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Lennox frowns, pushing off the wall. “Guilt's eating him alive. That doesn't excuse him for shutting you out like this. You're family. The club owes you more than radio silence.”
“Tell him that,” I mutter, pulling up additional sheriff logs. “I'm fine. Focused on the tech side. Redline's still trying to push their product through alternative routes. I'm setting digital traps on their comms channels. Nicholas is still texting me. It’s more threats—he’s coming for you and me, Len. Maybe it’s time everyone knows who I really am?” He stands silently longer than necessary, choosing his next words carefully.
Eventually, he nods. “When all this is over, we’ll tell everyone. At that point, it’s all out before we patch you. This was our home your whole life. It’s time for that to be permanent.” I nod in agreement. “Holler if you need anything at all, Tate. And If anything looks out of the ordinary, let us know. We will defend you and this club. We owe you big time,” he finishes before walking out.
Once the door shuts, I exhale slowly and lean back against the headboard. The club's collective guilt is almost touching in its own twisted-cute-boy way, but it doesn't fix Corbin's current behavior. Corbin’s push and pull game eats at the edges of my nerves—exhausting and infuriating. I want him—the dark, obsessive parts included—but I'm not going to chase a man who keeps shutting the door in my face.
The minutes tick by as I dive deeper into the work. I expand my monitoring setup—hacking into a wider network of traffic cameras, cross-referencing truck manifests with known Redline associates, running background checks on the bribe recipients Thomas named. I switch focus to the distribution hub next, making sure that once the debris is being sifted, no products or bodies are found that we don’t know about. Another text from a new unknown number lights up my phone.
Unknown:
Miss that smart mouth of yours, baby. Bet none of those fuckers know how to shut you up like I do. Redline's regrouping, no thanks to you. You'll pay for leaving me. Maybe I’ll give you your brother’s head as a welcome home present.
Delete. Trace. Block. The pattern is becoming predictable, but it still sends a chill down my spine. I remember too well how Nicholas used to gaslight me, control my every move, make me doubt myself. Those days are over. I'm with the Iron Wraiths now. With Switch—even if he's currently acting like a distant asshole.
The morning drags on in a blur of code and vigilance, dawn shifts to full morning light. As I track potential retaliation points from Redline, set up keyword alerts for any mention of the club or my name in intercepted comms, and monitor sheriff movements that might trace back to us. Hours pass like this—me alone with my screens.
Come on, Switch. Don't make me start hacking your bike's GPS just to track your brooding ass down.
I text him and Lennox in the mid-afternoon.
Me:
Nicholas is sending more threats. Tracer running strong. Nothing but a triangulated area for now. If I can find him, I’ll let you know.
No immediate response. The pull in my chest tightens—pure frustration mixed with that stupid, undeniable magnetic want I can't seem to shake no matter how annoyed I get. Switch is out there somewhere coordinating, probably covered in dust and that focused intensity, thinking that keeping distance is somehow protecting me. Idiot. The push-and-pull dynamic is grating on my last nerve with every ignored message.
My phone vibrates again. I know it's Nicholas sending yet another text through a fresh burner number.
Unknown:
Think your new club friends can actually protect you? I know about the warehouses. I'm coming for you soon, baby. You always bleed so pretty when you're scared.
I save the message, adding it to the evidence file along with metadata, before deleting it. He's escalating fast, feeding my already high vigilance. I should loop the club in fully, but part of me wants to handle this myself. Prove to them—and myself—that I'm an asset, not a liability that needs constant shielding.
Lennox stops by again later in the afternoon, this time carrying a plate of actual food from the kitchen. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“Umm…probably not?” I say, taking the plate gratefully.
He sits down for a longer conversation this time, the overbearing concern mixed with genuine club loyalty. We talk tech details for a while—he asks smart questions about the traces I'm running on Nicholas, and I show him the latest patterns. It eases some of the isolation I've been feeling, but the core frustration with Switch lingers like a bad itch.
After Len leaves, I'm back at the screens, monitoring the compound and checking all the ingoing and outgoing for anything out of the ordinary. As far as Corbin's continued radio silence, it gnaws at me. He claims me fiercely, like I'm his entire world one night, then treats me like a distraction the next day. I'm pissed as hell, but that dark, obsessive attraction to him…Well, that hasn't faded one bit. Not even close.
Nicholas texts through yet another new number as night falls. I'm getting sick of this bullshit.
Unknown:
Found your little biker. He can cover himself in blood all he wants. It won't save you from me. I own every piece of you, Tatum. Everything will burn soon.
The threats are ramping up in intensity, only fueling my determination. I trace it faster this time, logging every detail, preparing reports for when Lennox stops back in again.
The compound hums with heightened alert outside my door. If the texts are escalating, then Redline is hurting. Nicholas is circling closer than ever.
I keep working late into the night, setting new digital traps, expanding monitoring across more networks, staying vigilant on every possible front. Annoyed beyond measure. Fiercely independent. Ready for whatever comes next.
The push and pull with Switch only makes me want to pull him closer the next time I see him and force him to face it. He can brood and ignore all he wants. I'm here, unyielding, and hacking away at the darkness right alongside this club. Whether he wants to or not. Next time we see each other, there will be hell to pay.
CORBIN
