His eyes darted, looking for exits, for help, for anything.

“You got the wrong guy,” he wheezed. “I don’t—”

Logan drove a fist into his stomach. Not full force—he wanted him conscious—but enough to make his point.

“That’s strike one for lying,” he said. “You want to try again?”

Kade’s gaze flicked to the patches on their cuts, recognition dawning.

“Vipers,” he rasped.

“Winner,” Ghost said dryly. “Tell him what he’s won, Saint.”

Logan leaned in, his forearm pressing against Kade’s collarbone.

“You walked into my town,” he said quietly. “You put your hands on my wife. You kicked her while she was on the ground. You thought you could do that and disappear into the cracks. You thought nobody was watching.”

Kade’s bravado flickered. “She… she ain’t dead,” he said. “Just a couple bruises. Shit happens. Cost of doing business.”

Logan’s vision tinged red.

He took a slow breath.

“You’re going to give me names,” he said. “Everyone you work with here. Everyone you report to back in Spokane. Every place you’ve hit in Copper Ridge. Every business you’ve threatened. And you’re going to do it on camera.”

“Camera?” Kade repeated, eyes widening.

Ghost pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up, red recording light blinking.

“Smile,” he said.

Kade swore.

“You can’t make me—” he began.

Logan shifted his weight, let just enough pressure land on a fresh bruise under Kade’s ribs.

Kade hissed.

“I can do this all day,” Logan said. “You? Not so much.”

“You gonna kill me?” Kade spat. “That your big plan, biker boy? Beat me ‘til I talk, then dump me in a ditch?”

“No,” Logan said. “Tempting, but no. See, we’re trying something different. We’re going to let the cops have you.”

Kade blinked.

“What?” he said.

“Feels weird to us, too,” Ghost admitted.

“You expect me to believe that?” Kade scoffed.

“I don’t care what you believe,” Logan said. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to talk. We’re going to take your nice little confession, plus whatever goodies you’ve got in that backpack, and we’re going to hand them to Detective Alvarez on a silver platter. He’s going to use them to build a case. And you’re going to wake up in a cell wondering how you underestimated a town full of ‘sheep’ so bad you ended up behind bars while your boss forgets your name.”

“You think he cares about you?” Ghost added. “You’re expendable. You know it. You get picked up, he’s already lining up the next idiot to send down here.”

“You shut up,” Kade snarled.

“Hit a nerve, huh?” Ghost said.

Kade’s jaw clenched.

“Even if I talk,” he said. “Even if I give you everything. People I work for, people I work with. They find out? I’m dead. Might as well kill me yourself.”

Logan’s temper, already precariously leashed, tightened.

“You should’ve thought of that before you threatened my wife,” he said.

Kade sneered. “She should’ve thought of that before she mouthed off.”

Ghost’s fist connected with his jaw before Logan could move.

It was a clean, hard punch that snapped Kade’s head to the side. A tooth pinged against the asphalt, skittering into the shadows.

“Oops,” Ghost said. “My hand slipped.”

Logan stepped closer, voice dropping.

“You brought this on yourself,” he said. “You picked this town. You picked my wife’s studio. You picked violence. Now you get to pick your poison. Ten, fifteen years inside with a chance of breathing free air before you’re fifty. Or an unmarked grave in some field where your cousin pours one out once a year until he moves on. Those are your options. Last sliver of choice you’re going to get.”

Kade’s eyes, wild a moment ago, went distant.

“You don’t know these guys,” he muttered.

“You don’t know our club,” Ghost shot back.

A beat.

Kade’s shoulders slumped.

“Turn that on,” he said, nodding at the phone.

“It’s been on,” Ghost said.

Kade took a breath.

“My name is Kade Mercer,” he said, staring into the camera. “And I fucked up.”

---

Two hours later, Detective Alvarez sat in his unmarked sedan, watching the Cedar Springs from the other side of the block, when his phone buzzed.

Unknown number. No caller ID.

He answered anyway.

“Alvarez.”

“You said you wanted evidence,” a voice said. Logan Walker’s.

