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Let him stew in it.
I turn toward the door, but Corbin catches my wrist gently one last time, his fingers warm and lingering. “This isn’t over, Tatum. Not the fight. Not the questions. Not whatever this thing is growing between us—even if it should be.”
I glance back over my shoulder, that signature smirk finding its way back despite the deep exhaustion settling into my bones. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, but you don’t get to keep pushing me and pulling me. I’m not a fucking rag doll for your entertainment.”
Stepping out into the main area of the gym, the full weight of the club’s expectations, the shadows of my complicated past, Thomas’s betrayal, and this intense, complicated connection with Corbin settles heavily onto my shoulders. I broke far more than just a nose today.
The real battles are only beginning—even if they don’t realize it yet. And I’ll be damned if I let any of them drag me down without one hell of a fight.
CORBIN
Ican still taste the salt and copper on my tongue from when I kissed her split lip in the medical room. My hands remember every bruise on her ribs, the way her thighs opened for me, the fire in her eyes when she called me out for lying.
Fuck. Maybe Fuse is right. I do need to get laid.
“Switch.” Diesel’s voice cuts through the haze. He’s already on his bike, checking the saddlebags as he tosses a pointed glance my way. “You with us or you checking out?”
I grunt and swing my leg over my bike. “I’m here. Let’s get this done.”
Ronnie and Ellis nod, pulling on their cuts. Those two don’t ask too many questions when I tell them we’re riding out. I swear they both get off on the idea of bashing in someone’s head. When I even mentioned that we have a couple fucks sniffing around, they were all too happy to come along. I swear to God, if it’s Redline, then tonight we’ll remind them why this is our stretch of road. I check my gun, sliding it into the holster under my cut, and roll my shoulders.
Every muscle is still wired from watching Tatum destroy Thomas yesterday. She moved like someone who’s been bleeding her whole life and learned to make it count. I was proud as hell and turned on. She’s too good at surviving on her own, and that’s the part that fucks me up. We roll out. Four bikes, formation tight. The night air hits my face like a slap, warm and clean, but my head is still in that locker room.
Her voice echoes over the engine roar: You don’t get to drag me around like I’m your property. I grip the throttle harder.
She’s wrong. She’s mine. Even if she doesn’t know how true that is yet.
Diesel rides point. I drop back a little, letting the wind tear at my thoughts. Every mile we put between me and the clubhouse feels like a mistake. What if she’s still hurt? What if Lennox decides to have another “family friend” talk with her while I’m gone? The jealousy burns low in my gut, hot and ugly. He pulled her out of some bad shit. Fine. But the way he looks at her, the way he threatened me—that’s not just club business.
“Eyes up,” Diesel calls over the comms. A truck passes too close on the two-lane. I ease off the throttle, scanning the dark. Every shadow feels like something is hiding in it tonight. We ride for forty minutes before Diesel signals the turn. An old warehouse district on the edge of town. Rusted fences, broken glass crunching under our boots once we kill the engines and stash the bikes behind a loading dock. The place reeks of piss and rust.
“Ronnie, Ellis—flank the south,” I order, voice low. “Diesel, with me on the door. We talk first. They twitch wrong, we end it fast. These assholes have been running their product too close to our routes. I want to know if it’s just them or if they’re part of something bigger.”
The guys melt into the shadows, disappearing around the corner. Diesel and I nod silently, agreeing like we have a million times. Creeping through the shadows, we hear the laughter floating from inside. Slipping through a side door, our boots quiet against the concrete. Inside, dim lights hang over crates and a couple of nervous-looking prospects, based on the lack of patch on their cuts. In the center of the room is the Devils’ vice president—a greasy fuck who goes by Snake—leaned against a stack of pallets like he owns the place.
Catching me out the corner of his eye, he cocks a smirk. “Switch,” he drawls, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t expect club royalty tonight.”
I step forward, Diesel at my shoulder. “You’ve been pushing into our territory. Bad choice on your part. Is this a you problem or is there someone else I should be directing my complaints to?”
Snake smirks. One of his guys shifts, hand twitching near his waist. The violence beckons to me like it’s trying to welcome me home.
Come on, motherfucker. Do it.
Words, of course, quickly turn into shoves fast.
At least, Snake doesn’t disappoint.
The shoves progress into fists. I catch the first prospect with an elbow to the jaw that drops him like the sack of shit he is. Diesel handles another. Ronnie and Ellis kick in the back door, scaring the shit out of a couple members, and the warehouse explodes into grunts and the wet smack of fist meeting skin. A punch slices through my cheek. I taste blood—mine this time. I barely contain the groan that wants to come out, as it makes me think of Tatum in that skimpy bra and split lip. Shoving past another one of their members, I drive my fist into Snake’s gut, then follow with a knee. He folds. I spit blood down on him.
Fucking pussy.
“Talk,” I growl, pinning him against a crate. “Who’s been feeding you info on our runs and is pushing you to move in? You and your boys know better than that bullshit.”
He spits out blood. “Fuck you, Switch. I heard you boys got enough problems with that new bitch of yours—”
I hit him again. Harder.
How the fuck does he know about Tatum being there?
