Chapter: 2 Finding Sanctuary

She stared down at the glass in her hands, her knuckles white against the condensation. The noise of the bar pressed in on her, laughter, shouts, music, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own pulse. Emily woke to the sound of engines.

The low rumble shook the walls and rattled the glass of the window above the spare bed. For a heartbeat, she thought she was back there — in the place she’d sworn she’d never return to. Her chest tightened, air locking in her lungs, but then the smell of motor oil and coffee drifted through the crack under the door. Not her old life. Somewhere new.

The thin blanket clutched in her hands was warm, but her palms were slick with sweat. She forced herself to sit up, swallowing back the panic before it took root.

She’d spent the night above the Black Vipers’ clubhouse, a spare room Rhett had shown her after Grim’s quiet nod of approval. The bed was hard, the sheets smelled faintly of smoke, but she’d slept deeper than she had in weeks. Until now.

Another engine roared, followed by a burst of laughter from below. Male voices, loud and rough, but not angry.

Emily slipped her shoes on and crept to the door. She hesitated with her hand on the knob, heart thudding. She didn’t belong here. She knew that. But her stomach ached with hunger, and the smell of coffee was stronger now.

The common room below buzzed with life. Men in black leather vests lounged at tables, mugs in hand, voices booming as they swapped stories and traded jokes. Someone shouted over a game of pool. Music hummed low in the background.

Every head turned when Emily descended the stairs.

Her steps faltered. Dozens of eyes — sharp, curious, assessing — locked on her. For a moment, the panic returned, burning hot behind her ribs.

But then Rhett appeared. He was leaning against the bar, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When he caught her eyes, he tipped his chin like he’d been expecting her all along.

“She’s with me,” he said simply, his voice carrying just enough weight to silence the questions before they came.

Grim sat at the bar beside him. His mug lowered, his eyes softened, and he motioned for her to sit. “Morning, Emily.”

The way he said her name was steady, calm — like a man speaking to a skittish animal he didn’t want to spook. She managed a faint nod and slid into a seat at the end of the bar.

The bartender, a woman in her thirties with dark hair pulled into a braid, set a plate of eggs and toast in front of her. “Eat,” she said, voice kind but firm.

Emily’s stomach twisted, but she picked up the fork. Her hands trembled faintly. She hated that they could see it.

“You get used to the noise,” Grim said, taking a sip of his coffee. His gaze lingered on her, but it wasn’t prying. It was knowing. “First time I ever slept under the same roof as these engines, thought the world was ending. It took me a while to realize they were the sound of family.”

Emily froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. Family. The word hit harder than she wanted it to.

Grim leaned closer to Rhett, lowering his voice but not enough to keep her from hearing. “She’s wound tight, son. Don’t push her. Don’t crowd her. You press, she’ll shatter.”

Rhett nodded once, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flicked to Emily’s hands — still shaking as she tried to eat.

Grim’s voice carried a weight only Rhett could fully understand. “I’ve seen that kind of fear. I’ve lived it. It doesn’t go away easily. If she’s here, she needs space. Respect.”

Emily’s breath caught. She dropped her fork and pressed her palms flat to the counter, willing the heat in her face to cool.

She hated being seen clearly. But she also couldn’t ignore the strange steadiness in Grim’s words, or the quiet patience in Rhett’s gaze.

Rhett leaned back in the booth, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He didn’t look at her like the others had, not with suspicion or curiosity. He just… watched, steady and patient, like he’d sit there all night if that’s what it took.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said finally, his voice quieter than before, stripped of that sharp edge he’d used on Trigger. “Not until you’re ready.”

Emily swallowed, her throat tight. She wanted to say thank you, but the words snagged against the fear still coiled inside her. So she just nodded, quick and small.

Rhett gave a short nod back, as if that was enough. “Good.”

The silence stretched, but this time it wasn’t crushing. It was… almost safe. Strange, but safe.

