Page 4 of Wrath's Redemption

"What?" I bark into the phone, watching Butcher set up the accelerant. This place will be ash by morning, along with every body inside it.

"Sorry to bother you, Wrath," Tank's voice wavers slightly. Prospects always sound nervous when they have to call patches. "There's, uh, there's a woman here at the clubhouse. Says she needs to talk to you."

I grunt, already turning to leave. We've got cleanup to handle. "Tell her to fuck off. I'm busy."

"She says her name is Lucy. Says it's important."

The name hits me like a physical blow and stops me dead in my tracks. Lucy. Wild honey hair. Green eyes. Soft skin. That one perfect night.

"Wrath?" Tank sounds even more nervous now. "She's pretty insistent. Says she won't leave until—"

"Keep her there," I cut him off, my voice rougher than intended. "I'll be back in twenty."

Crow catches my eye as I end the call, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

"Gotta handle something at the clubhouse," I tell him, already heading for the door. "You good here?"

He nods, understanding in his eyes. We've always been able to read each other.

"Go. We got this."

Outside, the night air hits my face, clearing some of the blood-haze from my mind. Lucy. After a year of radio silence, she shows up tonight of all nights? Something coils in my gut – anticipation or dread, I'm not sure which.

"Taking off," I announce into the comms as I mount my bike.

"Everything okay?" Hellfire asks.

"Yeah. Business."

That's all I need to say. In our world, that word explains everything.

The engine roars to life beneath me, and I tear off into the night. Despite the adrenaline still pumping through my system, despitethe blood still drying on my clothes, my mind keeps circling back to one thought:

Lucy. What the hell could she want after all this time?

Chapter 2 - Lucy

I shift nervously on the hard wooden bench, trying to ignore the heavy stares from the bikers scattered around the clubhouse.

Their cuts bear the same patch I remember from that night – a bloody fist crushing a skull, "Iron & Blood MC" curved around it in sharp letters. The prospect who took my message – Tank, they called him – keeps throwing anxious glances my way from behind the bar, like he's not sure if he did the right thing by letting me wait.

My daughter's photo burns a hole in my pocket. Anna. She looks so much like him – same dark eyes, same stubborn set to her jaw. Even at two months old, she's already got his intensity. A tiny version of Wrath, though she'll never know that if tonight goes wrong. The thought makes my chest ache.

I never planned to tell him. That night was supposed to be just that – one night. No strings, no complications. Just two strangers finding comfort in each other's arms. His hands had been rough but gentle, his kisses desperate yet tender. For those few hours, he wasn't a dangerous biker, and I wasn't a straight-laced kindergarten teacher. We were just a man and a woman, losing ourselves in each other.

But life had other plans, and now here I am, sitting in a biker clubhouse at midnight, desperation driving me to break my own rules. The alternative is unthinkable.

Anna needs help – the kind of help I can't provide on a teacher's salary. The kind that requires resources I don't have. The kind that might just require the influence of a notorious motorcycle club.

A few bikers are playing pool, their leather cuts creaking as they move around the table. The sharp crack of balls colliding makesme jump every time. The walls are covered in photos – dozens of men in cuts, some alive, some marked with small black crosses in the corners. This is a different world from my cozy classroom with its alphabet charts and finger paintings.

The roar of a motorcycle approaching makes my heart stutter. I recognize the sound – deeper, more aggressive than the others. Just like its rider. The conversations die down, the pool game pauses. Everyone seems to know who's arriving.

Heavy boots on wooden steps. The door swings open.

And there he is.

Wrath fills the doorway, somehow larger than I remember. His cut is spattered with dark stains that make my blood run cold. His face is harder, if possible, than it was a year ago, with fresh bruises blooming along his jaw.

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