Chapter 9: Patch Night
1000 Words
The clubhouse buzzed.
Not with noise — not yet — but with the kind of tension that simmered under every surface. Bikes were lined up outside, chrome catching the moonlight. Engines still ticked with heat. And the brothers of the Feral Sons were gathering inside like a slow-moving storm.
Murphy stood near the bar, jaw tight, arms crossed over his broad chest. His cut stretched over his shoulders, the leather worn in, the patches on it silent declarations of violence and loyalty. He didn’t speak, not yet.
Tonight was supposed to be about celebration. About Aubrey.
Patch Night.
And someone was already screwing it up.
---
Aubrey had felt eyes on her the second she walked into the room.
It wasn’t paranoia. It was fact.
Wearing Murphy’s cut wasn’t just a romantic gesture — it was a statement. And in a room full of leather, history, bloodshed and men who’d bled for their patches, that statement came with weight.
She was his.
She wore his patch.
And she knew exactly what that meant.
Which is why when the comment came, low and slick from a mouth too full of beer and ego, it hit like a knife.
“Didn’t know Murphy was into charity work,” said a prospect she didn’t recognize. Mid-twenties, cocky grin, hands too fast with his bottle. “You dance for him too, sweetheart, or just ride the bike?”
The room fell quiet fast.
Dead quiet.
Aubrey didn’t flinch. She stood with her back straight and her chin high, one booted foot tapping lightly against the wood floor. Her hands stayed loose at her sides.
Then she smiled — slow, sweet, the kind of smile that always meant trouble.
“You looking for someone to dance on?” she asked, voice sugarcoated venom. “Because the only thing you’re getting from me tonight is a lesson.”
The prospect’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh yeah? What kinda lesson—”
She moved before he could finish.
A beer bottle cracked hard across the bar, glass splintering. Aubrey grabbed the jagged neck and held it steady between two fingers — not shaking, not bluffing — aimed low, where it would hurt.
“Try again,” she said softly.
Murphy didn’t have to move.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t need to.
All he did was look.
And the room responded.
The air shifted, sharp and cold. Every brother in the clubhouse stilled. Murphy walked forward slowly, boots heavy on the floorboards. The prospect backed up, hands raised, face pale now.
Murphy stopped between them, eyes on Aubrey first. Not mad. Not even surprised. Just watching her with that unreadable, quiet intensity that always made her pulse skip.
Then he turned to the prospect.
“You don’t talk to mine,” Murphy said calmly. “You don’t look at mine. You don’t even think about mine.”
Aubrey swore the floor dropped an inch under his voice.
The prospect nodded quickly, backing out, bumping into chairs as he went. Murphy didn’t look back. He reached for Aubrey’s hand, took the broken bottle from her like she was holding a flower, and set it gently on the bar.
“Didn’t think I’d need to say it,” he murmured, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But I will, if I have to.”
Aubrey exhaled slowly, the fire inside her cooling as his warmth wrapped around her.
“You always clean up my messes,” she said.
Murphy gave her a look. “You don’t make messes, baby. You survive them.”
---
Later, the party built back up. Laughter replaced tension. Music rumbled through the walls. And Aubrey sat perched on the edge of Murphy’s lap at the back of the room, nursing a beer while he whispered things in her ear that made her want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time.
Andie dropped onto the couch beside them, swinging a leg up and pointing her bottle at Aubrey.
“You really are a menace,” she said, grinning. “You’re lucky Grizz is into that.”
Aubrey snorted. “He loves it.”
Murphy kissed the corner of her mouth. “I do.”
Andie tilted her head. “You ready for the next step?”
Aubrey frowned. “What’s the next step?”
Murphy shifted beneath her, reaching behind the couch to grab something from a canvas bag. She looked down as he dropped it in her lap — a black leather vest, brand new, her size.
And on the back, stitched in perfect, heavy thread: Property of Murphy - Feral Sons.
Aubrey’s throat tightened.
No one said a word.
Murphy looked up at her, eyes soft but sure. “You don’t have to wear it. I won’t ever force you.”
Aubrey ran her fingers over the letters, her heart thudding against her ribs. “But I can wear it?”
“You earned it.”
She didn’t hesitate. She slipped it on right there in front of everyone, a bratty little grin curling on her lips.
“Guess I’m official now, huh?”
Murphy pulled her back onto his lap and kissed the side of her neck, voice low against her skin. “You’ve been official since the second you said my name like it meant something.”
---
That night, when they got home, Aubrey laid the cut carefully over the back of a chair and sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Murphy strip down in silence.
“You ever going to tell me why they call you Grizz?” she asked.
Murphy chuckled. “Because I don’t look like a Murphy.”
“Fair.”
He crawled into bed beside her and tugged her into his chest.
“Wanna know what I call you in my head?” she murmured sleepily.
Murphy brushed his lips over her temple. “What?”
“My beginning.”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
His arms around her said everything.
- Writer