“You get me something?” Alvarez asked, heartbeat kicking up a notch.

“We got you a lot of somethings,” Logan said. “First one’s waiting behind the Cedar Springs. Alley. Zip-tied to a drainpipe. Breathing.”

“You didn’t—”

“He’s got more teeth than he deserves,” Logan cut in. “Less than he started with. Count your blessings.”

Alvarez pinched the bridge of his nose.

“So he’s alive,” he said.

“For now,” Logan said. “Backpack next to him’s got a ledger. Collection amounts, shop names. Plus some cash. Plus a little powder that, if I were a betting man, I’d say would interest your narcotics unit more than it interests us.”

“Jesus,” Alvarez muttered.

“We also have a video,” Logan said. “Nice clear confession. Names, details, the works. You’ll get it after you prove you can keep him breathing long enough for trial.”

“You threatening a protected witness?” Alvarez asked.

“You going to make him one?” Logan countered.

Alvarez stared at the motel.

“I can’t promise protective custody forever,” he said. “But I can get him separated from general population. Especially if he flips on whoever’s been paying him.”

“He’s already flipped,” Logan said. “Just a matter of who you play it for.”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” Alvarez said. “And tell me you’re not still there.”

“We’re gone,” Logan said. “We’re not interested in being part of your report.”

The line clicked dead.

Alvarez sat there for a second, then swore and threw the car into gear.

As he turned into the alley, he already had his phone to his ear, barking orders.

“Dispatch, this is Detective Alvarez,” he snapped. “I need units at Cedar Springs Motel, back alley. Medical, too. Possible aggravated assault suspect in custody, unconscious but breathing. And get CSU on standby. We might have just gotten lucky.”

He didn’t know yet that luck had a name.

Or several.

Hawk. Ghost. Rook. Diesel.

And one Jenna Walker, lying in a hospital bed, telling her husband not to let his anger turn into a bullet.

---

The news broke three days later.

Copper Ridge Gazette: “Police Arrest Suspected Ringleader in East Side Extortion Scheme.”

Smaller font underneath: “Local Businesses Breathe Sigh of Relief as Charges Filed.”

There was no mention of the Steel Vipers.

There rarely was, when they did their work right.

“Look at that,” Mama Jo said, slapping the paper onto the bar. “They even spelled ‘aggravated’ right. I’m proud.”

“Let me see,” Jenna said.

She slid off the barstool carefully, ribs still tender, and leaned over the counter. Her face was almost back to normal color, the bruise on her cheek fading from livid purple to sickly yellow.

The headline stared up at her.

Underneath was a grainy booking photo of Kade Mercer, one eye swollen nearly shut, lower lip split. The caption read, “Kade M., 24, Spokane, WA.”

“They went easy on the photo,” Ghost said. “You can’t even see the tooth I knocked out.”

“Tragic,” Jenna said.

She skimmed the article.

“…suspect tied to series of recent assaults and attempted extortions… ledger with handwritten notes listing several Copper Ridge businesses recovered… alleged victim Jenna W. of Inner Light Yoga is expected to make a full recovery…”

“They got the ‘expected’ part right,” she muttered.

“That supposed to mean you’re going back to work?” Logan asked, sliding onto the stool beside her.

“As soon as Dr. Patel clears me to teach,” she said. “I’m not letting those idiots take my studio from me on top of everything else.”

“You sure?” he asked quietly. “No shame in taking more time.”

She turned to look at him.

“I was scared,” she said, keeping her voice low over the jukebox. “Out there. In that alley. And later, in the hospital. But the longer I sit at home and let that fear make decisions for me, the more they win. Maybe that’s petty. I don’t care. I want my life back.”

He studied her for a beat.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll get you there.”

“We?” she echoed.

“Damn right,” Mama Jo said before he could answer. “Ain’t no way you’re walking out that back door alone again. You want, I’ll have one of the boys sweep the alley for you after every class. Hell, I’ll put a camera up myself and a Mama Jo–brand alarm system.”

“What’s the alarm?” Ghost asked.

