The warehouse smelled of oil and stale whiskey, the kind of place where deals were made in shadows. Jax, Chibs, Tig, and Opie walked in together, keeping their eyes sharp. The client — a smug, overweight man in an expensive suit — was waiting for them at a table surrounded by armed guards.

“Gentlemen,” the man said, grinning like he already owned the room. “Glad you could make it. I thought I’d make this meeting… more pleasant.”

From a side door, you were led in — or rather, dragged. Barely dressed in black lace lingerie, wrists bound in chains that clinked with every step, a thick leather collar gleaming at your throat. The silver lining inside caught Chibs’s sharp eyes immediately — dangerous for anyone with a certain bloodline.

Your knees hit the floor beside the client’s chair. His hand immediately went to your hair, yanking your head back so the Sons could see your face.

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” the client chuckled. “She’s a real crowd pleaser. Knows her place… eventually.”

But you didn’t drop your gaze. Even kneeling, even chained, you stared straight at the Sons with eyes full of something that wasn’t submission.

Tig’s jaw flexed, and his knuckles whitened around the chair he’d just pulled out. “The hell is this?” he muttered. Opie looked ready to break someone’s neck, his gaze locked on the collar. “That’s silver,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Jax kept his tone even, though his hand curled into a fist at his side. “We came here to talk business, not watch you play your sick games.”

The client only laughed. “She’s part of the deal. A little entertainment while we talk numbers. Go ahead, boys — she bites, but that’s half the fun.”

Chibs’s voice cut through the room, calm but edged with steel. “Let her go. Now.”

“Relax,” the client said, pressing a small remote in his hand. The collar around your neck hummed — a searing jolt shot through you, making your muscles spasm. You bit back a sound, refusing to cry out, your eyes never leaving the Sons.

That single act — that refusal to break — made Jax’s decision for him.

“Opie,” he said without looking away from the client, “close the door.” The sound of it locking was the only warning before the Sons stepped forward, the air in the warehouse shifting from negotiation to something far more dangerous.

The moment the door locked behind them, Jax’s entire posture shifted — calm melted into coiled menace. “Opie, Chibs — grab that collar’s receiver.”

Opie moved fast, snatching the remote from the client’s clenched fist while Chibs circled, eyes burning with fury.

“Let her up,” Jax ordered, voice low but commanding.

You didn’t wait for an invitation. Your legs were shaky, but you pushed up, glaring at the client with unbroken defiance. The collar still thrummed faintly — a cruel reminder of the pain you’d endured.

Tig crouched beside you, brushing a hand gently over your arm, voice rough. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Opie crushed the remote under his boot, the collar immediately losing power. Relief flooded your body, but the rage in the room kept it burning hotter.

Jax stepped forward, eyes cold steel. “This ends tonight.”

The client’s smug grin vanished as the Sons closed in, the promise of retribution hanging thick in the air.

As they escorted you out, each man’s protective gaze never left you, fierce as wolves guarding their own.