Page 60 of Savage Loyalty

This was it. No turning back now.

Taking a deep breath, I cut the engine and stepped out of the car, my boots crunching against the gravel as I glanced around the compound. The Crimson Reapers MC clubhouse loomed ahead, its windows glowing faintly in the evening light. Laughter and the distant thrum of music seeped out into the night, a stark reminder of the world I’d tried to leave behind. My hand instinctively went to my stomach, a small gesture of reassurance as I adjusted my jacket, steeling myself for what was ahead. Every step toward the entrance felt heavier than the last, the weight of my decision pressing down with every inch closer to their domain.

The compound buzzed with quiet activity. A few men lounged by their bikes, casting wary glances in my direction. Their conversations hushed as they took in my face, some recognition flickering in their expressions. I ignored them, focusing on the door ahead. This wasn’t the first time I’d walked into this world, but it felt different now—like I was carrying more than just myself through the threshold.

I paused just outside the door, my heart hammering in my chest as voices carried from inside. The clubhouse smelled the same as I remembered—a mix of oil, leather, and the faintest trace of smoke. Memories of Ryder flickered through my mind: the hard set of his jaw when he was angry, the rare, crooked smile that softened him, the way his presence could fill a room. And now, I was about to step into his world and detonate a bomb he wouldn’t see coming.

Taking one final breath, I pushed the heavy wooden door open instead of knocking, stepping inside before I could second-guess myself. The room stilled as heads turned toward me, conversations halting mid-sentence. My pulse thundered in my ears as I scanned the faces, searching for the one I both dreaded and needed to see. The seconds stretched into eternity before I spotted him seated at a table near the back.

When the heavy wooden door creaked open, the first thing that hit me was the smell—a potent mix of oil, leather, stale beer, and smoke. The main room looked exactly the same as I remembered, its dim lighting casting long shadows over the scuffed wooden floors and mismatched furniture. Crimson Reapers milled about everywhere, some seated at tables littered with empty bottles and ashtrays, others laughing loudly as they swapped stories. Half-naked women draped themselves over a few of the guys, their laughter high-pitched and exaggerated as they vied for attention.

My stomach churned, and I instinctively placed a protective hand over the small swell beneath my jacket. This was the world I’d left behind, the one I’d sworn my child would never know. But here I was, walking right back into it.

The chatter dulled as heads began to turn in my direction. Conversations halted, replaced by murmurs and side glances. Some faces registered recognition, others confusion. A few men exchanged knowing smirks, their gazes lingering a little too long before I shot them a warning glare. My boots echoed against the wooden floor as I stepped further inside, each step feeling heavier than the last.

And then there he was. Ryder.

He was seated at a table near the back, his broad shoulders hunched as he leaned over a bottle of whiskey. The dim light caught the sharp angles of his jaw and the rugged line of stubble framing his face. His gaze snapped up the moment I stepped into the room, and our eyes locked. The noise around us faded into nothing, the world narrowing to just him and me.

His expression was unreadable at first, but then it shifted—surprise, confusion, and something darker flickering across his face. For a moment, neither of us moved, and neither of us spoke. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy between us, thickening the air.

Finally, I took a shaky breath and broke the silence.

"Hi," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ryder didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at me like he was trying to decide if I was real or if some ghost from his past came to haunt him. His grip tightened around the bottle in his hand, his knuckles turning white.

"Delilah?" he said at last, his voice low and rough, carrying an edge that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Hi," I finally managed, my voice still quiet.

CHAPTER TWENTY

RYDER

“Delilah?”

The name rolled off my tongue, heavy with disbelief and something I couldn’t quite name. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Hell, she wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near here. Yet there she was, standing in the middle of the clubhouse like some goddamn ghost from my past, staring at me with those eyes that could cut through steel.

I stood, the chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor, breaking the silence that had settled over the room. Every set of eyes shifted between the two of us, the curiosity in the air as thick as the smoke curling from the half-burned cigarettes littering the ashtrays. But I couldn’t focus on any of that. My attention was pinned on her.

She looked the same—and yet completely different. Her hair was pulled back, and her jacket zipped tight against her, but it couldn’t hide the slight curve of her stomach. My stomach twisted as realization hit me like a goddamn freight train.

Pregnant.

I blinked, my mind racing. What the fuck was happening? My throat tightened as I tried to piece it together. Six months. It had been six months since she walked out without so much as a goodbye. Six months of silence. And now she was here, standing in my clubhouse, carrying what I could only assume was my child.

“Delilah,” I said again, the word rough, scraping against my throat as I tried to make sense of it all. My eyes darted down to her stomach, then back up to her face, searching for an explanation she hadn’t yet offered. “What…?” I trailed off, unable to finish the question.

She opened her mouth and closed it again, like she wasn’t sure where to start. Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach, the gesture so subtle yet so telling that it made my chest tighten.

“We need to talk,” she finally said, her voice steady but low. Her gaze flicked around the room, taking in the curious stares of the brothers and the women still lingering near the bar. “Somewhere private.”

I wanted to demand answers right then and there, to make her explain what the hell was going on and why she thought she could just show up unannounced with something like this. But one look at her, at the tension lining her face and the way her shoulders were drawn tight, and I swallowed the words threatening to spill out.

“Blade, clear the room,” I barked, my voice cutting through the low hum of whispers. Blade, ever efficient, gave a sharp nod and began ushering people out. The room emptied slowly, the chatter picking up as boots scuffed against the floor and the doors swung shut behind them.

Now, it was just the two of us. Delilah and me. And the storm she’d just dragged into my world.

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