Page 35 of Ginger

Bronx led me to a chair between his and Reno's. The proximity of both men should have made me feel safer, but the tension radiating from them only heightened my anxiety.

"We've done some digging on your Mr. Rayburn," Vegas began.

"He's not my anything," I said sharply, then immediately regretted the outburst. "Sorry."

Vegas' lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Correction noted. Maxwell Rayburn, 58, owns four hotels in Las Vegas and has interests in several casinos. He sits on the board of three charities, all of which appear to be fronts for money laundering. He's been investigated twice for trafficking but never charged."

My stomach churned as Vegas laid out the details of Rayburn's life with clinical precision. It was surreal hearing about the monster of my nightmares discussed like a business competitor.

"He has a compound outside the city," Vegas continued. "Heavily secured. And he's connected to at least two senators and a judge."

"Told you," I whispered. "He's untouchable."

Detroit let out a derisive snort. "No one's untouchable, sweetheart. Some just require more creativity than others."

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but something told me I’d find out sooner or later.

Chapter Thirteen

Bronx

I watched Vegas from the shadows at the back of the clubhouse, my stance deceptively casual as I leaned against the wall. The air was thick with tension, the usual rowdy banter of the brothers replaced with an uneasy silence. My gaze never left Ginger—how she perched on the edge of the leather couch, fingers twisting together in her lap, her delicate frame nearly swallowed by the massive furniture. Behind her tense smile, I could see the fear she was trying to hide, and it made something dark and primitive stir in my chest. Nobody—not Rayburn, not anyone from her past—would ever hurt her again. Not while I drew breath.

Vegas stood now at the center of the room, his scarred knuckles resting on the worn wooden table. The club president didn't raise his voice—he never needed to.

"We're going to keep an eye on Rayburn," Vegas said, his gaze locked on Ginger. "We've got a few different ways of handling him, but you don't need to worry about any of that."

I watched her shoulders, noting the almost imperceptible relaxation. To most, it wouldn't be visible, but I'd memorized every inch of her body, every flutter of expression that crossed her face. I knew her better than she knew herself sometimes. That slight drop of tension told me more than words could—she believed Vegas. She believed in the club's protection. Good. She needed to.

"Rayburn's a problem with a shelf life," Miami muttered from across the room, just loud enough to be heard. He took a pull from his beer, the tattoos on his neck stretching as he swallowed. "Short fuckin' shelf life."

Vegas didn't acknowledge the comment, but I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The president continued, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "You're an old lady now. You've got the protection of the entire club behind you."

Those words sent a ripple through the room. Ginger had only been wearing my patch a short time. Some of the brothers were still getting used to seeing her around, learning her place in our hierarchy. But there wasn't a man there who'd question Vegas’ declaration or my claim on her. They'd die for her now, same as they'd die for any woman under club protection. That was the code.

Vegas’ eyes hardened, dark flint catching the low light. "But you're on lockdown at the clubhouse until this shit's resolved."

There it was—the order wrapped in protection. I watched Ginger's face for rebellion, but she understood what was at stake. Lockdown wasn't a punishment; it was survival.

"How long?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady.

Vegas shrugged one massive shoulder. "As long as it takes."

I shifted my weight. Part of me wanted to go to her, but I held back, wanting to see if she could at least partially stand on her own. Although, she didn’t really have to. Chances were good if I wasn’t around, Reno would be. She wasn’t just mine. She was his too.

"We're also going to take care of any other issues from your past," Vegas continued, his gaze sweeping over every face in the room before returning to Ginger with laser focus. "Clean slate, you hear me?"

The blood in my veins turned hot, then cold. We all knew what he meant. Rayburn wasn't the only ghost haunting Ginger's past. There was the uncle who'd first taught her to fear men's hands. The men he’d traded her in order to settle debts or sweeten deals. The men who’d seen her here and wanted toplaywith their favorite toy. Each story she'd whispered to me in the dark had fed a growing rage inside me—a volcano waiting to erupt.

"I don't want anyone getting hurt because of me," Ginger said.

Laughter—dark and dangerous—rumbled through the room. Not mockery, but a shared understanding of violence that was as familiar to us as breathing. Getting hurt was what we did. Dealing hurt was our currency, our language, our birthright.

"Bit late for that concern, darlin'," Detroit said from his perch by the bar. "Blood's already in the water."

I watched Ginger digest this, the slight tremor in her lower lip. She wasn't naive. She knew what we were when she took our patch, when she climbed into my and Reno’s bed, when she whispered our names in the dark. But knowing wasn't the same as seeing. Knowing wasn't the same as being the cause.

Something in my chest twisted, and I couldn't stay back any longer. I pushed off from the wall, feeling every eye in the room track my movement as I crossed to her. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath my boots. I didn't hurry, didn't rush. When I reached her, I dropped to one knee beside the couch, bringing my face level with hers.

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