Page 11 of Claimed By The Club
I sense caution under his words, maybe a hint of concern. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and manage a small smile. “I am.”
Frost steps forward, crossing his arms. “Then let’s do this. You’ll have to meet the rest of the group soon, but for now, let’s move your stuff. Viper and Ghost can help.”
The idea of letting these men see my battered suitcase and half-baked escape plan twists my stomach, but I know it’s necessary. “All right,” I reply, voice steady.
We head outside. The blazing sun hits us immediately, and I squint against the brightness. Viper moves to his bike, and Ghost does the same. Frost climbs into a black pickup parked along the fence. I stand by my SUV, debating who to follow.
Before I can decide, Frost calls out the window, “You can follow me in your vehicle. We’ll load your things and head back here.”
I nod, sliding behind the wheel. As engines rumble to life, I can’t help peering into the rearview mirror. Ghost’s motorcycle is right behind me, and Viper rides in tandem next to him. The image of them escorting me, acting as guardians, unexpectedly warms my chest. I finally don’t feel entirely alone.
I grip the steering wheel and breathe. Step by step, I’m forging an agreement with these men. Their world is rough, but it beats being hunted without backup. I remember the moment I met Frost, his quiet authority balanced by an undercurrent of protectiveness. Then Ghost, so controlled yet intense, and Viper with that playful spark in his eyes. I still don’t know how all this will evolve, but there’s a sense we’re on the cusp of something big—and I’m not about to run from it.
With the Renegade Cross MC backing me, I have a shot at reclaiming my life. And from the way each of them looked at me today, I suspect they’ll challenge every notion I once held about loyalty, danger, and maybe even love.
4
GHOST
Istand behind the chain-link fence, arms crossed, watching dust swirl across the stretch of land in front of our clubhouse. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows on the packed earth. Sweat gathers under my collar, but I don’t budge. This is my usual spot—close enough to keep an eye on who comes and goes, far enough to maintain the quiet I crave. Ever since Sierra stepped into our orbit, I’ve been on edge.
She’s inside right now, probably settling her belongings in the small safe house we offered on the east side of the compound. Frost gave her the green light, but I’m not so quick to trust. I’ve seen too many outsiders spin lies, worm their way in, and tear us apart. The Iron Reapers have a special knack for infiltration. If Sierra’s connected to them, or worse, if she’s feeding them intel, we could be sitting on a ticking bomb.
A heavy footstep crunches behind me. Viper approaches, his sandy-blond hair gathered in its usual knot. His green eyes track my gaze, then shift to my face. “You gonna stand guard like a statue all day, Ghost?” he asks, leaning on the fence next to me.
I shrug. “Keeping watch.”
He snorts, then glances at the horizon, where a pair of crows circle. “You’re more tense than normal, which is saying something. She’s not the enemy.”
“She could be a magnet for trouble,” I counter, scanning the road. “We’ve had run-ins with the Reapers before. Last time, it cost us.”
Viper’s jaw tightens for a moment. We both remember that night vividly—a bar fight turned bloody because we underestimated the Reapers’ desperation. I got a bullet graze on my side, and one of our prospects ended up in the hospital. We survived, but the lesson stuck.
“Relax, man,” Viper says, nudging my shoulder. “We’ll handle whatever comes our way. Besides, Sierra seems honest.”
“People who seem honest often have the best cover,” I reply, my voice low. “But you do you. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Viper doesn’t argue. He knows I don’t budge once I set my mind on something. Instead, he checks his phone, probably texting Dolly or verifying a supply run. After a moment, he claps my back and strolls off to the clubhouse.
The sun sinks lower, painting the sky in streaks of gold and orange. I debate standing here until darkness falls but decide to prowl around the safe house instead. If Sierra’s up to anything suspicious, I’d rather catch it early.
When I head around the perimeter, the air smells of desert sage and warm metal. A few bikes sit parked in the side lot, glinting under the last rays of light. A battered old truck, used mainly for hauling, leans near the fence. I pass a short row of scraggly bushes, following the chain link until I reach a modest structure with a porch light flickering. The safe house.
I pause at the edge of the yard. Sierra’s inside, probably unpacking clothes or going over the business plans she promised to share. I try to ignore the flash of curiosity about her. She’s not like the other women who breeze in and out of MC life, chasingexcitement. Her posture is poised, her words carefully chosen. She’s obviously grappling with something heavy, but I can’t rule out manipulation.
A faint noise catches my attention. Footsteps, more than one person, creeping along the far side of the safe house. I step back, pressing myself against the rough wooden siding of a half-broken shed. The shape of two men materializes near the short fence line. They’re dressed in scruffy jeans and jackets. They’re not wearing any obvious gang colors, but their stance sets alarm bells ringing in my head. One of them beckons the other closer, whispering.
I curse silently, pulling out my phone. No signal behind this shed. Typical. I slip it back into my pocket, adjust my stance, and inch forward to catch what they’re saying.
“Sure she’s here?” the taller figure mutters.
“Yeah,” the other one rasps. “My cousin said she’s staying with some bikers. We just gotta confirm.”
My muscles tense. They’re searching for Sierra. Could be local thugs, or maybe they’re connected to the Reapers. Either way, no one trespasses here without facing consequences.
I slip around the corner of the shed, approaching silently from behind. I’ve had enough tactical training to move like a wraith when needed. The first man is about my height, broad-shouldered, with a shaved head. His friend is shorter, hunched, wearing a faded cap. They think they’re being sneaky, but I’m nearly on top of them before they notice.
“Who are you looking for?” I ask, voice sharp enough to cut through the quiet.
