Claimed By My Father’s Outlaw

Chapter7

Cole POV

I yanked the Jackal through the doorway and stepped into the Revenant’s Lair. The place wasn’t dark, but the lights were low enough to cover everything in shades of red and blue. Music hummed from the speakers, the bass vibrating under the floor.

Smoke drifted in lazy clouds across the room. A couple of guys were gathered near the back, throwing punches at hanging bags or lifting weights and grunting as they did so. A small group of groupie women lounged on the couches, laughing at something one of the boys said.

It was daytime but inside here, it always felt like time didn’t matter.

“Look who’s back!” Ronn called as he pushed off a table and came toward him. His eyes narrowed at the sight of my bruised face before traveling to the boy being dragged behind him. “And look what the cat dragged in.”

I didn’t answer. I shoved the Jackal forward a bit, gripping him tighter when the kid stumbled.

Then Ronn came closer to me and lowered his voice. “What the hell happened out there? Didn’t I tell you not to go alone? I told you to take two of the boys, Cole. Two! But no, you had to run off on your own again!”

I started walking away, but Ronn stepped in front of him, blocking the path.

“Oh, hell no, I’m serious!” Ronn pressed. “You’re gonna get yourself killed acting like this, bro. Going solo into Jackal territory on your own? Are you out of your f*****g mind?”

“I caught him,” I replied, trying to move past my friend. “That’s all you need to know.”

Ronn grabbed my arm. “No. I need to also know what happened to your face. You look like somebody worked you over, and don’t tell me this little s**t did that.” His eyes swung to the boy, who lifted his chin but said nothing.

I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell my friend that Ambrose’s oldest enemy had put me on my knees because I kissed his daughter. I didn’t owe that story to anyone and especially not here, in front of all these ears.

“I handled it.” I muttered.

“That’s not an answer!” Ronn's voice shot to the roof and there was frustration on his face. “You ignore everything I tell you, and for what? To walk in beat to hell? Do you want Ambrose to bury you early?”

I clenched my jaw. I was the Vice President of the Revenants. If it were anyone else talking to me like this, they’d already be on the floor. But Ronn had been beside me since they were teenagers. Ronn always pushed and always dug his heels in. Still, today, I didn’t have it in me to fight my friend.

"Cole, you have to tell me—"

“Oh, for f**k's sake, Ronn! Back off!” I snapped as I shoved Ronn in the chest.

Anger flashed across Ronn's face before he exhaled. “Sure, whatever. Ambrose is out back."

I nodded once and grabbed the Jackal’s collar again. “Good.”

And Ronn didn’t say anything else as I pulled the boy across the room, heading for the back door.

I stepped behind the club into the wide open space everyone in the Revenants called “the field,” even though there wasn’t a single blade of grass anywhere. The space was made of cracked concrete, and there were rusted metal piles everywhere, and the strong, acrid smell of gasoline drifting in the air. The sun was still up, blazing straight down and spilling long shadows from the group of men gathered in a half-circle.

Ambrose stood right in the middle of those men. Even after working with the man for ten years, I still hadn't gotten used to the man's looks.

He wore the long black leather jacket he loved, the one that always moved like a cape when the wind caught it. His dark, caramel skin was shining warmly under the sun, and the gold ring on his finger glinted whenever he lifted his pipe.

The pipe alone made him seem ancient and dangerous, but the single cold, brown eye and the eyepatch beside it was what made people’s throats go dry. It wasn’t just the way he looked, Ambrose carried himself like someone who wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. His skull was shaved clean and inked all the way to his eyebrows, which somehow made him look even more terrifying.

I stopped a few feet away, dragging the Jackal kid by the back of his shirt. Ambrose raised his head toward them and gave a grin like he was greeting an old friend, but I knew better. That grin was a curtain. Behind it lived the real Ambrose, the man who was the only other widely feared Bike Lord in New Orleans. The first was Vex Mercer, and nobody ever forgot it.

“Took you long enough,” Ambrose drawled, tapping his pipe against his palm. Smoke curled lazily from the bowl. “The hell were you doing out there? Having brunch with these fools?”

I forced a dry laugh. “Traffic was trash,” I replied, keeping my expression calm. No way in hell he’d ever let Ambrose know the truth, what really held me up and who really beat the life out of him. If Ambrose knew that I got jumped by Vex Mercer because I kissed the man’s daughter, Ambrose would burn the entire Serpent clubhouse to the ground before the sun set.

I shoved the Jackal forward. The boy stumbled, hit the dirt and dropped to his knees. “Boss, please,” the kid cried, shaking. “Please, I’m begging you… I didn’t mean— I just... please, don’t kill me.”

Ambrose chuckled around his pipe, like the boy had told him a funny story. “Kill you?” he repeated. “Now, why would I do a thing like that?”

I watched the boy’s shoulders tremble. I knew exactly what that laugh meant. If Ambrose was smiling, someone was probably about to lose something important—like their life.

Ambrose turned slightly to one of the bigger men standing nearby. The guy straightened immediately, waiting for the order he already knew was coming.

“Take him away,” Ambrose murmured, tapping ash off his pipe. “And take care of him.”

The Jackal started begging again as the big guy hauled him up. I didn’t bother watching. I'd seen that scene play out enough times to know how it ended.

Ambrose let out a pleased sigh and turned his full attention to me. “Now,” he announced, “onto better things. We’ve got new business coming. Big money that’ll put us way above every other pack in this damn city.”

I stepped closer, trying to guess where he was going with this. “More bikes?” I asked. “Spare parts? Did you finally get those out-of-state buyers locked in?”

Ambrose waved a hand lazily. “No, no. Bikes are fine, but this is way bigger, Maddox. This is steady income and it is easier to move. All fresh goods ready to ship.”

I frowned. “Goods...?” I asked, trying to understand. “Who are we selling to?”

Ambrose smiled again, almost grandfatherly, which only made my stomach drop a little. “People with expensive tastes,” he replied. “People who want something young and untouched and easy to mold. That kind of merchandise.”

My face collapsed in horror. Was he talking about selling human beings?!