Chapter 3

Roxy POV: A sharp crackle of radio static cut through the heavy haze of medication, dragging me back to the surface. I blinked against the dim light, the brutal tearing in my abdomen dulled to a heavy, manageable throb. Ryder stood by the clinic's reinforced window, broad shoulders blotting out the glass, holding an encrypted satellite transceiver to his lips. "Coordinates locked," Ryder said, his deep baritone dropping to a cold, predatory hum. "Bring the entire mother chapter. The princess is alive, but this city owes a blood debt." A chorus of guttural, savage roars erupted from the speaker, punctuated by the unmistakable crash of heavy furniture smashed to kindling on the other end. My pulse spiked against my ribs. My hand slid under the flat pillow, seeking the cold steel of the surgical scissors I had mapped out earlier. The line clicked dead. Ryder turned on his heel, the yellow hallway bulb glinting off his gold-rimmed glasses. His gaze dropped instantly to the slight tension in my shoulder, pinpointing the exact spot where my fingers gripped the blade. A slow, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth. He didn’t draw a weapon. Instead, he reached into the false bottom of his medical kit and lifted out two black M1911 pistols equipped with heavy suppressors. He racked the slide on the first one with a sharp, lethal snap, then stepped up to my cot. He turned the second weapon around, offering the checkered grip directly to my open hand. "What is this?" I rasped, my voice raw as sandpaper. "If you're not Viper's man, who the hell are you? The feds? Cartel?" "If I were your enemy, little bird," he murmured, leaning down until the dark scent of cedar, gun oil, and leather filled my senses, "you wouldn't have lived long enough to touch those dull scissors." I took the gun. My wrist shook with exhaustion, but I leveled the barrel straight at his chest. Ryder didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He reached out, wrapped his gloved fingers over the slide, and pulled the cold steel muzzle firmly against his sternum, directly over his beating heart. "Hold it steady," he commanded softly, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that raised goosebumps along my arms. "From this second forward, anyone who crosses that threshold without my clearance catches a bullet. Including me, if I ever break my word. Understood?" The absolute, terrifying certainty in his voice stole the air from my lungs. Slowly, I eased the weapon down to my lap, though my finger stayed locked against the trigger guard. "Good," Ryder said, straightening his spine. "Guard your babies. I'm clearing the garbage." He stepped out into the corridor, leaving the door cracked just enough for me to see. "Clinic is closed," his voice rang out, stripped of all warmth and echoing like a firing squad command. "Evacuate the perimeter. Now." "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" the blonde sweetbutt shrieked from down the hall. "This is Raven property, you arrogant—" A brutal, wet thud cut her off. Through the crack in the door, I saw Ryder close the distance in a blur, his gloved hand clamping around her throat and hoisting her completely off her feet. Without breaking stride, he hurled her through the shattered front entrance into the alley like a bag of broken glass. The old nurse shrieked, scrambling out after her on all fours. Ryder pulled down the heavy steel security shutter, slamming the industrial deadbolts into the concrete foundation. The clinic was sealed shut. Total, suffocating isolation. I let out a shaky breath, resting my free hand over the blanket covering my newborns. They slept peacefully side by side, chests rising in tiny, rhythmic beats, oblivious to the blood and iron swirling around them. Beside the cot, my cracked phone lit up with an abrasive blue glow. A club-wide broadcast text from Raven MC burned across the lock screen: OFFICIAL NOTICE: ROXANNE VANCE IS STRIPPED OF ALL CLUB PROPERTY STATUS AND PROTECTION. TERMINATED AS OF MIDNIGHT. ANY MEMBER HARBORING HER WILL FACE MAYHEM VOTE. I stared at the words. A cold, venomous smile curled my lips. I powered the device off, dropped it into the rusted metal trash can beside the bed, and buried it under blood-soaked gauze. Jaxson Vance had officially cast me out into the dark. Ryder re-entered the room. He saw the empty nightstand, glanced at the trash bin, and gave a slow, approving nod. "Good riddance," he murmured. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and began methodically loading extra magazines with hollow-point rounds. Minutes stretched into an hour. The silence inside the bunker-like clinic grew heavy as a tomb. Then, the iron frame beneath my mattress began to hum. It started as a microscopic vibration in the floorboards. On the nightstand, a plastic cup of water began to ripple in tight concentric circles, splashing drops over the rim. I sat upright, gripping the 1911. "What is that?" Ryder stopped loading his magazine. He stood, pushed his gold glasses up the bridge of his nose, and looked toward the boarded windows. A fierce, predatory grin spread across his face. "That," Ryder said, "is retribution." The hum deepened into a seismic, chest-caving rumble that shook the plaster loose from the ceiling rafters. Car alarms down the entire avenue began screaming in unison as the asphalt began to tremble like an earthquake. Then the roar hit. It wasn't five bikes. It wasn't twenty. It was an apocalyptic, earth-shattering war cry of hundreds of heavy, straight-piped Harley V-twins rolling in tight military wedge formation. The ground buckled under the weight of an entire rolling army tearing down the main strip, tearing the midnight air to shreds. Blinding, high-powered LED searchlights punched through the window planks, flooding the dingy room in blazing white brilliance. Sirens wailed in the distance, only to be drowned out instantly by the deafening, mechanical thunder. Panic seized my throat. "Is that Viper? Did he bring the whole county to slaughter us?" Ryder strode to the window, grabbed the heavy wooden blinds, and ripped them clean off the wall in a single, explosive wrench. He turned back toward me, silhouetted against a blinding ocean of black chrome, blazing halogen beams, and three hundred heavily armed riders forming an impenetrable wall around the block. "Jaxson Vance is a gutter dog," Ryder’s voice boomed over the deafening mechanical tempest outside. "Those aren't Ravens, Roxy. Your real family has come to take you home."