Page 13 of Grim’s Angel

“We’re going to the clubhouse.”

Her attraction disappears behind fear. “I’m not going into a biker clubhouse.”

“Then give me somewhere safer.”

“There’s a motel two blocks away.”

“The men who tried to take you know that too.”

“I can lock the door.”

“They came armed and had your photograph. A motel lock won’t slow them down.”

“You don’t get to decide where I go.”

“You’re right.”

Suspicion pinches her expression.

I step closer, stopping before my size can force her backward.

“You decide,” I tell her. “I make sure you understand what each choice costs. The clubhouse has cameras, locked gates, and men who will bleed before they let anyone reach you. That motel has thin doors and one road out.”

Her fingers tighten around the handle of her suitcase.

“The Wolves ran Black Pines when I was growing up,” she says. “Women crossed the street when bikes came through town. Some disappeared.”

The Wolves used their cuts as permission to prey on anyone weaker. The Damned Saints tore them out by the roots, but knowing they are gone does not erase what McKenna learned as a girl.

“We aren’t the Wolves.”

“Every dangerous man claims he’s different.”

“Then judge me by what I do.”

She waits.

“You keep your phone. Send the clubhouse address to anyone you choose. You walk out when you want. If one of my men blocks you, he answers to me.”

“And if you block me?”

“I put the gun back in your hand and stand farther away.”

Her eyes widen. “You would let me shoot you twice?”

“Next time I’m showing you the safety first.”

That startles another laugh out of her.

The sound slides under my ribs and settles somewhere it has no business being.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “You accepted money to take me to Vegas.”

“I accepted money to protect you.”

Protection contracts are part of the club’s legitimate work. We guard people under threat and property worth stealing. This stopped being protection the moment her refusal became an obstacle.

“Those men said I was an asset.”