Page 28 of Fear

“I just… I wanted to hear your voice,” she admitted softly.

Goliath exhaled slowly, “I needed to hear yours, too.” She closed her eyes, holding onto the sound of him. She should tell him about Jason, she should tell him that more danger was coming, but would it make a difference?

Would it only put more pressure on him when he was already fighting a war? She opened her mouth, then exhaling closed it.

“I miss you,” she whispered instead.

His breathing changed, a low growl vibrating through the phone. “Say it again.”

Her lips parted, “I miss you.”

His voice was thick. Dangerous. “I’m coming back to you, Sofia. No matter what.”

Tears burned her eyes, “I know.” Another moment passed, heavy with things neither of them were ready to say.

Then, finally, Goliath murmured, “Get some sleep, baby. You will be home soon.” And just like that, she knew she’d made the right choice.

She wasn’t alone anymore. And neither was he.

Chapter 12

The Wolverines weren’t the kind of men who waited. They were wolves—predators, not prey. And the longer they stayed away from the fight, the more restless they became.

The tension inside the clubhouse was thick. Every man present was on edge—their wolves pacing, their fists itching to land the first punch, and they weren’t alone.

Inside the Chapel, three other presidents sat at the table, their presence both an alliance and a test of loyalty.

Ronan sat back in his chair; arms crossed over his broad chest. He was a towering force of muscle, his presence alone enough to command a room without saying a word. His thick black beard was peppered with silver, a testament to the years he had spent in the trenches of MC warfare. His dark eyes were cold, calculating, the kind of stare that could break a lesser man without a single threat being spoken.

A long, jagged scar cut across his left cheek, disappearing into his beard, a reminder of a knife fight he had walked away from—but the other man hadn’t. His knuckles were busted and rough, the hands of a man who had solved more problems with his fists than with words.

The Blood Fangs MC wasn’t just a club—it was a brotherhood forged in war. Unlike some of the other clubs, Ronan didn’tallow weakness. His men were hardened, most of them ex-military, ex-cons, or men with nothing left to lose.

He didn’t tolerate disloyalty. He didn’t believe in second chances. And he sure as hell didn’t fight for anyone else’s cause—unless he saw an advantage in it.

Ronan had built his reputation on blood, on dominance, on being the kind of leader who didn’t just survive wars—he ended them. He had carved the Blood Fangs’ name into the MC underworld, making them feared, respected, and ruthless.

So, if he was here, if he was even considering backing the Wolverines in their fight against the Shadow Riders, it wasn’t out of kindness. It was because he saw something worth betting on, and Ronan didn’t bet on losing sides.

Viper leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the wood, the rhythmic click, click, click the only sound in the room aside from the low hum of conversation. A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, the smoke curling around his face like a ghostly veil. He took a slow drag, exhaling just as lazily, his movements deliberate, controlled. Nothing about Viper was rushed.

He was calm, but deadly, the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command obedience. When he spoke, it was with absolute finality. When he gave an order, it wasn’t to be questioned. And when he gave a kill order? It wasn’t a threat, it was a fact.

Viper was a man you never saw coming. He wasn’t built like a brute, not like Ronan or King—he was lean, wiry muscle wrapped in a venomous coil of intelligence and lethality. His short, dirty-blond hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face, a permanent smirk that never quite reached his cold, calculating eyes. His knuckles bore faded scars, notfrom reckless brawls but from the kind of precise violence that came with knowing exactly where to hurt someone the most.

The Iron Claws weren’t a brotherhood—they were a business.

Viper didn’t lead with sentiment, and he didn’t tolerate emotions clouding judgment. His men were mercenaries, enforcers, men who lived and died by contracts and power plays. Loyalty in his club wasn’t given because of brotherhood—it was bought, reinforced through fear and brutal efficiency.

Some said the Iron Claws didn’t even feel like a real MC anymore. That they had turned into something colder, more calculated—a machine of destruction. Viper never cared what people thought, because at the end of the day, he got results.

And if the Wolverines wanted his club in this war, they had to understand something—he wasn’t here to play hero, he was here to make sure the job got done. And if the cost was piling bodies until no one stood against them, then so be it.

Mace sat with an easy smirk, legs spread lazily, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair in a slow, steady rhythm. To the untrained eye, he looked relaxed—like a man without a care in the world. But anyone who knew Mace, anyone who had faced him in a fight, knew better.

His eyes told the real story—sharp, always assessing, watching every movement in the room like a predator sizing up his prey. Nothing got past him.

Mace wasn’t a big man, not in the way Ronan or Goliath were, but what he lacked in sheer size, he made up for in speed, cunning, and the kind of vicious unpredictability that made men second-guess crossing him. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, but not from age—from the kind of stress and survival that would have killed lesser men long ago. Hisarms bore faded burns and scars, remnants of a past he never talked about.

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