The Clubhouse

Chapter 2

Dawn Ellery's point of view

The heavy oak doors slam shut behind me with the finality of a tomb. I collapse onto my knees, gasping for breath, as the last traces of my light magic fizzle across my skin like dying fireworks. Around me, a world unlike any I've known materializes through the haze of my exhaustion — leather and chrome, whiskey and smoke, the low thrum of conversation suddenly silenced by my dramatic entrance. Dozens of eyes turn toward me, assessing, wary, curious. I've escaped Sorin, but what exactly have I fallen into?

My palms press against smooth wooden floorboards, worn to a dull shine by years of boot traffic. The air tastes different here — thicker, charged with something ancient that reminds me of the moment before lightning strikes. A bluesy guitar riff cuts off mid-note, the silence that follows heavy as a blanket.

"Jesus Christ," someone mutters from the shadows.

I force my head up, willing my vision to clear. The room swims into focus gradually, like a photograph developing. A bar stretches along one wall, bottles glinting in the low light. Motorcycles — massive, gleaming machines — stand like sentinels against the far wall, their chrome catching the glow from Edison bulbs hanging low from exposed beams. The air hangs thick with cigarette smoke, motor oil, and something else — something that smells like ozone and desert sage.

My dragon tattoo burns between my shoulder blades, no longer painful but alive in a way I can't explain. It pulses in time with my racing heart, as if awakening to something in this place.

I try to stand, but my legs tremble beneath me like newborn fawn's. The light inside me has retreated to a dull glow beneath my skin, exhausted by the explosion at the ward. I feel hollowed out, a shell scraped clean of everything but raw nerves and instinct.

Around me, the patrons of this strange sanctuary have gone still as statues. Men and women in leather cuts emblazoned with a stylized black motorcycle watch me with expressions ranging from shock to wariness to something that might be recognition. No one approaches. No one speaks. They wait, as if I'm a wild animal that might either attack or flee.

"Water," I manage, the word scraping past my dry throat. "Please."

The request breaks the spell. A woman with intricate tattoos spiraling up her neck slides a glass across the bar to a man who brings it to me, his movements careful, measured. He keeps his distance as he sets it on the floor within my reach, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Thank you," I whisper, reaching for the glass with trembling fingers.

The water tastes sweeter than anything I've ever known, cool relief flowing down my parched throat. With each swallow, I feel a fraction of strength returning, enough to finally push myself up to stand on unsteady legs.

The walls around me seem to hum with dormant energy, vibrating at a frequency just below hearing. It draws the remaining charge from my veins like a siphon, the building itself feeding on my desperation. Rather than frightening me, the sensation is strangely comforting — as if the place recognizes what I am, even when I don't.

I take an uneven step forward, then another. Each movement sends ripples of exhaustion through my body — knees quivering, shoulders rolling forward under invisible weight. The palm that unleashed that final burst of light against Sorin itches, magic still pulsing beneath the skin like a second heartbeat.

The crowd parts before me, a sea of leather and denim splitting to clear my path. No one touches me. No one speaks directly to me. But I hear the whispers trailing in my wake:

"—just like the old stories—"

"—light bearer—"

"—does Rain know—"

"—the twins are gonna lose their shit—"

None of it makes sense. None of it should matter. All I know is that I need to sit down before I collapse again, and the empty booth in the corner calls to me like a promise of safety.

I focus on that booth, on the cracked leather seats and scarred wooden table, and force my feet to carry me there. Each step seems to stretch the distance, time bending around my exhaustion. The clubhouse continues its muted observation of my progress, the silence punctuated only by the steady rhythm of watches clicking against chrome belt buckles and the soft creak of leather as people shift to follow my movement.

When I finally reach the booth, I slide onto the bench with a grateful sigh that borders on a sob. The leather seat cradles me, cool against the backs of my thighs. I bend my head, pressing my palms flat against the table's surface, and focus on breathing — just breathing — while the curious stares of the patrons prickle against my skin.

