Page 4 of North’s Claim

That smug edge he always wears slips fast. He stands. Chair scrapes back hard enough to squeal and Nyxa jolts, thrown off balance by the sudden movement, her body teetering forward. She nearly crashes to the ground.

I’m already moving. My hand grips her waist before she hits the floor, steadying her, pulling her behind me in the same breath.

Myka’s eyes snap to mine, full of heat, but no control. He’s all bark. All nerves under that ego.

“You forget where you are?” I ask, calm as death.

Tornado’s suddenly at my back.

Solid. Still. Like a wall that can end a man before he breathes wrong. Rook’s on the other side, jaw is locked, arms crossed tight over his chest, waiting, watching.

No one speaks.

Myka’s chest heaves, lips twitching like he's biting back something stupid.

I tilt my head, just slightly. “Sit. Down.”

It’s not a suggestion.

Myka hesitates. Just long enough to feel the weight of every patched gaze on him.

“Problem?” Bullet’s voice cuts through the haze. He’s flanked by Brick and another Panther.

I meet Myka’s cold and hollow eyes. “Do we have a problem?”

Myka clenches his jaw. But his silence is drenched in shame. He storms off, snapping at Nyxa like she’s an afterthought.

She flinches and follows.

She always fucking follows, and that’s the part that gnaws at me.

I don’t move. Don’t let the heat twisting in my gut show. Not here. Not now.

“That went well,” Bullet mutters, stepping beside me with a glass of something expensive and unnecessarily fruity.

I snort. “Didn’t peg Rock for a pineapple whiskey kind of guy.”

“He ain’t. That’s Ashley’s doing. Swear she’s trying to civilize the whole damn alliance one drink at a time.”

Tornado chuckles behind us. “Next time she brings out mimosas, I’m leaving.”

“Speak for yourself,” Torment, his VP, grins, raising a glass. “I’ll take champagne if it comes with her sister’s number.”

“She doesn’t have a sister,” Rook deadpans.

Torment winks. “Then I’ll volunteer to be adopted.”

We gather near the fire pit just outside the reception tent, the night creeping in soft and warm. The high ranks from all three MCs drift closer, instinct pulling us together even without a call.

Rock raises his glass, hand wrapped around Ashley’s waist. She’s glowing. He’s trying not to show it, but I see the pride leaking through. Man’s made of iron and rules, but for her, he softens at the edges.

“To family,” he starts, loud enough to cut through the noise.

“To fire and steel,” Bullet follows, lifting his glass.

“To brothers who bleed but don’t break,” I say, raising mine last.

Glasses clink. No cheers. Just a quiet, weighty silence that means something when it’s earned.