𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tension always rode close in club life.

But lately, it had teeth.

For weeks, things had been unraveling between the Mayans and the Sons. Territory lines were getting blurred. Business was getting messy. And in the middle of it all was you, one of the few women fully patched into the Mayans’ Stockton charter. You weren’t a mascot. You earned your cut with grit and iron and scars no one asked about.

So when Angel decided to go rogue—pushing product too close to Charming and taking a shot at a Son outside a bar—you knew there would be blowback.

You just didn’t expect it to come for you.

It started with the silence.

Your phone, usually buzzing nonstop, stayed quiet. Calls went to voicemail. The garage felt thinner. Eyes followed you differently. Even Marcus kept his distance, like he knew what was coming but didn’t know how to warn you. The club circled up tight, and you were just outside the ring.

You started sleeping with your Glock under the pillow again.

The third night after the hit, you closed up the shop late. It was quiet—too quiet. A hot wind rolled off the pavement, carrying the smell of oil and summer rot. You tossed your keys up, catching them midair, and turned toward your bike parked in the alley behind the shop.

That’s when you heard the footstep.

Just one.

Instinct kicked in. You reached for your weapon, but before your fingers even brushed the handle, something cracked against the side of your head—hard.

Your cheek hit the gravel, the warmth of your own blood already pooling beneath your skin. You heard boots crunching and tried to move, but your limbs were heavy, slipping into dark.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was a man kneeling beside you. Blonde hair. Black kutte. Calm eyes.

Jax Teller.

He didn’t say a word. Just pulled your keys from your hand and threw your unconscious body over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

Your eyes opened to darkness.

The air was cold. Stale. You tasted blood in the back of your throat. Your hands were bound behind you, sharp vip ties cutting into your wrists. Every muscle in your body ached—especially your head, where the blow landed.

It came back in pieces. The alley. The footsteps. The flash of movement before everything went black.

Now, you were somewhere unfamiliar.

Concrete walls. A stack of beer crates. The hum of chatter in the distance. This was a clubhouse—just not yours.

A shadow moved near the doorway.

Jax Teller stood there with a cigarette between his lips, arms crossed, watching. Calm. In control. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this—and it wouldn’t be the last.

He stepped closer, boots heavy against the floor.

Then he smiled, slow and deliberate.

“Good to see you again, sweetheart.”