In and out. One breath at a time.

The walls continue their strange humming, the building's energy tangling with the remnants of my own power. It feels almost like a conversation, a question and answer I can't quite translate. My dragon tattoo responds in kind, a pleasant warmth now rather than the burning of before.

Gradually, the noise in the clubhouse resumes — cautious at first, then flowing back to its previous volume as the novelty of my entrance fades. Music starts again, a different track this time, something with a driving bass that vibrates through the floorboards. People return to their drinks, their conversations, though I feel their sideways glances, their continued awareness of my presence.

I keep my eyes closed, focusing inward, taking inventory of what remains of me after that explosive crossing. My body aches in ways I've never experienced, muscles strained from running, skin tender from channeling so much light. But beneath the exhaustion and fear lies something new — a strange certainty that I've crossed more than just a magical ward. I've stepped across a threshold in my own existence, from a life of mundane ignorance into... what?

I don't know what I am. I don't know what this place is, beyond the obvious trappings of a motorcycle club. I don't know why Sorin hunted me or why he couldn't follow me here. But for the first time since light erupted from my hands in that apartment hallway, I feel a fragile sense of safety.

The magic inside me settles like a cat finding a comfortable spot, no longer fighting to escape but purring contentedly against my bones. Whatever this place is, whatever these people are, my power recognizes them as kindred in some way I can't yet understand.

I lift my head finally, letting my gaze drift across the room. No one meets my eyes directly now, a courtesy that feels deliberate. They're giving me space to recover, to acclimate. Or perhaps they're simply waiting for someone with more authority to decide what to do with the strange, glowing woman who crashed through their doors.

Either way, I've found a momentary reprieve. A chance to catch my breath before facing whatever comes next. I lean back against the booth, letting the clubhouse's ambient energy flow through me, replenishing what I've lost.

For now, that has to be enough.

# Scene 2 - from Dawn Ellery's point of view

The clubhouse settles around me like a living thing, its heartbeat measured in clinking glasses and low murmurs. My breathing steadies as I scan the room with clearer eyes, taking in details I missed in my desperate entrance. Wood-paneled walls lined with framed photographs and motorcycle memorabilia. A jukebox in the corner spilling bluesy notes. The scent of whiskey and leather and something wild, untamed. That's when I see him — a man at the bar whose mere presence seems to draw all the light in the room toward him like a black hole made flesh.

He sits with his back partially turned to me, one elbow resting on the polished bar top. Even in profile, his features cut through the dim light with brutal precision — high cheekbones, strong jaw dusted with shadow, lips pressed into a contemplative line. His hair, black as midnight, is styled with careful attention, short on the sides and longer on top. A scar crosses his right cheek, a pale slash against tanned skin that somehow enhances rather than diminishes his beauty.

Someone speaks to him, and he turns slightly, revealing light green eyes that catch the overhead lights like gemstones. Those eyes flick in my direction, and something electric shoots through me, a current of recognition my conscious mind can't explain. My breath catches in my throat.

The dragon tattoo between my shoulder blades pulses once, hard, as if responding to his presence.

He rises from his stool in one fluid motion, and my mouth goes dry. He's tall — six-three at least — with the kind of build that speaks of disciplined strength rather than vanity. His black t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, the sleeves tight around biceps marked with intricate tattoos. Not random ink, but scales — dragon scales — flowing from wrist to shoulder in patterns that seem to shift in the low light.

His jeans hang low on narrow hips, worn in all the right places, and as he turns fully toward me, I catch myself staring at the way the denim stretches across his thighs. A belt with a heavy silver buckle gleams at his waist, and his boots — black leather, scuffed from use rather than fashion — plant firmly on the wooden floor as if claiming territory.

My skin flushes hot then cold, a wave of something between desire and terror washing through me. I've never reacted to a stranger this way — this immediate, visceral response that bypasses thought entirely. It's as if my body recognizes something my mind can't comprehend.