Emily risked a glance at him. In the glow of the neon beer sign above their booth, his scar caught the light, a pale slash through the dark line of his brow. He should have looked dangerous — he did look dangerous — but something about the way he leaned back, giving her space, made him seem younger. Softer.

She caught herself staring and looked away fast, her cheeks heating.

Rhett smirked faintly, not mocking, just amused. “Storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” he said. “You can sit here. Nobody’ll bother you.”

Her grip on the glass loosened. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and whispered, “Okay.”

That single word, fragile as it was, settled between them like a promise neither of them understood yet.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, under the weight of Grim’s code and Rhett’s steady gaze, Emily Parker had taken her first step into a world that was equal parts danger and protection.

And deep down, Rhett Maddox already knew — he’d lay his life down before he let anyone take her back to the pain she’d run from. The common room buzzed around her, but Emily couldn’t shake the feeling of being on display. Every laugh, every glance over a mug, felt like it pressed against her ribs. She kept her eyes down, focused on the plate in front of her.

From the pool table, one of the bikers leaned on his cue stick, smirking. “Rhett, you bringing us strays now?”

The table chuckled, heads turning her way.

Emily’s chest tightened, a prickle of heat climbing up her neck. The fork slipped from her fingers, clattering against the plate. She fought the urge to bolt.

Before she could move, Rhett was already on his feet.

The smirk hadn’t even faded from the man’s face before Rhett’s fist snapped across his jaw. The crack of it silenced the whole room. The man staggered back against the table, pool balls scattering.

“Say it again,” Rhett snarled, voice low, sharp as a blade.

The biker’s hands lifted halfway in surrender. “Hey, easy—”

Rhett’s second punch landed harder, sending him sprawling to the floor. Chairs scraped as men shifted, but no one stepped in — not yet. The room held its breath.

Emily’s did too.

The fury in Rhett’s eyes was like nothing she’d seen before. His chest heaved, shoulders squared, his whole body vibrating with rage. For a split second, she saw the son of an outlaw president, the heir to a violent kingdom — a side of him that belonged in this world of fists, scars, and blood.

And it terrified her.

Not because she thought he’d hurt her — the anger wasn’t aimed at her — but because it was raw, wild, unrestrained.

Grim’s voice cut through the silence. “Rhett.”

Just his name. No threat, no shout.

Rhett froze, chest still rising and falling, then stepped back. His fists loosened, the storm in his eyes dimming. He glanced around the room, then finally toward Emily.

She was staring at him, wide-eyed, hands trembling on the edge of the bar.

His expression shifted instantly. The fury drained out, replaced with something softer, almost ashamed. He’d scared her. He knew it.

Emily swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. The panic pressed at her, but beneath it came something else — understanding. The blows hadn’t been for her. They’d been for her.

Rhett wiped his knuckles against his jeans, muttered something under his breath, then dropped back into the seat beside her. He didn’t look at her right away, but his jaw clenched tight.

The biker on the floor groaned, pushing himself up. No one laughed this time. No one said another word about “strays.”

The silence stretched, then slowly, the noise of the room returned — laughter, chatter, clinking mugs — like nothing had happened. But Emily could still feel the echo of Rhett’s fists in her chest.

He finally spoke, voice low. “Sorry you had to see that.”

Emily shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “You weren’t… mad at me.”

His eyes lifted to hers, steady and sure. “Never at you.”

Her chest loosened, just a little. She believed him.

For the first time, Emily realized that the same fury that terrified her might also be the only thing keeping the world from swallowing her whole.

And for reasons she couldn’t name, that thought scared her even more than the punches.

By the time the rain eased, the clubhouse had shifted into its afternoon rhythm. The roar of engines outside had faded to silence, replaced by the scrape of pool cues and the clink of glasses at the bar.

Emily sat stiff at a corner table, backpack still at her feet. She hadn’t left since Rhett’s fists cracked across that biker’s jaw. The sound replayed in her head, the memory split between fear and something else she couldn’t name.

Rhett slid into the chair across from her. He looked calm again, but his knuckles were raw, skin split just enough to show what he was capable of.

