Page 24 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

He means it. He would do it right now. Walk out the door, bare-handed, and tear the Silver Serpent Syndicate apart piece by piece just to keep the bureaucratic stress off my shoulders.

Two years ago, when my grandfather died, the emptiness of this farmhouse nearly crushed me. I inherited the property, the taxes, the failing hive colonies, the poachers, the trespassers. I fought every battle alone. I fixed the tractors alone. I chased off drunks alone. Every time something went wrong, the terrifying reality of my isolation sank into my bones like frost. The instinct to turtle up, to protect what little I had left without asking anyone for help, is carved into my bones. Admitting I can't hold this land by myself feels like losing it.

I look up at the man crowding me against the counter. His jaw is set. His eyes are flat black and burning.

He isn't asking to take over. He's asking to be my weapon.

"Don't file it alone," I say.

Alas’s eyes darken. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

"We don't hide this," I tell him, my voice steady. I press my palm flat against the center of his chest. His heart hammers a slow rhythm against my hand. "We aren't keeping secrets, and you aren't going on a suicide mission into Crimson Hollow just to spare my feelings. My grandfather cleared that south trail with a machete and a tractor fifty years ago. They aren’t stealing it with a piece of paper."

"Susan—"

"We take it to the Chapel," I interrupt, gripping the fabric of his shirt. "Together. We don't hand it over to the club for them to fix. We go to the table, and we tell them we’re holding the line."

Alas stares down at me. A rough, jagged breath hisses through his teeth. The violent tension in his shoulders reshapes. He doesn't argue. He doesn't try to coddle me or push me behind him. He just absorbs my stubbornness and accepts it.

"Get your boots," he orders, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive register that sends a sharp strike of heat low in my belly. "We ride out in five."

The Ridge Road is a winding stretch of dense pine corridor cutting through the mountains. I sit in the passenger seat of my grandfather’s battered Ford, the heater blasting against my shins. Alas drives. His hands swallow the steering wheel. He drives my truck the way he does everything else—with dominating control.

I’ve lived in Pine Valley all my life. I buy my feed from Harrison’s Hardware. I drink coffee at the Cozy Cup. I know everyone in this town, but I’ve never been past the iron gates three miles north of the main square.

The Broken Halos compound is a fortress.

The rutted gravel track gives way to towering iron gates laced with razor wire. The smell of the place hits me the second Alas rolls the window down to punch in the security code—pine sap, sharp gun oil, stale beer, and the exhaust of modified engines. It’s a lodge gone wild.

The gates swing inward. Alas drives the Ford across the dirt yard, bypassing the cluster of black motorcycles parked near the main entrance. He parks near a long, converted barn at the edge of the property. The Prospect Bunkhouse.

He cuts the engine. The silence of the compound is watchful. Several men in leather cuts move across the yard. Every single one of them turns their head as my truck doors open.

Alas steps out. He doesn't glance at the other brothers. He walks around the hood of the truck, stepping into my space before my boots hit the gravel. His hand finds the back of my neck, his thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath my ear.

The message is loud, broadcasted to every patched member in the yard without a single word spoken. Mine. Untouchable.

We walk toward the main clubhouse. The building is a sprawling timber-frame lodge. The scent of roasted garlic and slow-braised meat drifts from the open industrial kitchen windows on the side of the building—Valerie’s domain. She stands in the window frame, a tall, capable presence. She makes eye contact with me, gives a single, sharp nod of acknowledgment, and goes back to her cutting board.

Alas guides me through the oak double doors.

The interior of the clubhouse is dark, paneled in old pine. We walk down a long hallway, the floorboards groaning under Alas’s heavy boots. At the end of the hall, a set of reinforced iron-banded doors stand closed.

The Chapel.

Alas doesn't knock. He pushes the door open with one hand, pulling me into the room with the other.

The air inside the Chapel is dense. It smells of old wood, aged leather, and impending violence. An oak table dominates the room, the club’s winged reaper logo carved deeply into the center of the wood.

Logan Gunnar, the President of the Broken Halos, sits at the head of the table. His presence commands the room—a cold, calculated authority that demands respect. Austin Gunnar, the Vice President, stands by his shoulder, arms crossed over his chest.

Mac leans against the back wall, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He takes one look at Alas’s hand branded to the back of my neck and gives a low, approving snort.

"Prospect," Logan says, his voice low and flat. He looks at me. His gaze is assessing, razor-sharp, but devoid of threat. "Susan. Take a seat."

Alas doesn't sit. He guides me to the wooden chair near the center of the table, pressing me down by the shoulder, and then takes his place standing behind me. His large hands rest on the back of my chair. A human wall between me and the rest of the room.

Austin tosses a manila folder onto the center of the carved reaper.