Page 21 of Claimed By Lock

I pull into a spot at the edge of the lot, far enough from the entrance that I'm not blocking anyone's exit. Kill the engine. Swing off the bike.

And wait.

I lean against my Harley, arms crossed, facing the door. Not hiding. Not trying to be subtle. If anyone looks out a window,they'll see exactly what I am — a Sons of Ruin patch, standing alone in their territory, making no move to leave.

The message is clear. I'm here for a reason. And I'm not going anywhere until that reason walks out to meet me.

The sun drops lower. Shadows stretch across the parking lot. The neon sign flickers on, buzzing and popping, casting everything in shades of red and blue. Music thumps from inside — Skynyrd, cranked too loud, bass rattling the windows. Laughter.

They're having a good time in there. They don't know yet that the night's about to change.

I wait.

Five minutes. Ten.

A guy pushes out the door — thick beard, Road Kings prospect cut. Probably coming out for a smoke. He's got a lighter in his hand and a cigarette between his lips, and he's three steps into the parking lot before he sees me.

He freezes.

I don't move. Don't speak. Just hold his gaze and let him take in the patches on my chest. Sergeant-at-Arms. Sons of Ruin.

The cigarette stays unlit. He backs up slowly, one hand raised like I'm a wild animal he doesn't want to spook, and disappears back through the door.

Smart kid.

I wait.

The door bangs open.

Colt walks out like he owns the world. Shoulders back, chin up, that swagger I've seen on a hundred men who mistook ego for power.

A couple of prospects hover near the door behind him, not quite committing to following him into the lot. Smart. They want to see how this plays out before they get involved.

Colt spots me immediately. His whole body changes. That coiled aggression I've seen a dozen times in men like him. All ego, no control. He wants to hit something. Wants to prove he's the biggest dog in the yard.

He's about to learn he's not.

"The fuck are you doing here?"

I don't move from my bike. Don't stand up straighter. Don't shift my weight. Just look at him.

"We need to talk."

"We don't need to do shit." He's crossing the parking lot now. "You're on our turf, asshole. You know what that means?"

"It means I wanted to make sure you heard me clearly." I keep my voice low. Calm. Almost conversational. "No misunderstandings."

"Misunderstandings?" He laughs — ugly, mocking. Playing to his audience. "You think I misunderstand something? You're fucking my girl. That's pretty clear."

"She's not your girl. She left you three months ago."

"She doesn't get to just?—"

"She does."

The words cut through his bluster like a blade. Something in my tone makes him stop mid-sentence. The prospects shift by the door, exchanging glances.

"She gets to leave," I continue. Same flat calm. "She gets to move on. She gets to be with whoever she wants. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked. The fact that you can't accept it doesn't change reality. It just makes you pathetic."