Page 14 of Grim

He looked back once, at Ghost under the harsh hospital lights, fists clenched and eyes burning with fear and fury. At Vandal beside him, jaw tight and shoulders rigid. At Havoc gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Then Grim tore out of the lot, Havoc’s truck right behind him.

Brick was in surgery. Ghost was barely holding it together. Vandal was one breath away from breaking. Havoc was drowning in guilt.

And Stone needed answers.

The ride back to the clubhouse should’ve cleared Grim’s head.

It didn’t.

Rain misted across the pavement as he tore down the back roads, the night air sharp against his skin. The cut on his forearm stung where the glass had sliced him, but he barely felt it. He’d had worse. He’d had much worse.

What he did feel, what he couldn’t shake, was the echo of her voice.

The road blurred beneath him, but the sound of her voice wouldn’t let go.

It dragged up a memory he’d buried deep— a cramped office, peeling paint, the smell of old carpet and burnt coffee.

Eighteen years old. A trash bag of clothes at his feet. A social worker he barely knew flipping through paperwork.

“Sign here, Maddox Hale.”

The last time anyone said his name like it belonged to him. The last time he’d been a kid. The moment he aged out, walked out, and didn’t look back.

He’d gone straight to the recruiter’s office. Gave the same name. Left it behind the second he stepped onto the bus.

Until she said, Then Maddox it is.

Soft. Steady. Like she wasn’t afraid of him. Like she didn’t know she should be.

He hated how it lingered, how it settled under his skin. He hated that he kept replaying the moment her fingers brushed his wrist and his whole damn body went still.

He pulled into the clubhouse lot too fast, gravel spitting under his tires. The bike fishtailed slightly before he corrected it, boots hitting the ground hard enough to jolt his knees. He ripped off his helmet, jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might crack.

The front door swung open before he reached it. Stone stood framed in the doorway. The overhead light caught the silver in his beard, the lines around his eyes, the weight he carried like a second cut.

Grim didn’t slow.

“Inside,” Stone said. Not a request.

Grim followed him into the meeting room. Havoc trailed behind, quieter than usual. Rook was already there, seated at the table with his forearms braced on the wood, jaw tight, eyes sharp. Ledger leaned against the wall with a laptop open, glasses sliding down his nose.

Fish stood in the corner, silent, half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence alone meant the situation was bad.

Switchblade stood near the far wall, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t talking. He rarely did. Grim recognized it instantly as the quiet readiness found in men trained to stay steady under pressure.

Older than the other prospects. More disciplined. Less noise, more awareness.

He gave Grim a small nod, respectful and precise. Grim returned it. Switchblade didn’t waste movement or words. Grim respected that.

Stone shut the door.

“What happened?” he asked.

Havoc answered first. “Reapers hit La Luna. Hard.”

“Casualties?”