His light green eyes fix on me with predatory focus, assessing, cataloging. His knuckles whiten as he grips the bar's edge, and I sense a tightly leashed control in the way he holds himself, as if he's physically restraining some powerful impulse.

I lean forward instinctively, drawn toward him despite my exhaustion and the warning bells clanging in my brain. My fingers flex against the booth cushion, seeking anchor against this strange gravitational pull. A faint taste of ozone sparks on my tongue as my magic stirs beneath my skin, responding to... him? The clubhouse? Both?

The lights above my head flicker in time with my pulse, and the walls hum a note louder, as if the building itself is reacting to the tension crackling between us.

"Rain," someone says from across the room, and the name settles in my mind like it belongs there.

Rain. It fits him — the cool precision, the contained power, the promise of something wild barely held in check.

Movement at the far corner draws my attention away from Rain, and I realize we've had an audience for this silent exchange. A second man emerges from the shadows beside a dartboard, and my heart performs another painful flip in my chest.

Where Rain is controlled precision, this man moves with deliberate, languid grace, like a predator confident enough in his power to take his time. He's the same height as Rain, with the same black hair, though his falls slightly longer, just enough to curl over his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back. His eyes are a deeper green — emerald to Rain's pale jade — and they dance with something that might be amusement as they take in my disheveled appearance.

Twins. They must be twins. The bone structure is identical, though this second man wears his differently — his face more mobile, more expressive, his lips curved in a half-smile that promises both pleasure and trouble in equal measure.

He wears a leather vest over bare skin, revealing a torso sculpted with the same care as a Renaissance statue. Tattoos wind across his chest and arms — not scales like his brother's, but intricate designs mixing ancient symbols with modern artistry. A dragon curls around his right bicep, its tail disappearing beneath the vest, its head resting just below his collarbone. When he moves, the muscles beneath his skin ripple, making the dragon seem alive.

"Well, well," he says, and his voice slides over me like warm honey, deep and rich with a hint of gravel. "What have we here?"

Heat blooms across my cheeks and spills down my neck, pooling low in my belly. My body's response to him mirrors what I felt for Rain, yet distinct — where Rain inspires a shivery tension, this man draws forth a melting warmth that makes my bones feel like wax.

"Riku," Rain says, a wealth of meaning packed into those two syllables.

Riku. Rain. Two sides of the same coin, as different as they are identical.

Riku's smirk widens, revealing perfect teeth and — God help me — the flash of metal from a tongue piercing that sends an inappropriate pulse of heat straight to my core. What is wrong with me? I'm exhausted, terrified, in a strange place surrounded by strangers, and my body is reacting like a compass finding north.

I shift my position so I can see them both — Rain's shoulders squared in watchful tension, Riku's posture leaning toward me like a promise — and in that moment, I feel it: invisible threads knotting between their gazes and my own, anchoring me to their power. The sensation is so vivid I almost expect to see actual strands connecting us, a web of energy made visible.

My magic responds, light flickering beneath my skin in pulses that match the quickened beat of my heart. The dragon tattoo between my shoulder blades throbs in time, as if awakening from hibernation.

"Do you know what you've done, coming here?" Rain asks, his voice cooler than his brother's but no less affecting. Each word drops into the silence with the weight of stone.

I want to answer, but my throat closes around any possible response. How can I explain what I don't understand myself? How can I tell him I followed instinct and desperation through a door I didn't know existed until an hour ago?

"She's exhausted, Rain," Riku says, taking a step closer. "And scared. Look at her."

"I am looking," Rain replies, his gaze never leaving mine. "That's what concerns me."

The air between us vibrates with tension, with unspoken questions and answers I can't decipher. My fingers tremble against the table's surface, light magic dancing beneath my skin in anxious patterns. The pull toward them intensifies with each passing second, a hook behind my navel drawing me into their orbit.

