Page 60 of North’s Claim

Finally, he exhales hard through his nose and looks away, raking a hand over his shaved head. “You got claws, I’ll give you that.”

“Then let me use them.”

His gaze snaps back to mine, sharp as a blade. “You don’t get it. Out there, it’s not about claws. It’s about coming home breathing. I take you with me, you’re another body I have to shield. Another distraction that gets men killed.”

“I won’t be a distraction.”

“You will.” His voice drops into something almost… regretful. “Because whether you like it or not, he’ll burn the whole damn map to get you safe before he thinks about saving himself. And if that happens, we lose both of you.”

The logic slams into me, but I don’t let it show. I shove it down, wrap it in fire, and hurl it back. “If I’m not there and they kill him, you’ll still lose both of us. Because I won’t survive it.”

For a second, something flickers in his expression.

Then it’s gone.

He shakes his head, voice like steel on stone. “You stay by my side, and if you cause trouble, I’ll be the one haunting your ass for the rest of your life. Prez’s ol’ lady or not, he’s my family. They all are. And when shit goes bad, my brothers need someone who won’t break before they make it home.”

I step forward until there’s barely an inch between us. “I won’t be a pain in your ass. It’s my man you’re talking about, and sure as hell I ain’t staying here while you ride out there without me.”

His mouth curves, not in amusement, but in that grim, knowing way men do when they’ve already made up their minds.

“Fine.”

I let out a long breath, slow and shaky, my palms slick with sweat. My gaze catches on North’s office, and there they are. His father’s iron knuckles. Sitting high on the shelf, dull metal catching the low light, edges worn from years of stories I’ve only heard in bits and pieces.

I grab them before I can second-guess it.

They’re heavier than I thought, solid enough to bruise bone just by holding them. The cold bites into my skin, grounding me.

If you’ve got anything left to give, old man, give it to me now.

Outside, engines are already rumbling, headlights spilling across gravel. Iron straddles his bike, helmet hooked on one arm. He looks at the knuckles in my grip and smirks.

“You even know how to use those, little hellcat?”

I shake my head, jaw tight. “I’ll figure it out.”

He chuckles, low and mean. “Not unless you wanna break your own damn hand.

“Listen up.” He sighs. “Knuckles aren’t for flailing. You hit wrong, you shatter your fingers. Keep your wrist straight—lock it.” He grabs my hand briefly, adjusting my grip on the steel so it sits flush with my knuckles. “You aim for soft spots: temple, jaw, gut. Don’t waste time swinging at the thick parts. You want ’em down fast.”

The metal feels different now, more dangerous, more alive, like it knows I’m about to use it for real.

He jerks his chin. “Get on.”

I swing onto the seat behind him, gripping the leather of his cut as the engine roars to life. The convoy starts moving, the night air slicing cold against my cheeks.

The ride is a blur of roaring engines and sweeping shadows. I can feel Iron’s muscles shift under my hands as he weaves through the empty roads, the scent of oil and leather in the air.

He taps the comm in his helmet. “Black Panthers are en route. Wolves too. ETA, fifteen.”

“Good,” I yell back. “The faster they⁠—”

“We’re not waiting,” he cuts in.

“Wait won’t kill us.”

He laughs without humor. “We don’t wait. And keep the spirit, but no headshots. We don’t have time to babysit.”