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Twice.

Three times.

My fist cracks across his jaw hard enough that his head snaps sideways, the sound echoing in the silence of the clubhouse.

Someone in the room curses, but I don’t care.

Grinder tries to swing back, but he’s too drunk, too slow.

I slam another punch into his ribs, and he crumples halfway to the floor, gasping for breath.

The rage in my chest isn’t fading; it’s building, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

No one touches what’s mine.

No one.

I grab him by the front of his vest and slam him into the wall, the impact sending a shockwave through my arm.

My fist comes down again.

And again.

Blood sprays across the floor, a stark contrast against the worn wood.

“Hawk!” Ghost barks, his voice urgent.

Diesel grabs my shoulder, trying to pull me back. “Enough!”

I shove them off, my vision narrowing as adrenaline courses through my veins.

They drag me back anyway, their grip firm and relentless.

Because if they don’t…

I might actually kill him.

Grinder collapses to the floor, barely conscious, and I stand over him, my chest rising and falling hard with exertion.

The entire clubhouse is dead silent, every eye on me.

Good.

I look around the room slowly, letting them see the fury etched on my face.

Let them understand.

Then I point toward Emma. “No one,” I say coldly, my voice slicing through the tension, “touches what’s mine.”

The room doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“If I find out any of you fuckers lays a finger on her…”

My voice drops lower, a growl that resonates with every man in the room. “You’re dead. She’s. Fucking. Mine.”

No one laughs.

No one argues.