It's terrifying. Exhilarating. Confusing beyond words.

"What's your name?" Riku asks, his voice gentler now, though no less compelling.

"Dawn," I manage, the word barely audible. "Dawn Ellery."

Both men go still at my answer, exchanging a look laden with meaning I can't interpret. The thread connecting us pulls tighter, humming with energy that resonates through my entire body.

"Dawn," Rain repeats, and the way my name sounds in his mouth makes me shiver. "Welcome to the Black Pistons."

The words carry the weight of ceremony, though I don't understand why. All I know is that when he speaks, when both of them look at me with those matching green eyes so different in expression, my body recognizes something my mind cannot name — and it both thrills and terrifies me to my core.

Silence stretches between us, taut as a wire about to snap. I sit frozen in the booth, caught in the gravity of their twin gazes. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape, to leap across the room and into their waiting hands. What is this? This pull, this yearning that makes no rational sense? I've never believed in love at first sight — and this isn't love. It's something older, wilder, more primitive. Something that bypasses thought entirely and speaks directly to blood and bone.

Rain's eyes narrow slightly, as if he can read the confusion on my face. Riku's smirk softens into something more thoughtful, his head tilting as he studies me. Neither speaks. Neither moves. Yet I feel them both as if they're pressed against me, their presence a physical weight against my skin.

I look away first, unable to bear the intensity. My gaze drops to the scarred wooden table, to my hands splayed against its surface. Blue-white light pulses beneath my skin in time with my heartbeat, visible evidence of my agitation. I curl my fingers into fists, trying to hide the glow, to contain whatever this is.

"It's all right," Riku says, his voice pitched low. "You don't need to hide it here."

"I don't know what 'it' is," I reply, the words escaping before I can think better of them. "I don't know what's happening to me."

The admission costs me. I've spent my life being self-sufficient, keeping people at arm's length. Vulnerability feels like exposure, like giving someone a weapon to use against me. Yet something about these men — these strangers — pulls truth from me like water from a well.

"You will," Rain says, certainty in every syllable.

The promise in those two words sends another shiver through me, equal parts anticipation and dread. The threads connecting us pull tighter, and I swear I can feel them now — gossamer strands of energy linking my heart to theirs, pulsing with each beat like living things.

I tell myself it's just adrenaline. Just the aftermath of terror and escape, my body confused by relief. I tell myself the heat in my veins is exhaustion, not desire. I tell myself the yearning in my chest is gratitude, not recognition.

I don't believe any of it.

"You're safe here," Riku says, taking a careful step closer. My body leans toward him without my permission, drawn by whatever invisible force binds us. "Sorin can't cross the ward."

My head snaps up at the name. "You know him? You know what he wants with me?"

Rain and Riku exchange another of those loaded glances, an entire conversation passing between them in silence. It's Riku who answers, his voice gentler than before.

"We know of him," he says, choosing his words with obvious care. "And we have... theories about what he wants."

"Then tell me," I demand, frustration cutting through the haze of whatever this is between us. "Because I have no idea what's happening or why I'm suddenly a human glow stick or why some pale creep tried to kidnap me."

A low chuckle ripples through the clubhouse, breaking some of the tension. Around us, the other patrons gradually return to their conversations, though I feel their continued awareness, their sideways glances. The music from the jukebox grows louder, someone cranking the volume to provide a semblance of privacy.

"It's complicated," Rain says, moving to stand beside his brother. Together, they present a united front that's both reassuring and intimidating. "And you need rest before we get into all of it."

I want to argue, to demand answers now, but my body betrays me. Exhaustion pulls at my limbs, making my eyelids heavy. The adrenaline that kept me going is fading fast, leaving leaden fatigue in its wake. Even my light magic seems to dim, retreating beneath my skin like a tide going out.