“You good?” he asked.

Emily forced a nod, though her pulse hadn’t steadied.

Rhett leaned back, crossing his arms. “Then come on. Better to meet the men now than sit in the corner waiting for them to stare holes through you.”

Her chest tightened, but she followed.

________________

The first man who approached was tall and wiry, grin sharp as a knife. His patch read Hawk.

“Well, well,” Hawk said, circling Rhett with a fox’s grin. “The prince of the Vipers finally brings somebody home. Thought you were married to your bike.”

Rhett’s jaw tightened, but Hawk’s smile stayed. He extended a hand to Emily. She gave the quickest shake she could manage before pulling back.

“Don’t let him bother you,” Rhett muttered. “Mouth runs faster than his wheels.”

“Truth hurts,” Hawk shot back, still grinning as he walked away.

________________

A shadow loomed, twice as wide. A man broad as a wall set a crate on the counter like it weighed nothing. His patch read Tank. His scowl softened when his eyes landed on Emily.

“She eat yet?” Tank asked Rhett.

“Yeah.”

Tank gave a slow nod. “Good.” His voice was low thunder. Then it boomed across the room: “Prospect! Get this gear stowed before I bury you under it!”

Emily’s gaze followed to the prospect — a kid maybe nineteen, sweat darkening his shirt as he hauled boxes without complaint.

Rhett leaned toward her. “That’s how it works. Prospect does the grunt work until he earns his patch. You prove loyalty. Respect. Takes years for some.”

Emily tilted her head. “And you?”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I’m patched. Full member.”

“You’re… what, my age?”

“Seventeen,” Rhett admitted. “You don’t get patched this young, not usually. But being Grim’s son changes things. Some of the brothers respect me. Some resent me. Either way, I don’t get to sit out. I pull my weight like everyone else — runs, collections, whatever the club needs.”

Emily blinked. The way he said it was flat, practiced, like he’d been repeating it his whole life.

“So you’re next,” she said quietly.

His eyes darkened. “That’s the plan. Whether I want it or not.”

________________

At the back, an older man sat silent, pale eyes like frost. His patch read Ghost. He hadn’t moved since she came in, but she felt him watching all the same.

“He won’t talk much,” Rhett murmured. “But you want someone at your back, it’s him. He’s been through wars — in-country and out. Club legend.”

Emily swallowed. Something in Ghost’s stare told her she didn’t want to know the details.

________________

They ended up back at their table. Rhett leaned forward, resting his arms on the scarred wood.

“This place… it’s not just chaos. It’s a chain of command. My old man’s President. Then Vice President, Sergeant-at-Arms, Road Captain, Treasurer. Everyone has a job. Everyone answers to someone. It keeps order.”

Emily studied the men around them. Laughter, shoves, arguments — but underneath it was structure. Loyalty. Something binding them together.

“And the jobs?” she asked softly.

Rhett’s jaw clenched. “Some clean. Some not. But it’s family. You pull your weight, you earn your place. And once you’re in, you don’t walk away.”

Family. The word pressed like a bruise against her chest.

Emily dropped her gaze to the patch stitched into his chest — a viper coiled, fangs bared. He wore it like armor, but she could see how heavy it sat on his shoulders.

For the first time, she realized Rhett wasn’t just a boy who fought for her. He was a son carrying the weight of a legacy that scared even him

By late afternoon, the clubhouse had settled into a rhythm. The storm had passed, bikes lined the gravel outside in perfect rows, and the steady buzz of conversation filled the air. Laughter drifted from the pool table, the scrape of chairs echoed as men shifted around, and Cherry’s cooking sent the smell of grease and onions rolling out from the kitchen.

Emily sat at a table off to the side, her backpack at her feet. She watched the prospect struggle under the weight of a beer keg, arms trembling as he staggered toward the bar. A chorus of chuckles followed him, though no one stepped in to help.

Her stomach twisted. It felt cruel.

