Claimed by the reaper

Chapter 8

Ronan Cade, everyone called him Preacher, a nickname earned decades ago for reasons nobody bothered explaining anymore, held court in the clubhouse's main room the way he did everything: unhurried, watchful, giving away considerably less than he took in.

Wren had met him only briefly during her first week, a short, measured introduction that had left her with the distinct impression of being carefully assessed rather than genuinely welcomed. She understood, watching him now from across the room during the club's regular Sunday gathering, exactly why Gideon's easy warmth toward her had felt, from the very beginning, like something slightly at odds with the club's usual caution.

"He wants to talk to you," Sabrina murmured, appearing at Wren's elbow with a plate of food neither of them had any real interest in eating. "Preacher, I mean. Alone, probably. He's been asking Reaper pointed questions all week about exactly how long you're planning to stay."

"That's not surprising," Wren admitted, old unease settling in her stomach. "I've been here nearly a month. I'm sure that raises questions for a club that doesn't usually take in strangers."

"It's not really about the stranger part," Sabrina said carefully. "It's more that Reaper doesn't usually attach himself to anyone the way he's attached himself to you. Preacher's noticed. The whole club's noticed, honestly. It's just a question of whether that makes people protective of you or nervous about what it means for Reaper's judgment."

Wren considered that uncomfortably, aware of exactly how precarious her position actually was, sheltered by a man whose loyalty to her seemed to be growing daily, in a world with rules and hierarchies she still barely understood, carrying evidence that could reshape the club's entire relationship with a dangerous rival.

Preacher found her alone on the porch an hour later, settling into the chair beside her with unhurried, deliberate ease.

"Miss Ashford," he said, his voice carrying the same careful, measured quality she'd noticed during their first meeting. "I understand you've become something of a fixture around here."

"I don't mean to overstay my welcome," Wren said carefully, old instinct sharpening her attention despite her best efforts to stay relaxed.

"That's not quite my concern," Preacher said, studying her with an unreadable, patient expression. "My concern is understanding exactly what you're bringing into my club's territory. Reaper tells me you have photographs. Evidence, potentially, connected to that warehouse fire three years back."

"Nothing conclusive yet," Wren said carefully, unwilling to overstate what she genuinely didn't know. "Just a possible lead. We're still investigating."

"We," Preacher repeated, something careful and assessing in his tone. "You and Reaper, you mean."

"Yes."

Preacher was quiet for a long moment, watching the yard below with the particular stillness of a man carefully weighing something significant.

"I've run this club for a long time, Miss Ashford. Long enough to understand that the story we've all believed about that fire has cost us considerably, territory, standing, three years of a war I've never been entirely comfortable with, if I'm honest. If you're telling me there's a real chance that story was a lie, I need you to understand exactly how seriously I intend to take that possibility."

"I understand," Wren said carefully.

"I don't think you do, not entirely," Preacher said, something harder entering his voice. "Because if it's true, if the Vultures set that fire and let my club take the blame for three years, that changes everything. Not just the cold war we've been managing. Everything. I need to know you understand the weight of what you're carrying before this goes any further."

Wren met his gaze steadily, old fear giving way to something more resolute.

"I understand the weight of it better than you might think, Mr. Preacher. I've spent three years learning exactly how dangerous the people connected to this are. I'm not taking any of it lightly."

Something in Preacher's expression shifted, grudging respect replacing his earlier careful scrutiny.

"Good," he said finally. "Then we understand each other."

He stood, pausing before he turned to leave.

"For what it's worth, Miss Ashford, Reaper's a careful man. Controlled, in ways most people in this life never manage to be. I've watched him build considerable distance between himself and anyone who might complicate his judgment for years. I don't say that as a warning. I say it because whatever's happening between you two, it's clearly significant enough to be worth my attention. That doesn't happen easily with him."

He left her with that observation, and Wren sat alone on the porch for a long while afterward, turning the conversation over carefully, aware of exactly how much had shifted in the past month, not just her own careful, cautious healing, but apparently something in Gideon too, significant enough that even his club's president had taken notice.

Gideon found her there as the sun began its slow descent, settling beside her with the particular, deliberate ease that had become so familiar over the past weeks.

"Preacher talked to you," he said, not quite a question.

"He did." Wren studied him carefully. "He mentioned you don't usually let anyone complicate your judgment. That whatever's happening between us is apparently significant enough for the club's president to take notice."

Something flickered across Gideon's expression, not quite embarrassment, though close enough to be endearing on a man usually so carefully composed.

"Preacher's not wrong. I've spent years keeping considerable distance between myself and anyone who might compromise how clearly I think under pressure. It's kept me alive more than once."

"And now?"

"Now I find myself considerably less interested in that particular distance than I used to be," he admitted, something warm and unguarded in his voice. "I've tried to examine why, if I'm honest. I don't have a fully satisfying answer beyond the fact that you make me want things I stopped letting myself want a long time ago."

"What kind of things?" Wren asked softly, something warm building in her chest at the admission.

"Steadiness," he said simply. "Someone who sees exactly who I am, the dangerous parts included, and doesn't flinch from any of it. I didn't think that was something available to a man like me, Wren. I'm beginning to understand I was wrong about that."

She reached for his hand, old caution finally and fully giving way to the warm, steady certainty that had been slowly building between them for weeks.

"I see all of it," she said quietly. "The danger, the control, the careful distance you're apparently only now learning to set aside. I'm not frightened by any of it, Gideon. If anything, it's part of what makes me trust you as completely as I do."

Something in his expression settled, warm and certain, as he lifted her hand to press a soft, deliberate kiss against her knuckles.

"Then I suppose Preacher's right to take notice," he said quietly. "Because I don't intend to let this particular distance return, regardless of what the rest of the club makes of it."

The sun continued its slow descent behind them, gilding the yard in warm, golden light, and Wren found herself, for the first time in longer than she could properly remember, simply allowing herself to want something without immediately calculating the cost of wanting it at all.