Page 59 of Claimed By The Club
Before sleep claims me, I whisper, “I’m not leaving. Ever.”
Frost’s hand drifts over my hair, Ghost’s arm wraps around my waist, Viper’s grin flickers in the dimness. They each press reassuring touches against me, a silent promise that I belong here. My last coherent thought is that we’ve forged a family out of chaos, and for the first time in forever, I can embrace it fully—no guilt, no fear, just hope for whatever comes next.
I close my eyes, letting darkness take me, the echo of their devotion lulling me toward genuine rest for the first time since this nightmare began. Our fight isn’t entirely finished, but we stand united, and that’s all the strength I need.
20
VIPER
Istand beneath the sprawl of the desert sky, boots planted on cracked earth. A mild wind rustles the scrub plants in the distance, carrying the scent of sunbaked sage. My eyes drift toward the clubhouse, a structure that once seemed like a fortress against everything out there. Now it’s our meeting ground for final negotiations and fresh starts. The club’s been through hell—traitors, near-loses, betrayal from people we called friends—but somehow, we’re standing stronger than before.
I adjust the worn leather of my cut, flicking dust off the patch that reads Renegade Cross MC. This old place has seen too much blood spilled over the last few weeks, but it’s also watched us pull together. I can’t deny my relief that we’re wrapping up the conflict with the Reapers once and for all. Their battered leadership agreed to a truce—likely because we removed their financial pipeline through Sierra’s ex-partner, Jen, and took down the snakes in our own ranks.
My gaze settles on a handful of club members gathered near the fence, trading smokes and exchanging murmured quips about the future. Ghost—Luke—leans against a post, armsfolded, observing them. He catches my eye, dips his head, and resumes scanning the horizon. Tension sags off him, replaced by cautious hope. We’re no longer waiting for that final bullet to come from within our ranks. The traitors have been weeded out.
A throat clears behind me, and I turn. Frost—Elias—steps forward, posture composed. Despite the new calm, I catch flickers of leftover worry in his piercing gaze. He’s still carrying the weight of leadership, but at least we’re not facing open war. His voice is steady as he speaks. “They’ll be here soon.”
I nod, crossing my arms. “Reapers, right?”
He confirms with a short nod. “A handful. They’re coming without weapons as a gesture. We’ll finalize the terms, clarify territory lines, and lock in a ceasefire. No more creeping around our land or harassing Sierra. That’s the plan.”
My chest loosens at the mention of her name. Everything we’ve done, every risk we took, was to keep her safe, to protect the life we’re building with her. The memory of Sierra pinned down by Jen’s gun still lingers like a ghost in my mind. I never want her to endure that again.
Frost straightens, scanning the lot. “You good to talk with them?”
I let out a breath. “I’ll stand by you, yeah. This time, I’m not craving a brawl.” Usually I thrive on the adrenaline, the tension of a standoff, but after the near-loses we’ve had, all I want is for us to move forward—especially for Sierra’s sake. “Where is she anyway?”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Inside, talking with Ghost. I think they’re working out some final details on finances, tying up those leftover accounts Jen messed with.”
Relief settles in. Our woman—my woman, in many ways—has become central to the club’s legitimate ventures. At first, some of us doubted her big-city approach, but she’s proven her worth. We owe her more than I can articulate.
Footsteps crunch on gravel. One of our prospects, Crowbar, ambles up, face cautious. “They’re in sight, boss,” he tells Frost.
Frost offers me a quick glance, then sets his jaw. “Let’s get this done.”
We move toward the open gates. Sure enough, a trio of bikes rolls in under the scorching sun, motors a hair too loud for my liking, but no brandished weapons. The riders coast to a stop, kill the engines, and step off, arms spread to show they’re not hiding sidearms. I recognize Bruiser—an enforcer I once clashed with—but his scowl is muted now, replaced by forced civility. The Reapers might hate this talk, but they need it as much as we do. Their funds dried up, we hammered their ranks, and they’re in no position for further war.
Frost steps forward, posture rigid, while I flank him. Ghost stands a little behind me, arms folded, and half a dozen of our men form a loose semicircle. The desert wind sends dust swirling around our boots, adding a layer of tension. Bruiser lifts his chin, acknowledging us.
“Elias,” Bruiser mutters, voice subdued. “We’ve come to settle.”
Frost inclines his head. “Good. Let’s talk.” He gestures to a patch of shade beneath an awning. We gather there, no one sitting, the day’s heat bearing down like a silent judge. Bruiser’s companions shift uncomfortably. Our men stay alert.
Frost clears his throat. “We want an end to territorial pushes and intimidation. You respect our domain. We won’t cross yours unless we have official business. No more messing with Sierra. She’s off-limits.” His tone is clipped, but unwavering. I sense how personal this is for him, for all of us.
Bruiser rubs the back of his neck. “We got no beef with her anymore. She was part of Jen’s fiasco, but that pipeline’s gone. We won’t harass her, so long as you stay out of our expansion.”
I can’t resist stepping in. “You have nothing to expand with. We cut off your funds. We’re not seeking trouble, but if you bring it near Sierra or us again…” I leave the threat hanging, letting the dusty stillness fill in the blank.
Bruiser grimaces, gaze shifting. “No problem there. We’re done.” He glances at one of his men, who nods. “We just want to be sure you won’t show up on our turf guns blazing for payback.”
Frost flicks a glance at me, then addresses Bruiser. “We’re not after vengeance if you keep your word. Betray it, and all bets are off.”
The Reapers exchange looks, then Bruiser sighs. “Deal.”
We hash out a simple arrangement, promising no raids, no infiltration, and no more backstabbing. The conversation ends quickly—a handshake that feels hollow but necessary. They mount their bikes and ride off, the roar fading into the distance. The moment the gates shut behind them, tension seems to lift.
I blow out a long breath, turning to Frost. “That’s that, then.”
