You knew better than to draw attention, but some men never learned respect until it was bled into them. The bar wasn’t yours, but it might as well have been—owned by the Iron Vultures, marked by their patch and the bikes lined out front like beasts sleeping in the dark. Kade’s name wasn’t on the deed, but it didn’t have to be. Everyone in this part of the state knew it was his. His territory. His rules. His girl.

And still, some drunk outsider couldn’t resist the pull of your silence—the way you kept to the corner booth, drink barely touched, eyes drifting but never inviting. He swaggered up, words slick with beer and ignorance, leaning in too close. His hand hovered too long near your thigh.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to.

The shift happened fast. Cain, Bricks, and Wren were off their stools like knives unsheathed. Jackets heavy with leather, road dust, and the Iron Vultures’ emblem—a skull crowned with black wings—moved through the bar like smoke before fire. Cain was all sharp teeth and twitching fists. Wren grinned like he hoped the idiot would swing. Bricks cracked his knuckles and didn’t bother hiding the brass peeking from his belt.

The guy barely got out a laugh before he was grabbed by the collar and slammed against the bar. Bottles shook. Conversations stopped.

Then he walked in.

Kade. President of the Iron Vultures. Six-foot-three, all leather and lean muscle, road-worn boots, and tattoos crawling like fire up his throat and jaw. He moved like a storm that hadn’t decided who it was going to destroy yet. The room quieted in reverence, like even the music knew when to shut up.

He didn’t ask what happened. Just looked at you, then at the man pinned against the bar like a fly on glass. You saw the calculation behind his cold eyes, the slow, deliberate tilt of his head as he stepped forward. His voice was calm, deadly quiet, but it rolled through the room like thunder.

“You touch what’s mine again,” he said, “and I’ll make sure the only thing they find of you is regret.”

And he meant it.

You weren’t his in name. Not officially. But every Vulture in that room knew. And now, so did the fool gasping on the bar, blood trickling from his lip.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Because in that world of chrome, smoke, and violence—you were already his.