“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Rhett said, sliding into the chair across from her. He leaned forward, forearms braced against the scarred wood, his eyes steady on hers. “That’s his place. He’s a prospect. Everyone starts there. You haul, you scrub, you fetch, you bleed. Until you’ve proven yourself worthy of the patch.”

Emily frowned. “And how long does that take?”

“Depends,” Rhett said. “Could be a year, could be five. Some don’t make it at all. But that’s the point. The patch has to mean something.”

Her eyes drifted to the black leather on his shoulders, the coiled serpent stitched across his chest. “And you earned yours.”

“Damn right,” Rhett said, no hesitation. “Started prospecting younger than most. Took every job they threw at me, no matter how rough. Fought harder, worked longer. Nobody handed this cut to me — I bled for it.” He touched the patch lightly, pride burning in his eyes.

For the first time since she’d met him, Emily didn’t just see the dangerous boy with fists that scared her. She saw a young man who knew exactly who he was — and who he was going to be.

________________

Rhett sat back and ticked off names on his fingers. “You asked how it works? Here it is. My old man — Grim — is President. Nobody questions his word. Vice President’s Riker, been here nearly as long as him. Sergeant-at-Arms is Hawk. He keeps discipline, makes sure nobody steps out of line.”

Emily blinked. “Hawk? The one with the big mouth?”

Rhett smirked faintly. “The same. He’s meaner than he looks when he has to be. Road Captain’s Diesel — plans runs, keeps the bikes moving. Treasurer’s Stitch, handles the cash. Then you’ve got full-patch members who vote on club decisions.”

Her gaze shifted toward the prospect, now mopping the floor with his head down. “And him?”

“Bottom rung,” Rhett said flatly. “Prospect. Does what he’s told until the club decides he’s worthy. You don’t just wear the viper. You earn it.”

He paused, then tapped his chest again. “And then you’ve got Enforcers. That’s me, Tank, and Ghost. We make sure respect is kept. Inside the club and outside. If someone crosses us, we handle it.”

Emily’s breath caught. “Enforcer?”

“Yeah,” Rhett said, his eyes hardening just slightly. “It means if someone threatens the patch, or anyone under it, I’m the one they answer to.” He leaned in closer, voice low but steady. “It’s why I hit that bastard earlier. Not just because he disrespected you. Because he disrespected me by thinking I’d let it slide.”

Emily’s pulse quickened. She remembered his fists, the fury in his eyes. It had terrified her. But hearing it now, she realized it hadn’t been wild anger — it had been duty. The same duty that tied Ghost to his silence and Tank to his strength.

“You see chaos,” Rhett said, softer now. “But what we have here is order. It’s structure. Every man knows his place. Every man knows his brothers will lay down their lives if it comes to it. And one day…” His jaw tightened, but not with resentment — with determination. “One day, I’ll sit in my father’s chair. And I’ll be the one making sure the brotherhood lives on.”

Emily looked at him, really looked. His certainty was a sharp contrast to the storm inside her. He wasn’t trapped by this life — he was reaching for it with both hands.

And for the first time, she wondered if being close to him meant stepping into that world too.

The long wooden tables had been pushed together in the clubhouse, plates stacked high and pitchers of beer sweating under the yellow glow of the overhead lights. The room hummed with voices, laughter, and the scrape of chairs.

Emily hovered at the edge, her backpack still slung over her shoulder like armor. She wasn’t used to meals like this — not loud, not crowded, not filled with men in black leather whose lives looked carved from asphalt and steel.

“Sit,” Rhett said, guiding her toward an empty chair near the center of the table. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it left no room for argument.

She slid into the seat, her pulse quickening when she felt the weight of eyes on her. But then the chair across from her scraped back, and Grim sat down with a plate that looked more like a feast than a meal. His beard was still damp from the rain, his heavy rings clinking against the wood as he set the plate down.

“Eat,” he said simply.

Cherry swept past with a tray of steaming bowls, setting one in front of Emily before she could protest. The smell made her stomach growl, and heat rushed to her face.

