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The world detonates.
CORBIN
Inside the clubhouse
A violent tremor shakes the entire clubhouse. The sound echoes and I feel like a freight train has hit me. Flames come into view through the windows, dancing wildly in the parking lot. The blast looks localized. I look again and my stomach drops. That’s where Tatum’s bike was. Was—the word rings in my head.
Quickly bolting out of the clubhouse, I spot a crumpled figure about a hundred feet away from the smoking metal that looks like a funeral pyre. My heart plummets into my stomach. I can’t tell if she’s dead or alive. My feet move before my body registers what’s going on.
I drop to my knees beside her, gently lifting her into my arms and trying to not shake her hard but enough to get her conscious. No obvious signs of broken bones or missing limbs. The fact I cannot see her blue eyes is making my heart beat out of rhythm.
“Tatum!” My voice breaks into a hoarse scream. “Open your eyes! Talk to me! Come on, Spitfire.”
Please, God, not this again…
TATUM
On the ground
My hearing comes back first. I can hear boots stomping on concrete and moving closer to my body. Then I feel rough familiar hands—Corbin. He is right there by me. He drops to his knees and brings me into his arms. He is checking me over, his voice cracking as he urges me. "Tatum. Talk to me."
“I’m…okay,” I rasp, coughing smoke. My voice shakes more than I want. “Mostly. That bastard rigged her. Thomas—or Nicholas through him. ”
More brothers swarm. Lennox shoves through, face pale. “Perimeter! Now! No one gets in or out again! Touch no bikes until we know she was singled out.”
The club's doctor descends on me, poking and prodding. I wave him off at first, but Switch’s glare could melt steel. “Sit the fuck down, Spitfire.”
They patch the worst of it: ointment on burns, wrap on my ribs, butterfly strips on a cut. Concussion watch. Nothing’s broken, but I feel every bruise like a reminder that this war has always been personal. Switch doesn’t let me go, like a man who’s afraid I’ll vanish. He carries me inside to the couch in the common room, setting me down like I’m glass despite my protests. Once Lennox and the doc give me a once over, they head out to make sure the shrapnel didn’t hurt anyone else.
“You could’ve died,” Corbin growls low, forehead pressed to mine. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away grit. Possessive. Obsessive. The heat in his eyes mixes rage with something deeper, darker. “My job is keeping what’s mine breathing.”
I grab his cut, pulling him closer even though it hurts. “Your job is not to protect me. I don’t need that. It’s to help me bury those motherfuckers. Tink was my freedom, Corbin. They took that.” Grief claws up my throat—stupid, for a bike, but she was more. She was my escape. The one thing under my control when everything else was spinning out. I bury it under my anger and sass. “Next one I build will have fucking cool ass armor plating and missile launchers.”
He kisses me hard, tasting like smoke and fury, teeth nipping my lip in that claiming way. “Damn right. And you’re not touching a wrench until this is over. No solo rides. No solo anything.”
I bite him back, fierce. “Try chaining me, soldier boy. See what happens.”
His smirk is a dark promise. “Later. When you’re not bleeding.”
Getting up, he helps me back into the office. I need to find out when Tink was touched and if it was him.
“Show us everything again,” Lennox demands. “And tighten it further if you have to. Whatever holes let that bomb get planted—we close them.”
I walk the full club through the updated systems this time—how to access the new alerts, how to monitor for tampering on vehicles, because clearly, physical security needs digital backup. Pulling up the fresh footage, we find a hooded figure in the blind spot near Tink last night; right after Thomas was caged but before we swept everything. Sloppy, on my part. A mistake I won’t make again.
“No other bike in the lot was touched,” I announce, voice steady despite the aches. “Just to be safe, I have added motion sensors, which will be annoying with members out there, but since tamper alerts don’t exist, this is the best I got. Also, facial rec is expanded—anyone who isn’t an affiliate gets flagged the second they breathe near my fence.”
Hours bleed into afternoon. I direct from the chair and couch while Corbin hovers on and off, bringing water and food that I barely eat. I can eat a proper meal when this is over. Lennox checks in every thirty minutes, brotherly guilt and relief warring on his face. “You did good, Tate. Too good. Nicholas won’t let this slide.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But neither will we.”
By evening, the compound pulses with reinforced purpose. Patrols rotate. Prospects—vetted ones—sweep the lot again. I monitor feeds, tightening code even more. Silent alerts now ping my phone and Lennox’s for anything near vehicles.
Corbin pulls me away when the sun dips, guiding me back to my room to get rest for the evening. The door barely shuts before he’s on me—gentle this time, but no less hungry. He strips me slow, lips tracing every bandage, every scrape, like he can kiss the damage away.
“They touched what’s mine,” he murmurs against my stomach, voice rough. “The bomb, your bike, you. I’ll make them bleed for every second.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, arching as his mouth moves lower. “Then make it count—make them pay.”
