Page 2 of North’s Claim

“You talk too much.” I grunt.

“That’s what keeps me young.”

“You’re thirty-five.”

“Exactly. Ancient in club years.” He bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “Try not to scowl the whole time. It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”

“Depends who you ask,” I murmur.

He laughs, low and dirty. But it works. Loosens my jaw a little. He always knows when I’m itching to leave.

Rock’s standing tall by the altar. Black cut cleaned and pressed over a dark shirt. Even his boots look polished, and I know for a fact the bastard spilled whiskey on them this morning. But he’s focused now, eyes locked ahead like the ceremony’s just another mission to execute. Efficient and solid. That’s Rock.

Ashley walks down the aisle, and for a breath, everything goes quiet. I see it in his stance, the way his shoulders shift forward like she’s the only one who exists in that moment.

She’s wearing her cut over white lace. Clean lines. Patch proud. She earned that leather. Bled for it. And stood her ground until both worlds bent enough for her to walk through. I can respect that. Doesn’t mean I want his father, the damn sheriff, and his men sniffing around like they belong.

Club weddings ain’t meant for lawmen. But this one... this one's different. I knew it would be.

Still hate it.

I spot the sheriff watching us from two rows back, stiff as a post, hand near his hip out of habit. We nod once. Mutual understanding: I won’t gut your friends today. Don’t give me a reason tomorrow.

The vows are short. Rock keeps it tight, only man I know who can say I do and sound like he’s giving a command. Ashley chokes up. Just a little. She says her promises like she means every one of them.

Torment leans in again. “Bet she will make her father arrest him the first time he forgets trash day.”

“She’ll just cuff him for fun.”

“Ah, kinky marriage. Solid choice.”

I shake my head once. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he shoots back, grinning.

The kiss ends it. Applause. Whistles. A few roars from the Black Panthers, louder than necessary. Pride, I guess. I stay back, nod once toward Rock when he glances over. That’s all he needs.

Then there’s photos. Cake. Dancing. All the bullshit that drags the day longer than it should. I let the club handle most of it. They drink, flirt, and laugh too hard. Torment makes it his mission to keep dragging me into shit I don’t want to do. Half of them succeed.

Still... the moment stretches into hours. And all I want is for the sun to go down so I can lay my head on a mattress that doesn’t belong to a hotel. Go the fuck to sleep, then wake up and ride home.

But I wait it out. For Rock, for the club and for Ashley, because as much as I hate that badge smell in the air, I see how she’s sewn herself into our world. And when someone earns their place, they deserve the respect of being seen. Even if I’d rather be anywhere else.

Outside, the barbecue’s on fire, literally. Panthers shout, Wolves laugh, someone nearly loses a brow, bottles clink, and music thrums. I light a blunt, lean back, eyes drifting toward the other end of the patio.

That’s when I feel it. A ripple.

There’s a small group crowding near the outdoor bar. Mostly prospects, half-buzzed and too cocky for their cuts. Something about the way they’re grouped, tight, interested, watching too intently, gets my attention.

I stroll over.

K, one of Rock’s prospects, glances at me, all nerves. “One of the Wolves is giving a show. Idiot doesn’t know the rules. Says she’s up for fun, but...”

He doesn’t finish, and I see why. Myka, Wolves’ prospect. Trash in a leather vest. Slouched like he owns the patio, legs spread, grin smug. His girl straddles his lap, hair down, face painted in thick makeup, hands limp like she’s enduring.

Myka’s got one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back like he’s showing off a prize. His other hand grips her hip, bouncing her on his lap like she’s some flashlight for hire.

And she’s not enjoying it.