Page 6 of Break Me

And I know if Knox ever finds out what's really going on, I might as well start digging my own grave.

Samuel

Most of the club is already seated and eating when I walk in. Warm light spills across worn wood and leather, voices low, the air thick with the smell of roasted chicken and cinnamon drifts out of the kitchen. It should feel familiar, comforting. But tonight, it feels like a damn trap.

“Wolf,” Jenna calls from the kitchen. Mouse’s girl doesn’t even look up from the stove. “Grab a seat and get some food into you.”

“Sure thing,” I reply, trying not to wince as my ribs protest every step.

The main room is already crowded when I walk in. The guys have shoved several tables together near the fireplace, claiming their usual territory. Plates sit half-empty in front of them, beer bottles scattered between baskets of fries and crumpled napkins, while the conversation bounces from one end of the group to the other.

From the snippets I catch, they're still dissecting last night's fallout.

I should've been here twenty minutes ago, but finishing Raven's car slowed me down.

Knox’s dad, Jon, sits at the head of the table, the old leather of his cut worn thin at the shoulders. He’s the founder and now retired president of the Blackwater MC, but no one at these tables forgets who taught them how to survive. Right now, he’s listening more than talking, shoulders tense and eyes narrowed.

I walk in just in time to catch the tail end of Bishop’s sentence.

“…should’ve seen it earlier,” he mutters, leaning back with a bottle in hand, voice low.

“We did,” Knox answers, clipped. “Just didn’t matter once they got twitchy.”

A few heads turn when I approach the table. Everyone’s still trying to figure out how things went sideways last night and how close we came to real trouble.

“It’s about time,” Knox says, sliding his chair a little to make room. “We thought you bailed.”

“Didn’t bail,” I mumble. “Had things to finish.”

His gaze drops to my wrapped knuckles, then lower to the way I’m holding my side. “You ought to have someone look at that.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine.”

“You’re breathing like it’s not.”

“It’ll heal,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It always does.”

After a beat, he nods toward my hand.

“That from last night, too? Or something you ran into on your way here?”

“Last night,” I say. “All of it.”

A couple of the guys voice their agreement.

“Could’ve been worse,” Red adds. “Damn near was.”

Knox lifts his beer. “Lower your voices. The girls are right across the room, and I'd like to keep them from hearing about last night's bullshit.”

The table quiets for half a beat.

Mouse leans forward. “The charity ride’s still on for next month, yeah?”

The question gets everyone talking again. Someone mentions the route. Someone else complains about the cold. Knox’s dad starts arguing that they should switch the start time because last year half the club showed up late and blamed it on “traffic” in a town with one damn stoplight.

The guys laugh. Plates scrape. Bottles clink.

It’s normal.