“Don’t be shy,” Cherry said, her tone brisk but warm. “You’re too thin as it is. Food’s hot. Eat while it lasts.”

Emily mumbled a soft thank-you and picked up her fork.

________________

The room buzzed as plates were passed and pitchers poured. Hawk sat a few chairs down, cracking jokes that made Tank roll his eyes. Diesel leaned forward, sketching out tomorrow’s run with his hands while Stitch muttered about numbers and cash. Even Ghost was there, silent as always, eyes scanning the room with the stillness of a hawk perched high above.

For all their scars, tattoos, and violent edges, Emily saw something she hadn’t expected. The way Tank pulled a chair out for Cherry. The way Hawk poured beer for the older members before filling his own glass. The way Grim listened when one of the prospects spoke, even if the kid stumbled over his words.

There was order here. Respect.

________________

At the head of the table, Grim lifted his mug. The room fell quiet instantly, like someone had hit a switch. His voice carried, low and steady.

“To the brotherhood,” he said. “To the patch. To family — blood or chosen.”

Mugs clashed together, voices echoing the words.

Emily froze. Family. The word struck her like a fist. For so long, family had meant nothing but fear, silence, and bruises that never healed. Here, it meant something entirely different.

She felt Rhett’s eyes on her. She glanced his way and found him watching, not with pressure, but with something like understanding. He clinked his glass against hers gently, the faintest smile tugging his lips.

“To family,” he said quietly.

Emily swallowed hard, but raised her glass. The words caught in her throat, but she whispered them anyway. “To family.”

________________

The meal went on with stories and laughter. Hawk teased a prospect until the kid nearly dropped his fork, but the grin on Hawk’s face softened when the boy sat straighter, pride flickering in his eyes.

For every rough edge, Emily saw the respect woven into the room. When Cherry spoke, men quieted. When a child wandered in — Tank’s niece, hair braided with ribbons — half the table turned protective in an instant, shifting plates out of reach, their grins wide and genuine.

Emily’s chest ached. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she wasn’t just tolerated. She was welcomed.

________________

Later, as plates cleared and mugs emptied, Grim leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to Rhett. “You did good today.”

Rhett frowned slightly. “At what?”

“Protecting what matters,” Grim said. His gaze flicked briefly to Emily, then back to his son. “An enforcer isn’t just fists. It’s knowing when to use them, and why.”

Emily’s breath caught. The reminder of Rhett’s earlier outburst still lingered like a bruise in her memory — terrifying, yes, but not reckless.

Rhett dipped his head, the faintest nod. For a moment, the pride in Grim’s eyes shone brighter than the neon lights above.

________________

Emily sat quiet, fork pushed aside, her chest tight. She wasn’t ready to call this family. Not yet. But as Rhett leaned close and murmured, “Told you — nobody here’s gonna hurt you,” she realized something had shifted.

For the first time in years, she felt the smallest flicker of what safety might look like.

Dinner had ended in laughter and clinking mugs, but as the clubhouse settled, the noise thinned. Some of the men drifted toward the bar for another round. Others peeled off toward the back rooms, their boots echoing against the floorboards.

Emily found herself outside, leaning against the railing of the porch. The night air was damp, the storm clouds breaking apart, stars struggling through the haze. She drew her jacket tighter, hoping the cool air would steady the knots in her chest.

The door creaked open behind her. Rhett stepped out, the glow of a cigarette ember flaring in the dark before he exhaled smoke into the night. He leaned against the post a few feet away, shoulders loose, gaze fixed on the gravel lot where the bikes slept in rows.

“You didn’t eat much,” he said after a beat.

Emily shrugged. “Not used to… all that.”

He nodded, flicking ash into the night. “Takes time.”

Silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of cicadas. Then Emily’s eyes drifted to his hands — scarred knuckles, still raw from the punch earlier. The image of him slamming his fist into that man’s face burned in her mind.

