Page 25 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

"Petra’s intel," Austin says, tapping the folder. "The clerk filed it an hour ago. Right-of-passage easement. They’re claiming civil legal rights to the south dirt track on your property."

I look at the folder. The sting of the violation burns fresh.

"It’s a bluff," Logan states, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "They don't have the backing to force a civil dispute in open court, but they know the sheriff can't arrest them for trespassing if they carry stamped paperwork. It buys them a window to move product over the ridge without local law enforcement interference."

"They aren't moving anything over that ridge," Alas says from behind me. The violent promise in his voice drops the temperature in the room. "The trail is dead."

"The Syndicate lieutenant is escalating," Austin says, looking between Logan and Alas. "They used scouts. Then wiretaps. Now they’re weaponizing civil law. If they establish a permanent supply line through the bee farm, they cut our northern patrol grid in half."

Logan looks at me.

"The property is in your name, Susan," Logan says. "The club can flood the tree line with brothers. We can lock down the perimeter. But the paper gives them an excuse to bring local authorities into the crossfire. If we engage them on your land, it becomes a public warzone. You need to evacuate. We have a secure bay here at the compound."

The word evacuate hits my ears like a physical blow.

Two years of fighting. Two years hauling my grandfather’s legacy through frozen winters, failed queens, and plummeting honey yields. Two years refusing to let the wild meadow swallow the property.

I look at the manila folder. I look at Logan Gunnar.

I don't shrink. I don't apologize.

"I’m not leaving my farm," I say. My voice rings out in the acoustics of the Chapel, sharp and final. "My grandfather built those hive boxes with his bare hands. The bees are preparing for the winter cluster. If I leave them, they die. If I abandon the land, the Syndicate wins by default."

Silence drops over the room. Total.

Mac stops drinking his coffee. Austin tilts his head, a faint gleam of respect lighting his eyes.

Behind me, Alas’s massive hands tighten on the back of my chair. The wood groans under his grip. The pride radiating from him is a physical wave of heat against my back. I’m his woman, and I’m standing my ground in a room full of killers, unafraid.

"I don't need the club to flood the tree line," I tell the President of the MC. "I don't need an evacuation team. I’m holding the property."

Logan’s eyes narrow slightly. "You can't hold a mile of dense pine against the Syndicate alone, Susan."

"She isn't alone," Alas says, the words breaking out of his throat like a threat.

He steps out from behind the chair, moving to stand at my side. He places his hand flat on the oak table, leaning into Logan’s space. A prospect challenging a patched President. The tension in the room spikes to a lethal high.

"The farm is mine," Alas states. The unhinged possession in his voice leaves zero room for debate. He isn't talking about the deed. He's talking about me. "The south trail is mine. The perimeter is mine. Nobody steps foot on that dirt unless I put them in it. The club stays off the ridge. I handle the Syndicate."

Logan stares at Alas. The silence stretches, taut as a wire about to snap.

The iron door of the Chapel suddenly swings open.

The hinges groan in protest. Footsteps, deliberate, echo against the floorboards.

A man steps into the room. He wears the leather cut of the Broken Halos, the Vanguard rocker stitched across his chest. Oliver Gunnar. The brother who once lived alone up on the high ridge, the ghost who clears threats before they ever reach the compound.

He doesn't look at Austin. He doesn't look at Mac.

Oliver walks to the center of the table. He reaches inside his leather cut and pulls out a folded topographical map of the eastern ridge. He drops it flat onto the carved reaper logo, right on top of the Syndicate’s legal folder.

He taps one blunt finger onto the squiggly contour line marking my south dirt trail.

"It runs through," Oliver says. His voice is low and hollow, carrying the chill of the high altitude.

He lifts his hand, his cold, flat gaze cutting to Alas.

"Hold the line."