Yet even as exhaustion claims me, the pull toward them remains, a constant tug that defies my natural wariness. I've spent my life keeping people at a distance, protecting myself from the pain of attachment. The foster care system taught me that lesson early and reinforced it often. Trust is a luxury I've never been able to afford.

So why do I want to trust these men I've just met? Why does something in me recognize them as safe harbor when every rational thought screams caution?

"I don't trust easily," I say, because they need to know this about me. Because I need to remind myself.

Rain's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his pale green eyes — respect, perhaps. "Smart," he says simply.

Riku's response is different, a flash of genuine empathy crossing his features. "You don't have to trust us yet," he says. "Just trust that you're safer here than out there with Sorin hunting you."

That much, at least, I can accept. Whatever this place is, whatever these men are, they form a barrier between me and the man who chased me through Vegas with hunger in his eyes. For now, that has to be enough.

The light beneath my skin flickers when I'm unsettled, I've noticed. Like now, as I weigh their words against my instincts. Blue-white pulses dance along my forearms, visible even through my long sleeves. The clubhouse responds in kind, the walls humming a note louder, the overhead lights flickering subtly.

Rain notices, his gaze following the play of light across my skin. "You need to learn to control that," he says, not unkindly. "Before it controls you."

"I don't even know what 'that' is," I admit, frustration edging my voice.

"Light magic," Riku supplies, as casually as if he's commenting on the weather. "Rare. Powerful. And apparently completely untrained in your case."

Magic. He says it so matter-of-factly, as if it's normal, as if I should accept that magic is real and I somehow have it. A week ago, I would have laughed at the suggestion. Now, after what I've experienced, I can't dismiss it so easily.

The music changes, something with a deeper bass line that vibrates through the floorboards. Conversations around us grow louder as people relax, the initial shock of my arrival fading into the background rhythm of the clubhouse. Through it all, the thread connecting me to the twins remains, a constant awareness I can neither explain nor ignore.

"I don't understand any of this," I say finally, honesty the only currency I have to offer. "The ward, the light, you two... none of it makes sense."

"It will," Rain promises again, that same certainty in his voice. "But not tonight."

He's right, of course. My body is shutting down, the last reserves of energy depleted. Questions can wait until I've slept, until I've regained some measure of equilibrium in this new reality where magic exists and mysterious connections form between strangers.

"We have rooms upstairs," Riku offers. "You can rest, recover. We'll talk in the morning."

The thought of a bed, of sleep, is almost unbearably tempting. Yet wariness keeps me rooted to the booth. "And if I want to leave instead?"

Rain's expression hardens slightly. "Sorin will be waiting beyond the ward. He can't cross it, but neither can our protection extend beyond it."

A gilded cage, then. Safety at the price of freedom. The story of my life, in many ways, though the bars have never been so literal before.

I should be angrier about this. Should resist more. But the pull toward them undermines my usual defiance, and exhaustion does the rest. For tonight, at least, I'll accept their shelter, if not their explanations.

"One night," I concede, though something deep inside me recognizes the lie in those words. I've crossed a threshold I can't uncross, stepped into a world I can't simply step out of again.

The twins exchange another look, and I catch a hint of something that might be satisfaction before they mask it. Whatever is happening between us, they feel it too — and understand far more about it than I do.

"One night," Rain agrees, his tone making it clear he knows better. "Riku will show you to a room."

As Riku extends a hand to help me from the booth, I hesitate, then accept it. His touch sends a jolt through me, warm and electric and terrifying in its intensity. Our eyes meet, and I see my own confusion mirrored in his — though beneath it lies something else, something older and more certain.

I stand on shaky legs, the world around me shifting into something new and strange and wonderful and frightening. I don't know what I am. I don't know what they are. I don't know why my magic resonates with theirs or why my heart recognizes them when my mind does not.

But as I follow Riku toward a staircase at the back of the clubhouse, Rain's watchful gaze following our progress, I know one thing with absolute certainty: nothing will ever be the same again.