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But this is Sophie’s home, I’m just a visitor, an outsider. I remind myself that this isn’t about power—it’s personal, and for once, I’m on fucking unfamiliar ground.
As we exit the car, the clubhouse door swings open, revealing a scene straight from a biker archetype. A burly man, his head shaved clean, save for a long, braided beard, strides out clad in a leather vest—a president’s patch prominently displayed. By his side is the tattooed chap from Sophie’s office, the same one who showed up at her house.
Fucking great.
More figures emerge, forming a motley entourage. Among them, two appear as seasoned as the president: one, a tall man with a gray ponytail and haunted eyes, positions himself by the president’s side. His companion is a stockier version, marked by a thin, jagged scar over his right eye and a Celtic knot tattoo curling at his neck, his red hair unkempt.
Trailing them are two younger men, patch-holders too, by the looks of it, who seem only capable of ogling Sophie.
All, except for the tattooed chap, are wearing leather cuts adorned with club insignia, their appearances characterized by long rugged hair or beards. And all, except the tattooed chap, register varying degrees of surprise at Sophie's arrival.
“Sparrow?” The president, his face etched with lines of experience, lights up at the sight of Sophie, but the warmth quickly fades as his attention shifts to me.
I keep my face devoid of expression but my eyes are trained on him. The president’s stance shifts slightly, hands edging toward his waist with the practiced ease of someone who is no stranger to conflict.
“Who’s this?” he demands tersely, his words directed at Sophie but clearly meant for me. His glare is cold and assessing—like a guard dog sizing up a potential threat.
A familiar heat surges through me, an instinctive response not just to the challenge in his posture, but the blatant dismissal in his tone.
They’re either very unfriendly up here, or somehow they sense who I am.
“This is Nico—he’s a friend,” Sophie links her fingers through my left hand as though she senses my rising anger. She curls her other hand around my biceps, pushing her breasts into my side in a clear show of intimacy between us.
My irritation disappears, and without even thinking, I put my arm around her waist, then I incline my head to the bikers in a gesture of respect that costs me more than they’ll ever know.
“Really, Sparrow? A friend?” The one with the gray ponytail challenges, a deep scowl of displeasure on his face.
Sophie’s tattooed chap remains silent but from the glare directed at me, he echoes gray ponytail’s sentiment. There’s something else in his gaze—a glint of recognition. And disbelief. I peer at the tattoos on his arms and don’t see anything familiar.
Gray ponytail continues testily, “Considering how Rafe felt, Soph, you really think it’s appropriate to bring your ‘friend’ around here today?”
The need to assert control is nearly overwhelming. But before I can respond, Sophie jumps in, hands curled into fists, fire in her eyes.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate that we’re burying your son at all, Grease, so I’m not about to split hairs over the details of the guest list,” she snaps back, her fury so palpable it cuts through the tension.
“Leave it alone, Grease,” the president intervenes, his voice commanding yet weary as he strides across the lot to us. The moment he reaches us, he grabs Sophie up in a bear hug, lifting her clear off the ground. “It’s good to see you and to have you back home, Sparrow,” he murmurs, affectionately kissing her forehead.
“You too, Daddy. I’ve missed you so much,” she hugs him back. When she rests her cheek against the man’s chest, I see a flash of a different side of her, a side that’s soft and sweet—innocent, even.
Christ, the woman has more sides to her than a prism. It makes me wonder which one is the real her, and once again, I’m surprised by how much I want to find out.
“We didn’t know if you’d show today,” Sophie’s father continues, still hugging her as if he doesn’t ever want to let go.
“I, ah, of course, Daddy, I had to come say goodbye to Rafe.”
Her father looks about to argue but thinks better of it, finally releasing her. Sophie straightens, then returns to my arms before introducing me.
“Daddy, this is Nico Vitelli,” she gestures to me. “Nico, meet Phoenix, my father and the president of the Reaper Druids MC.”
Our handshake is firm, but I can’t resist holding his gaze just a beat longer than customary, letting my eyes do the talking. Phoenix’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second in silent recognition. He instantly understands that I’m not just any visitor.
Phoenix’s attention shifts back to Sophie before he signals to one of the younger patchholders. “Fang here cleared out his room when Mags mentioned you might be swinging by today. The brothers, of course, were skeptical, but it seems Mags was right on the money.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise, Daddy. Mags shouldn’t have spilled the beans,” Sophie interjects, her tone a mixture of affection and mild irritation.
“If I were any more surprised by your arrival, I’d be on the floor with a heart attack. Anyway, why don’t you and Nico settle in with your things before Rafe gets here?”
Sophie acknowledges that with a somber nod, then shares warm embraces with Grease, the one with the gray ponytail, and Razor, the stocky biker with shaggy red hair. As I gather her luggage from the trunk of the Impala, I notice the other guys are wise enough to keep their distance, satisfied with good-natured teasing and back thumps. All the while, the tattooed chap watches me warily, his posture rigid.