“You’ve done that a lot,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

Rhett’s head tilted, smoke curling past his lips. “Done what?”

“Fought.” Her voice wavered. “Hit people. Like that.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer right away. Then he ground the cigarette out on the railing and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I’ve fought. More than I should’ve.”

Emily swallowed, the question pressing before she could bury it. “You have… a record?”

A dry chuckle escaped him, humorless. “Juvenile started keeping tabs on me when I was thirteen. First charge was assault. Some older kid jumped one of our prospects’ little brothers. I broke his nose. Then it was trespassing. Vandalism. Street brawls. By fifteen, the cops had my name memorized.”

Her stomach flipped. Thirteen. He’d been just a boy.

“Spent nights in juvie,” Rhett went on, his voice even, not bragging but not ashamed. “Grim pulled me out more times than I can count. Told me if I was gonna use my fists, I better learn when and why. That’s how I ended up prospecting early. Better to fight under the patch than waste my life in a cell.”

Emily hugged her arms tighter around herself. His words weren’t boastful. They were fact — the truth of who he was and the life he’d been shaped by.

“Doesn’t scare you?” she asked softly.

Rhett’s eyes flicked to her then, sharp under the porch light. “It should.” His tone was flat, honest. Then it softened. “But it shouldn’t scare you. I don’t put hands on people who don’t deserve it. I sure as hell don’t put hands on women. That’s not who I am.”

The tightness in her chest loosened, just a little. He didn’t say it like a man trying to convince her — he said it like a vow.

“You’re an enforcer,” she said, her voice steadier now.

Rhett nodded. “That’s my role. Me, Ghost, and Tank. We’re the ones who keep order. If someone disrespects the patch, or anyone under it, we make sure it’s corrected.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “When I hit that guy earlier, it wasn’t just about you. It was about the patch. About showing nobody gets away with disrespect.”

Emily’s pulse quickened, but not from fear this time. He wasn’t excusing himself. He was explaining.

“And if that scares you,” Rhett said quietly, “then you need to know now — this is who I am. This is the life I’m building. One day, I’ll run this club. But I won’t ever be the kind of man who hurts the people he’s supposed to protect.”

The conviction in his voice left no space for doubt.

Emily turned her face toward the stars, her throat tight. She wasn’t ready to share her own scars, not yet. But hearing his, spoken so plainly, planted something in her chest she hadn’t felt in years.

Trust. Fragile, but real. The night had cooled, a sharp bite in the air as the moon rose over the clubhouse. Out back, the fire pit glowed, flames licking at the dark sky, sparks drifting upward like tiny embers of war stories waiting to be told.

Emily hesitated at the doorway, her arms wrapped tight across her chest. The voices carried through the night — deep laughter, rough jokes, the scrape of bottles clinking together. She should have stayed inside. Should have kept to herself.

“Come on.”

Rhett’s voice came from behind her. He nudged her gently toward the fire, his hand brushing the small of her back in the barest touch. “Nobody bites. Not unless Hawk’s had too much whiskey.”

Her lips twitched despite herself.

The circle shifted as Rhett led her to an empty spot. Tank was there, his massive frame lit orange by the fire. Hawk lounged with his boots kicked toward the flames, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Ghost sat apart, silent as stone, his pale eyes locked on the fire itself. A few other patched men leaned back in their chairs, beer bottles balanced on their knees.

The moment she sat, conversation dulled, eyes cutting her way. Rhett cleared his throat. “She’s good.”

That was enough.

________________

Hawk smirked, flicking ash into the dirt. “Guess it’s story time, huh? Prospect, cover your ears. We wouldn’t want you scared off before you earn your patch.”

The kid sitting at the edge of the circle flushed but didn’t move.

Tank grunted. “Leave him be. Kid’s got grit.” He glanced at Emily, then back at the fire. “Since we’re telling stories… I ever tell you about the wreck on 67?”

A few groans answered him.

“Again?” Hawk rolled his eyes.

