I trust Nova’s federal contact to play it straight, especially given their history with rescuing his women, but in our world, trust is a fragile thing that can be shattered by a single misstep. The wait is a jagged edge, sawing at my nerves until I’m ready to snap at the first thing that moves. Every distant siren or squeal of tires on the main road has my hand dropping to the grip of the nine mil tucked into my waistband. I’m the VP, the one who’s supposed to be the calm in the eye of the storm, but being sidelined while the future of this club is being bartered in some backroom meeting has my stomach turning in knots.
“Thanks, baby,” I say as I take a gulp, nearly drinking the entire glass before handing it back to her. “You should be inside.”
She doesn’t budge. She stays right there, her gaze searching mine, seeing the map of the fading bruises I’m still sporting and the exhaustion I’m trying to mask. “Boston and Carolina are sleeping,” she tells me, her voice a soft, grounding vibration in the humid air. “The compound is quiet, Slayer. You don’t have to carry the whole weight of the clubhouse on your shoulderstonight.” I want to believe her, want to let the tension bleed out of my frame and just be the man who shares her bed, but until those gates hiss open and my brothers roll through, I’m a King first and a man second.
“You should be sleeping too, beautiful,” I remark, sliding my finger across her cheekbone, admiring her beauty.
I can see the fatigue etched into the corners of her eyes, a reflection of the long days she spends molding young minds. The moonlight catches the silver glint of her gaze as she looks up at me, and for a second, the heavy weight of the club and the impending meeting with the feds feels like it’s a lifetime away.
She’s the peace I never knew I was looking for, a soft place to land in a world that’s mostly made of rough edges and broken promises.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispers, leaning into my touch. “Every time I closed my eyes, I was listening for the sound of their bikes. I know you’re out here, and I know why you’re pacing, Slayer. You don’t have to do this alone,” she reiterates.
“I’m never alone when I have you, Jersey girl,” I counter, my voice dropping to that guttural tenor that always seems to make her breath hitch. I want to tell her that she’s the reason I’m still standing, the reason I survived that ring and the reason I’m so damn determined to see this war through to the end. But for now, I just hold her close, the warmth of her body a shield against the darkness.
We stand there in the quiet of the compound, the only sound in the background is the chirp of the crickets and the distant, muffled noise coming from the clubhouse. I told her that we had some information that could give us the upper hand, I didn’t gointo details because that’s not something I want her involved in or thinking about, but I gave her enough to help her sleep better at night.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Jersey
For what feelslike hours on end, we remain posted at the gate, our focus glued on the main entrance. “Is it common for these negotiations to drag on like this?” I inquire, my voice thin with a lack of experience in the grueling timelines of the club’s underworld dealings.
Slayer stands immobile, his profile a hard silhouette against the abrasive glare of the yard lights. He appears as if he’s cut from granite, his jaw clenched with a lethal intensity. I can feel the vibration of his stress radiating outward, a heavy energy that makes every breath feel forced. The thick humidity of the night clings to me, and with every passing minute that lacks the roar of a Harley, the silence becomes a physical weight pressing against my lungs.
He eventually releases a shallow, controlled breath, his hand instinctively dropping to the grip of the pistol tucked into his waistband. It’s a subconscious reflex, the movement of a man who exists in a state of perpetual combat readiness. “Nothing isever normal in this life, Jersey girl,” he rasps. “Sitting down with the feds is no different than a high-stakes poker game. You don’t walk away until the final card is played, and sometimes that takes until the sun comes up.” He doesn’t shift his gaze, but his large hand finds mine, squeezing with a strength that betrays the fact that he is just as tightly wound as I am. We stand as a unit, waiting for the gates to hiss open and for our world to either find its footing or go up in smoke.
Finding my courage, I decide to play on his card table metaphor, admitting, “Speaking of high-stakes games, I think my own house of cards is about to tumble, Slayer.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” he asks, turning his head to lock his eyes onto mine, searching for the meaning behind my words.
I break the contact, looking instead toward the glowering, imposing silhouette of the clubhouse. The secret I’ve been hauling regarding my parents’ latest threats feels like a crushing pressure, a structure ready to collapse under its own weight. I’m desperate to tell him about the emails, the incessant demands for the inheritance, and the way they’ve been circling me like sharks, but the admission feels like swallowing lead.
