Page 17 of Grim’s Angel

“Steady, Angel.”

I am beginning to suspect he calls me that because he enjoys watching me pretend it does not affect me.

“McKenna,” I remind him, without much conviction.

Striker’s mouth twitches, but he wisely keeps his opinion to himself. He nods toward the suitcase strapped behind the passenger seat.

“Want me to get that?”

The fact that he asks catches me by surprise.

“Please.”

“The transport man’s gun is in the left saddlebag,” Grim tells him. “Get it to Torch.”

Striker nods. “I’ll log it.”

He unfastens the cargo straps and lifts the damaged suitcase from the rack.

“Should I warn Razor there’s a second patient?”

“It has had a difficult day.”

“So has Grim.”

“The suitcase complains less.”

Striker glances at Grim. “She has a point.”

“Medical room,” Grim says.

Striker opens the clubhouse door. “Already waiting for you, Prez.”

The interior does not resemble the dark rooms I imagined during the ride. Exposed brick surrounds a long wooden bar, worn leather couches, and a massive stone fireplace. Behind the bar, rows of amber bottles carry the same hooded skull and metallic wings as the men’s cuts. Matching cases are stacked beside a loading door.

“That skull appears to have a marketing department.”

Striker glances over his shoulder. “Our liquor brand keeps the lights on.”

“I assumed intimidation covered utilities.”

“Unreliable billing cycle.”

“Medical room,” Grim says.

Warm lights gleam across polished floors, while photographs, patches, and club memorabilia cover one wall. Everything feels rugged and lived-in, but nothing is neglected.

Men fall silent as we enter.

My pulse climbs.

Grim moves close enough that his arm brushes mine.

“Stay beside me.”

The instruction should feel controlling. Instead, it feels as though he has made a place for me in a room where I do not understand the rules.

No one approaches. No gaze lingers on my body, and no one tries to touch me. Several men notice the bruises around my wrist, and their expressions harden before they look away.