“Shut it.” Tank leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice dropped lower. “Car flipped on its roof, two kids strapped in the back. Gasoline leaking everywhere. Half the town just stood there, scared it’d blow. But you don’t leave kids behind. Not ever. Pulled both of them out before the fire hit.”

Emily’s throat tightened. She searched his face for exaggeration, but Tank’s eyes were steady, his tone simple.

“That’s Tank for you,” Hawk muttered, shaking his head. “Looks like a grizzly, heart like a damn teddy bear.”

The laughter that followed was rough, genuine.

________________

Hawk tipped his head back, blowing smoke into the night. “Fine. My turn. Out on the I-40 run couple years ago, Jackals thought they could tail us. I cut back on ‘em, made ‘em eat gravel. You should’ve seen the look on that bastard’s face when his bike slid out.”

“Nearly killed yourself in the process,” one of the men muttered.

“Details,” Hawk said with a grin. “Point is — don’t trail me unless you want asphalt for dinner.”

The men chuckled again, shaking their heads.

Emily sat stiff, but the edge in her chest loosened as she listened. For all the smoke and bravado, there was warmth here.

________________

Finally, Ghost stirred. The firelight carved deep shadows into his lined face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice, when it came, was rough and low, like gravel dragged over steel.

“Vietnam,” he said simply.

The circle went still.

“Left two brothers in a jungle I never saw again. Came home, nobody gave a damn. Vipers gave me a patch. Gave me a family. Haven’t left since.” His pale eyes lifted, scanning the men, then landed briefly on Emily before returning to the fire. “That’s all.”

Silence hung heavy for a long moment. Even Hawk didn’t crack a joke.

Emily’s hands gripped her knees, her chest tight. The way Ghost said it — blunt, stripped of detail, scarred with truth — made her feel the weight of what this brotherhood meant.

It wasn’t just leather and bikes. It was survival. It was scars carried together so no one had to bear them alone.

________________

Rhett leaned close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “This is what you need to understand. They’ll fight, they’ll bleed, they’ll raise hell. But when it comes down to it, every one of these men would die for the person sitting next to them. No hesitation.”

Emily swallowed, staring into the fire. The warmth licked her face, but the thought chilled her bones.

She wasn’t ready to believe she belonged in that circle. Not yet. But for the first time, she wanted to

The fire had burned low, the laughter fading into tired murmurs. Men drifted away one by one, chairs scraping softly against the dirt until only glowing coals remained. Emily sat with her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, her face warmed by the fading embers.

Rhett was still there. He hadn’t said much through the last stories, just sat with his bottle resting loose in his hand, eyes on the fire. Now, with the others gone, the silence stretched wide and heavy.

“You’re quiet,” Emily said softly.

“So are you.” His voice was low, steady, the kind of calm that pressed against her nerves and softened them.

She tucked her chin against her knees. “Guess I don’t have much to say.”

Rhett studied her through the firelight, his scar catching the glow, his dark hair falling forward. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t have to talk to be heard.”

Her breath hitched, though she tried not to let it show. Nobody had ever said something like that to her.

The quiet settled again, but this time it wasn’t crushing. It was safe.

________________

A breeze swept through, carrying the scent of smoke and gasoline from the bikes out front. Emily shivered, pulling her jacket tighter. Rhett noticed. Without a word, he shrugged out of his leather cut and draped it over her shoulders.

The weight of it startled her. Heavy. Warm. The leather smelled faintly of smoke and engine oil, but underneath, there was something sharper — something that was just him.

She looked up, wide-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Keep it on,” he said firmly. “At least till you’re warm.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, but she didn’t. The jacket swallowed her whole, and somehow, she felt safer under its weight.

________________

Rhett leaned back, his gaze fixed on the fire. “You know… I’ve had people around me my whole life. Brothers, prospects, my old man. But it doesn’t mean I’ve ever felt like someone actually saw me.”

Emily blinked, surprised. He wasn’t the type to open up easily — not the fighter, not the enforcer.

“And you?” he asked, finally meeting her eyes.

