Page 23 of Raw & Reckless

“Davis is actually sticking to his word,” Stryker rumbles, tossing a manila folder onto the center of the table. “He pulled the federal surveillance off King’s Logistics, and his superiors think the trail went cold. He’s packing his bags to transfer out of Port Royal by the end of the week.”

“Good riddance,” I grunt, crossing my arms over my chest. I don't give a damn where the bastard goes, as long as he stays far the hell away from Layla.

“The feds might be off our backs temporarily,” Wolf interjects, his voice low and calculating, “but the syndicate isn’t going to roll over. They definitely know we captured one of their men, and the others we dealt with in the alley are missing, presumed dead. We bought ourselves a breather, but the enemy is preparing to take another swing at the club. They’ll retaliate.”

“Let them come,” I say, the lethal, protective instinct flaring hot in my blood. “We’ll be prepared for anything they throw at us. This is our city.”

Stryker nods in grim agreement, finishing his drink. The meeting adjourns, and I step out of the war room and into the main bar area of the clubhouse.

The room is loud, filled with the familiar, chaotic sounds of my brothers unwinding—the crack of billiard balls, the low hum of classic rock on the jukebox, and the rough laughter of men who live on the edge. I grab a beer from the bartender and lean against the worn wood of the counter, talking shop with a few of the guys.

Then, the heavy front doors swing open. My heart stops in my chest.

Layla walks inside, flanked by Soraya and Hadley, the President and Vice President’s women, respectively. She looks breathtaking. Gone is the oversized, frumpy cardigan meant to hide her away from the world. She’s wearing a fitted black top and tight jeans that hug her lush, perfect curves, a leather jacket draped effortlessly over her shoulders.

I smile, a deep, overwhelming warmth flooding my chest at the sight of her. I love that she’s made fast friends with the growing number of women hanging around the club. She looks like she belongs here. She looks free.

She glances across the crowded room, and the second her striking indigo eyes lock onto mine, they light up with a brilliant, sparkling joy.

Without a moment of hesitation, she leaves the girls behind and practically races across the clubhouse floor toward me. The sight of this beautiful, fierce woman running to me makes my chest physically ache with how goddamn adorable she is.

I set my beer down and step forward, opening my arms just as she launches herself at me. “Mine,” I growl possessively, catching her effortlessly against my chest. “My little Moonflower.”

I wrap my arms tightly around her waist, spinning her around in a dizzying circle before lowering her back to her feet. I don’t care who is watching. I dip my head and kiss her with every ounce of passion and devotion burning in my veins, swallowing her soft, breathless gasp.

When I finally pull back, keeping her tucked securely against my side, I look out over the crowded bar. I don’t need to shout for the room to hear me. My stance, my grip on her, and the absolute reverence in my eyes say it all. I announce my claim on her, cementing her place not just as my woman, but as untouchable royalty within the Rebel Kings.

The entire clubhouse erupts. My brothers roar their approval, cheering, whistling, and banging their beer bottles against the tables in a deafening show of respect and family. Layla blushes a beautiful, deep crimson, burying her smiling face into my chest, but she doesn’t shy away. She leans into the noise, leaning into her new family.

Eventually, the club gives us our space, and we slip out the side door, stepping into the cool, salty air of the gravel parking lot.

The night sky is vast and clear, glittering with a million stars. I throw my leg over my custom chopper and hold out my hand, helping Layla climb onto the passenger seat behind me. She wraps her arms securely around my waist, pressing her soft curves flush against my back.

She leans forward, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Take me home,” she whispers.

A slow, deeply satisfied smile spreads across my face. “Whatever you want, Moonflower.”

I kick the engine to life, the powerful roar shattering the quiet night, and we pull out of the lot, driving up the winding, moonlit coast toward the safehouse.

As the wind whips past us, I realize that the isolated cabin in the woods was just a building before today. It wasn’t a true home until Layla walked inside and lit it up with her sweetness, her fierce resilience, and her innocent light.

I grip the handlebars, my heart swelling with a profound, unbreakable pride. I am so damn proud of her for stepping out of the shadows of her small, caged life and choosing to fly. I am the luckiest bastard in the world, knowing that out of all the paths she could have taken with her newfound freedom, she chose to spend her new life with me.

There’s a war brewing on the horizon with the syndicate, and the life of a Rebel King is never easy. But as I feel Layla’s arms squeeze tighter around my waist, anchoring me to the earth, I know none of that matters. We have each other. And no matter where this wild, reckless road leads us, we will ride it together.

EPILOGUE

LAYLA

The salty, biting wind off the Pacific Northwest coast whips through my hair, bringing with it the wild, untamed scent of the ocean and the damp earth of the surrounding pine forest. I lean against the heavy wooden railing of our wraparound porch, breathing in the crisp air without a single shiver.

Six years ago, a gust of wind like this would have sent me retreating behind the heavy oak doors of the Port Royal public library, shrinking into a dark corner with a book to hide from a world I was too terrified to touch. The girl who lived in that sterile, locked-down house feels like a ghost now—a distant memory of a bird trapped in a cage of misplaced guilt and suffocating control.

Today, I am no longer that sheltered, frightened girl. I stand tall, smiling when I see the Rebel Kings tattoo on my inner wrist, right where Phoenix once wrote his number. I’m not a member myself, but as Phoenix’s old lady, I wanted something permanent tying me to the club. I wanted to declare my permanent, unshakeable place in a family that protects its own through loyalty, not manipulation.

A high-pitched, delighted squeal cuts through the roar of the ocean waves. I look down toward the expansive, fenced-in yard sloping toward the cliffs. Our five-year-old son is sprinting across the thick grass, his unruly mop of dark brown hair flying as he chases after his eighteen-month-old little sister. She is toddling away from him as fast as her chubby legs can carry her, her striking, piercing green eyes wide with innocent mischief as she shrieks with laughter.

Watching them run free and unafraid under the open sky makes a profound, overwhelming warmth bloom wide in my chest. They will never know what it feels like to be locked away. They will only ever know the absolute, fierce protection of a father who would burn the world down to keep them safe, and the boundless freedom to grow into exactly who they are meant to be.