“It means I’ve been hoarding secrets that should’ve been shared,” I whisper, my voice trembling as the sticky night air settles over us. “Secrets that make all this safety feel... like a fleeting illusion.” The confession is a terrifying gamble, a bridge I’m finally forcing myself to cross. I’ve spent so many years fearing that my baggage would make me a burden or a liability to anyone I cared about.
But with his hand anchored in mine, I realize I can never truly be his if I’m still hiding things from him. His touch is the onlything keeping me from shattering as the facade I’ve built starts to wobble. To truly be his old lady, I have to bring the darkness of my past into the light, hoping the man who fought so hard for his brother’s freedom is willing to fight for mine as well.
“Tell me why you’re just now bringing this to me, Jersey.” Slayer’s voice is a low rumble, laced with a concern that cuts straight through my barricades. He isn’t just asking out of curiosity, he’s demanding the truth because he’s already claimed me.
I look up at him, the harsh compound lights highlighting the intensity of his gaze. He remains perfectly still, his hand providing the strength I need to finally speak the truth.
“You've opened the door, baby, now it's time to walk through it,” he decrees.
“I haven't given you much about the people who shared my DNA,” I admit, my voice sounding small in the vast night. “It wasn't because I didn't want you to know, it's because the memories are a constant reminder that I was never a priority, just a nuisance to those who should’ve protected me from day one. They aren’t just people I’m related to, Slayer, they’re the masterminds behind every nightmare I’ve ever had to outrun. Every time I think of them, I'm that four-year-old in a cavernous house, just wanting someone to give a damn while I was being treated like a mistake.” I pull in a shallow breath, the weight of the history I’ve kept buried rising up to choke me. “They’re closing in, Slayer. Their weapons aren’t steel, but their thieving hunger is just as lethal. The emails, the threats... they’re hunting the inheritance from my grandparents due to land in my account in three months. They’ve gambled away millions, and now I’m their last score. They don’t care that I raised myself or that they let monsters into my life while they chased their next high. Tothem, I’m not a daughter, I’m a resource to be tapped until I’m dry.” I look at our joined hands, his rough skin a grounding contrast to mine. “I’m terrified that as long as they’re breathing, I’ll never be free. No matter how many gates you put up, they find a way to reach through and remind me that I’m just a social trophy to them.”
“How long has this been escalating, Jersey?”
“My entire life,” I whisper, the words feeling like a stone dropping into a dark abyss. “But with every birthday, the threats get more severe. They used to be content to ignore my existence, but now they treat my age like a countdown to their own payday. I know they won't stop at emails once that money hits my bank. They don't see a daughter who survived despite them. They see a bank account with a face.”
Slayer’s grip on my hand becomes like a vise, his jaw grinding with a lethal intensity. I can see the shift in him—the man who is so gentle with me has become a steel wall. The warmth in his eyes has frozen into a flat, dangerous glint that belongs solely to the Vice President of the Kings.
“They won't see a cent of it, Jersey,” he swears, the lethalness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. It isn’t a reassurance, it's a decree. “They've spent years treating you like an object, but they're about to find out you’re under the protection of a King now. I don’t give a damn about blood. If they think they're going to bleed you dry, they're going to have to go through me, and I don’t follow the rules of your society friends."
He pulls me in, his large frame acting as a physical barrier against the ghosts of my past. In the shadow of the clubhouse, with the war against the Dragons still looming, I realize I’ve justhanded him another battle to fight. But the way he holds me tells me he doesn’t see it as a burden—he sees it as his duty.
“I don’t have society friends, Slayer,” I rebut. “I never fit into that plastic world they tried to mold me for. I keep my circle small, limited to people who actually see the real me. The only person outside of you who knows anything about my past or the rapacious hunger of my folks is Britton. She’s the only one who didn't look away when things got ugly, the only one who understood that my silence wasn’t a choice, but a survival tactic.” I look up at him, my heart hammering a frantic, hopeful beat against my ribs. “Now you know too. You’re in the circle, Slayer. And even though I’m terrified of what they might do next, I’m not running anymore. Not when I finally have something special worth fighting for.”
