Page 53 of Claimed By The Club
He studies me a moment, then presses a brief, comforting kiss to my temple. The gesture is sweet, fleeting—an anchor in the storm. After he goes, the silence closes in. I sink onto the worn couch, head in my hands, replaying the events.
We unmasked Lance as a traitor. We likely wounded the Reapers’ operation. But Jen still lurks behind the scenes, and the traitor’s betrayal proves the rot runs deeper than we guessed. The weight of it all suffocates me. I yearn for normalcy, but this life doesn’t grant easy answers.
Eventually, I lift my head, wiping sweat and dust from my cheeks. I remind myself that we made progress, that Frost is alive, that Viper and Ghost stand strong. We’re battered butbreathing, and I remain in the place where I somehow found a home.
That has to be enough, at least for now. Because the final confrontation with Jen still waits on the horizon, and deep in my heart, I sense that’ll be the true tipping point.
18
SIERRA
Morning sun cuts through the dusty windows of the safe house, casting stripes of light across my makeshift workspace. After yesterday’s ambush, the MC returned battered but victorious, the aftermath buzzing through every corner of Renegade Cross territory. A stifling tension still grips us. We unmasked Snake’s betrayal and discovered more Reapers were on our trail, but Jen—my ex-partner—remains the source of this storm. She’s out there, funneling funds to keep the Reapers strong, seemingly untouched by the mayhem she’s helped create.
I sit at a table strewn with half-finished financial reports and leftover coffee cups, trying to focus. My eyes ache from lack of sleep, and my heart hasn’t stopped racing since Snake was exposed. The noise in my head is so loud it nearly drowns out Viper’s soft footfalls when he steps inside, crossing to me with measured steps.
“You should rest,” he says gently, setting a fresh cup of coffee next to me. The aroma swirls upward, tempting but not enough to calm my nerves.
“I can’t,” I murmur, rubbing my temples. “Jen’s still out there, using my money, forging alliances. If she orchestrates another surprise while we’re licking our wounds—” I can’t finish, dread tying my stomach in knots.
He exhales, leaning on the table. Dust smudges line his jeans, remnants of the desert showdown. “We’ll handle her, same as the Reapers. She won’t slip by forever.”
I manage a faint nod, though doubt flickers. “Maybe. But it feels like every time we strike a blow, she’s already two steps ahead.” My gaze falls to a battered laptop, evidence of the countless attempts I’ve made to trace missing funds or account leads. “I keep searching for more financial connections, but she’s too slippery.”
Before Viper can respond, Frost appears in the doorway, posture rigid. Ghost trails behind him, silent as a shadow. Their expressions are grim, fresh tension carving lines into Frost’s face as he lifts a phone in his hand.
“Sierra,” Frost says, voice clipped. “You got a message.”
Viper and I exchange a concerned look. I stand, crossing to Frost with my pulse drumming in my ears. The phone’s screen glows, revealing a single text message:
Meet me at the old train depot by noon. Come alone. We need to talk.
—Jen
My insides twist. “It’s nothing,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. A swirl of emotions jolts through me: anger at her brazen nerve, lingering loyalty to the woman I once called a partner, and fear that this is yet another trap.
Viper asks, “Are you sure? You look pale.”
Frost looks at me intently as if he can see through my life, and Ghost glances at my phone. I force myself to smile, and says, “It’s really not important. Just some business things.”
Frost’s about to question me but Knox calls the three men to his side. I wave at hime, smilin and he nods at me. The men leaves but before that, Viper kisses me on the cheek, and whispers, “I’ll talk to you later, baby.”
I hold my breath, my smile shaky. Do we even have a later if this is a trap? What should I do? I can’t possibly drag the club again to another danger.
An hour later, I’m driving a nondescript SUV out toward the old train depot, a relic from decades ago, now rusted and deserted. The midday sun scorches everything in sight. My hands tremble on the wheel, nerves fraying more with each mile.
As I crest a final rise, the depot looms: a sagging building with broken windows, weeds choking the tracks. My heart hammers. I park near the cracked loading dock. No sign of Jen yet. Heat shimmers off the metal rails. I step out, scanning the area, sweat dripping down my temples from both the sun and raw tension.
A rumble of an engine draws my attention. Another car pulls up, tinted windows preventing me from seeing who’s inside. My pulse leaps, half-expecting Reaper bikers or heavily armed goons. But only one figure emerges, petite and familiar—Jen, in a sleek black dress unsuited for this dusty backroad. She raises a hand, like she’s greeting an old friend. Fury and betrayal knot in my chest. This is the woman who once stood beside me building our fashion empire, now orchestrating chaos to destroy me.
“Sierra.” She smiles, but her eyes stay cold. “Glad you came.”
I set my jaw. “What do you want?”
Jen glances around. “Are you alone?”
I school my expression. “Yes,” I lie. “Just me. You asked for that.”
Her gaze flicks over my vehicle, scanning for hidden threats. “Brave.” She steps closer, heels crunching on gravel. “I want to end this, too. But we both know you owe me.”