Her chest squeezed. She wanted to tell him everything — about the man she’d run from, about the way fear still clung to her bones, about how invisible she’d felt for so long she’d started to believe she was nothing. But the words stuck, too heavy to move past her throat.

She shook her head quickly, eyes darting back to the fire. “No.”

He didn’t press. He didn’t have to. The faint tremor in her voice, the way she curled into herself — it was enough.

________________

The silence stretched again, but it felt different this time. Closer. Their shoulders nearly touched, the space between them charged in a way Emily couldn’t name.

Rhett shifted, elbows braced on his knees. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “You scare easy when I’m pissed.”

She froze, her breath caught.

“I saw it,” he continued. “Back in the bar. When I hit that guy. You thought I was the kind of man who’d turn that on you.”

Emily swallowed hard. “I… didn’t know what to think.”

He nodded slowly. “You don’t have to believe me yet. But I’d never hurt you. Not you.”

The words pressed deep, too deep. Emily’s chest ached. She believed him — maybe more than she should.

________________

The fire cracked, sending a spark into the night. Neither of them moved.

Emily turned her face toward him, the glow catching her features. For a fleeting second, their eyes locked, and the world outside that circle of dying fire didn’t exist.

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t a kiss. But in the quiet, in the unspoken weight between them, both of them knew — something more was pulling them together.

They just didn’t know how to say it yet.

The morning sun glinted off rows of chrome, each Harley lined up in the lot like soldiers at rest. Emily squinted, shading her eyes as Rhett walked her down the row, his hand brushing lightly against the cool steel of the closest bike.

“Rule number one,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of pride. “Every man here rides a Harley. No imports. No knock-offs. Harleys are the bloodline.”

Emily arched a brow. “What happens if someone shows up with, I don’t know… a Honda?”

Rhett smirked. “Then we bury it. And maybe him with it.”

Her lips twitched. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” He ran a hand down the tank of his bike, the black paint gleaming in the sun. “This isn’t just about riding. It’s about loyalty. Legacy. Harleys don’t break easy, and neither do we.”

Emily studied the bike. It looked heavy, dangerous, like it belonged to another world. But the way Rhett touched it — reverent, careful — made her curious.

“You ever worked on one before?” he asked suddenly.

She shook her head quickly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Good thing I do.”

________________

He crouched by the bike, grabbing a rag and a wrench. “Come here. I’ll show you how to change the oil.”

Emily hesitated, then knelt beside him. The smell of gasoline and grease hit her nose, sharp but not unpleasant. Rhett rolled up his sleeves, his forearms slick with faint smudges of oil.

“First, you drain it,” he explained, loosening the bolt with a flex of his wrist. The black liquid poured into the pan beneath. “Then you replace the filter, fill it back up. Simple.”

He handed her the rag. “Your turn.”

Emily laughed nervously. “I’ll break it.”

“You can’t break what’s already broke half the time,” he said with a grin. “Come on. Loosen that right there.”

She pressed the rag against the bolt, fumbling with it. Rhett’s hand covered hers briefly, steadying her grip, guiding the motion. Heat shot up her arm at the contact, and she pulled back too quickly, her heart skipping.

The bolt finally gave, and oil splattered across her fingers, streaking black down her wrist.

Emily gasped, jerking her hand back. “Oh, God—”

Rhett barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Not bad for a rookie.” His eyes dropped to her smeared hand, then flicked back up with a sly grin. “Looks good on you. Dirty.”

The word hung between them, heavier than it should have been.

Emily froze, her breath catching. It wasn’t just the comment — it was the way he said it, low and rough, with a glint in his eyes that made her stomach twist. Heat spread up her neck before she could stop it.

She looked away fast, trying to laugh it off, but her chest felt tight, her pulse too quick. It wasn’t until she wiped her hand clean with the rag that she realized — the flush in her cheeks wasn’t just embarrassment.

Something inside her had stirred. Something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time.

And it terrified her almost as much as it thrilled her.