“Me screaming,” she said. “That’ll bring every biker in a five-mile radius running.”

Laughter rippled around the bar.

Jenna felt something warm unfurl in her chest.

Community.

Messy, loud, leather-clad community.

“Detective Alvarez wants you to come in for a follow-up,” Logan said. “Statement, maybe a walk-through of the alley. Only if you feel up to it.”

“I will,” she said. “He kept his end, we keep ours.”

Logan nodded.

“He also mentioned Kade’s rolling,” he added. “Giving up names. People higher up the chain. Could end up bigger than just Copper Ridge.”

“Good,” she said.

Ghost grinned. “Look at you, starting a multi-state takedown from your little yoga studio,” he said. “Next you’ll be running for office.”

“Mayor Jenna,” Diesel said. “Platforms: legal weed, free puppies, and mandatory stretching breaks at City Council meetings.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she said. “I’d fix the parking on Main Street first. Then weed.”

They laughed again.

The sound felt good.

Logan reached for her hand under the bar. She let him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She thought about it.

About the alley. The kicks. The taste of blood. The hospital. The fear.

About Kade, zip-tied in the alley behind a motel, confessing to crimes into Ghost’s phone.

About Detective Alvarez, eyes bright for once, telling her, “We’ve got enough. Thanks to you.”

About the other business owners who’d come into her studio, quietly, in the days since, slipping envelopes onto her desk.

They weren’t filled with money.

They were filled with notes.

Thank you.

Saw the news. Don’t know what you did, but I know who you’re married to. Tell your guys thanks. Next round’s on me.

Heard you got hurt. Glad you’re okay. We’ll be at your reopening.

She wasn’t the type to enjoy attention.

But this wasn’t about attention, exactly.

It was about reclaiming something.

“I’m getting there,” she said.

He nodded.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” he said.

---

Four months later, on a cold, clear evening in January, the Steel Vipers rolled down Main Street in formation.

Chrome glinted under streetlights. Engines rumbled. People stepped out of bars and shops to watch, some with smiles, some with cautious curiosity.

At the front of the pack, Hawk’s bike led the way, the club’s serpent patch bright on his back. Beside him, Logan rode tall on his black Road Glide, Jenna on the pillion seat behind him, arms snug around his waist.

The wind bit through her leather jacket, but she didn’t care.

They weren’t riding for intimidation tonight.

They were riding for celebration.

Inner Light Yoga’s front windows glowed ahead, new security cameras visible above the back door if you knew where to look. Inside, fairy lights wound around the exposed beams, and a small crowd milled about, plastic cups of sparkling cider in hand.

The “Reopening / Thank You” sign on the front door had been Jenna’s idea. The “Bikers Welcome” in smaller letters underneath had been Mama Jo’s.

“You ready?” Logan asked as they slowed to a stop.

She exhaled.

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

They parked. Engines clicked as they cooled.

People clapped as Jenna stepped off the bike.

Some of it was for the Vipers.

Most of it, tonight, felt like it was for her.

Detective Alvarez stood near the door, hands in his pockets, tie askew. He’d dressed down for the occasion—no sport coat, just a sweater and a face less lined than the first night they’d met.

“Mrs. Walker,” he said as she approached. “Good turnout.”

“Yoga people will show up for anything with snacks,” she said. “You want a gluten-free brownie? I’m told they’re ‘life-changing.’”

“I’ll stick to the cider,” he said, lifting his cup.

She smiled.

“How’s Kade?” she asked.

“In a jumpsuit four hundred miles from here,” Alvarez said. “Got fifteen years, maybe more if the feds decide to tack on some interstate charges. Your testimony didn’t hurt.”

“Good,” she said.

“His cousin took a plea,” Alvarez added. “Five years. Cooperation. Less if he behaves.”

“Does he?” she asked.

“He’s scared enough to try,” Alvarez said. “Sometimes that’s all you get.”

He looked around.

“Place looks good,” he said.

“Stronger doors,” she said. “More lights. Fewer illusions.”

