I lie back.
The ceiling of the cabin is rough pine, the same as everything else in this place—unpolished, functional, exactly what it is and nothing more. Like him.
I think about his hands. His voice. The two seconds he didn't move when the phone rang.
I am in serious trouble. And I'm staying anyway.
Chapter 10 – Ronan
The Harley eats the mountain road in the dark.
No lights behind me. Good. I take the switchbacks hard, leaning into each curve, running the variables in the back of my mind the way I used to run them before a breach—entry points, numbers, threat level, exit routes. Three Blackridge men. One Blaze, which historically counts for more than three of most things but also creates its own category of problems.
The Tavern lights come up fast.
I park and walk in.
It's worse than I expected, which means Blaze has been busy.
One Blackridge man is already against the far wall, Stone's work, efficient and quiet, the way Stone does everything. Tommy is behind the bar bleeding above the eye. Two Blackridge men are still standing: one broad, one taller, both wearing the split-skull patch and the particular expression of men who came here thinking a mountain town MC would fold easy.
Blaze is in the middle of the room with blood on his face and a grin that has no business being there.
The broad one turns when I walk in.
He looks me over. The patch. The scar. The size of me. And instead of doing the smart thing, the thing his friend on the floor behind Stone should have illustrated clearly enough, he decides I'm the one he wants.
"Scar," he says. Like he's been briefed. Like he came here knowing names. "Heard about you."
"Then you know how this ends," I say.
He swings first.
I'll give him this, he's fast for his size. The right hook comes with genuine intent and catches me across the jaw before I've fully closed the distance. My head snaps sideways. I taste copper.
I don't go down.
I take one step back, just one, just enough, and then I move.
Three tours as an Army Ranger doesn't leave your body. It becomes your body. The training lives in the muscle and the bone, in the reflexes that fire before the conscious mind catches up. I get inside his reach before he can reset, drive my elbow into his ribs hard enough to feel the crack of it, and when he folds forward, I bring my knee up.
He goes down.
The taller one comes off the wall.
Blaze gets there first, a right cross that snaps the man's head back, but he stays up and swings wide and catches Blaze in the ear. Blaze stumbles. I step in. Two hits, both precise, both aimed at the exact points where the body stops arguing. Solar plexus. Temple.
He folds.
The room goes quiet.
I straighten up. My jaw is already swelling on the right side, which means tomorrow I'll have matching damage on both sides of my face. Blaze finds this funny. I can tell by the sound he makes behind me, something between a laugh and a wince.
"You good?" I ask him, without turning around.
"Outstanding," he says.
Judge is at the bar. He hasn't moved from his stool this entire time. His bourbon is still in his hand, level, like a man readingthe newspaper. This is the thing civilians never understand about Alexander Kane, he doesn't fight because he doesn't need to. He commands. The room is already his before anyone throws a punch.
