The warehouse smells like grease, hot metal, and fear when you step inside—an atmosphere you’re no stranger to. Jax’s bike is parked crooked near the loading bay door, the rest of the guys forming a loose semicircle inside. Tension swirls through the room, tight and electric.

But it all shifts the second you walk in.

Boot heels click over concrete like a countdown. Leather creaks with each slow, deliberate step. Your dark, kohl-smudged eyes lock onto Georgie Caruso—sweaty, jittery, trying to look brave while clay and Tig loom over him.

Jax glances your way first. “Oh, hell,” he mutters under his breath. “Here we go.”

Chibs’s sharp eyes flick up next, lingering on you with that mix of pride and worry he always gets when you’re on a warpath. “Love,” he warns softly, the rasp in his voice wrapping around the word. “Dinnae do anything too—”

But you’re already moving. And no one steps in your way.

Georgie barely has time to register you before you’ve got two fists twisted in the collar of his cheap button-up. His back slams into the row of metal lockers with a violent CRASH that echoes through the building. Tools rattle. Jax smirks. Tig whistles low.

“Fucking hell,” Georgie chokes. “What—”

You don’t let him finish.

You drive him into the lockers again, harder—metal dents under the force, the sound sharp enough to make two of his lackeys flinch. When you let go, he crumples onto his ass, hands scrambling for purchase.

He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off you.

Your boot heel connects with his chest, shoving him flat to the concrete. Before he can wheeze in another breath, you drag that same heel up and plant it right across his throat. The metal tip digs beneath his jaw, just enough pressure to silence him.

“Start talking,” you growl, voice low and deadly. “Or stop breathing. Your choice, Caruso.”

He gags, eyes bulging. The boys don’t move. No one helps him.

Then you pull your gun.

You cock it once, slow and deliberate, and angle it right between his legs—nestled against the seam of his suit pants, a whisper away from destroying everything he’s ever used to intimidate women.

Georgie goes still. Silent. Terrified.

“Luann and those girls work under SAMCRO’s protection,” you hiss, leaning in closer, makeup casting your face into something sinful and dangerous. “You put hands on them. You threaten them. You make them afraid in their own workspace.”

You press your heel harder into his throat.

“And then you think you’re gonna get away with it?”

Georgie whimpers, fingers twitching like he wants to push your boot off—but he knows better. You shift the gun just a fraction, enough to make his voice crack when he tries to speak.

“Okay—okay! I’ll stop! I’ll back off! Just—just tell her to—”

“Tell her to what?” comes Chibs’s voice, soft but lethal.

He steps up beside you, presence alone enough to make Georgie flinch. His hand settles on the back of your thigh—not restraining you, just grounding you. Claiming you. Supporting you.

“Careful how you finish that sentence, wee man,” Chibs murmurs.

Jax crosses his arms, eyebrow raised. “My sister asked you a question.”

Georgie breaks. Completely. “I’ll leave them alone! I swear— I swear on my—on—”

You cut him off with a subtle shift of your heel that steals his breath. “Don’t swear on anything. Just do it.”

You pull your boot away at last, holstering your gun with smooth precision. Georgie rolls onto his side, coughing, choking, desperately gulping air like someone just saved his life.

Chibs slides his arm around your waist, pulling you against him. You can feel the heat of his pride, the dark thrill simmering under his calm expression.

“Remind me,” he murmurs against your temple, accent thicker than usual, “never to get on your bad side, mo leannan.”

Tig lets out a bark of laughter. “Brother, she lives on her bad side.”

Jax smirks at you, shaking his head. “Next time, at least let us start the fight before you finish it.”