As the week progressed, the clubhouse downstairs began to transform. The quiet afternoon silence was slowly replaced by the deep, rumbling roar of dozens of motorcycles arriving from out-of-town chapters. Even from the bedroom, I could hear the loud, rowdy shouts of patch holders, the clinking of beer bottles, and the heavy bass of rock music echoing up through the floorboards. The Iron Reapers annual summer run was starting, and the compound was filling up with dangerous, unpredictable energy.
Stone was busier now, forced to spend more time downstairs managing the incoming presidents and handling club business. But his newfound confidence in my submission meant that the tight security around me had slightly loosened. He still locked the bedroom door when he left, but he no longer checked