“Those aren’t bad upgrades,” he said.

She glanced back at the line of bikes.

“And more friends,” she added.

He followed her gaze.

“You know,” he said, “when I started working here, I was told if I saw that many Vipers in one place, it meant I should call for backup.”

“Still might,” she said. “If you’re counting karaoke as a crime.”

He grinned.

“I’ll let that one slide,” he said. “For tonight.”

Hawk wandered over, a plastic cup of cider looking comically tiny in his big hand.

“Detective,” he said. “You behave, we might let you stay.”

“Heartwarming,” Alvarez said dryly. “I’ll try not to lower the property values.”

Jenna watched the two men—biker president and weary cop—trade barbs that, for once, weren’t loaded with threat.

It felt… new.

Good.

Inside, someone turned up the music. Someone else started an impromptu stretching circle.

Ghost tried and failed to touch his toes. Mama Jo smacked him on the back of the head.

Jenna stepped forward and turned to face the small crowd.

“Okay,” she called. “Before everyone gets too carried away and I have to start adjusting spines, I just want to say something.”

Conversations quieted.

Faces turned toward her—clients, bikers, cops, neighbors.

Her ribs still twinged sometimes when it rained. Her cheek still had a faint, silvery line where Kade’s ring had caught her skin.

But when she looked at these people, at her husband, at Hawk and Ghost and Diesel, and even at Detective Alvarez standing awkwardly near the door, she felt… strong.

“I opened this place because I wanted to make space,” she said. “For people to breathe. To stretch. To feel… safe in their own skin. After what happened, I didn’t know if I’d ever feel safe here again. Or if anyone else would.”

She glanced at Logan. He nodded, once.

“But then,” she continued, “people showed up. My husband, my extended leather-clad family, my clients, our neighbors. The cop I used to avoid eye contact with in the grocery store. You all decided this wasn’t just my fight. It was yours. And because of that, I get to stand here tonight and say, ‘We’re still here.’ Stronger. Louder. Maybe a little more paranoid about alleyways, but there are worse things.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“I don’t believe in karma,” she said. “Not really. But I do believe in consequences. And community. And in the idea that when you hurt one of us, you answer to all of us.”

She lifted her cup.

“To the people who stood up when it mattered,” she said. “To Detective Alvarez, to the Steel Vipers, to every business owner who refused to pay for ‘protection’ from cowards. And to my husband, who somehow managed to listen to me even when every instinct he has told him to do the opposite.”

A cheer went up.

Logan’s ears turned pink.

“Never letting you forget you said that,” Ghost hollered.

She grinned.

“And to the idiots,” she added, “who thought they could own this town with their fists. Enjoy the view from your cell. Copper Ridge is off-limits.”

She drank.

They drank.

For a moment, under the twinkle lights and over the thrum of music, Jenna saw the entire, messy web of it—the outlaw club that played by its own rules but had chosen, this time, to aim its weight toward justice. The cop who’d risked his reputation taking evidence from men he couldn’t admit he trusted. The woman who’d refused to back down even when she was bleeding in an alley.

Thugs had assaulted the biker VP’s wife.

What the club did afterward wasn’t just revenge.

It was a line in the sand.

It was a message:

You don’t get to come into our town, hurt our people, and walk away. Not while we’re still breathing.

Later, when the bikes roared off into the cold night and the last guests trickled out, Jenna stood alone in her studio, lights dimmed, mats rolled.

Logan came up behind her, arms slipping around her waist.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Good tired,” she said, leaning back against him.

“Think you scared off every prospective thug in a fifty-mile radius,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “I don’t have time to redecorate again.”

He chuckled.

He turned her gently, careful of her ribs even now, and pressed his forehead to hers.

“You realize,” he murmured, “that you bossed around a room full of bikers and a detective tonight like it was nothing.”

“I’m told I have a leadership style,” she said.

“You have something,” he said.

He kissed her, slow and steady.

She kissed him back.

When they pulled apart, she looked up at him.

“We did it,” she said.

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “We did.”

Not alone.

Never alone.

THE END