The ride into Redwood Creek had been long, the kind that ground into a man’s bones. But Bobby barely felt the ache when the Pit Stop’s sign flickered into view.
He killed the engine, boots hitting the pavement hard as he swung off the bike. One glance told him what he already knew: the Sovereign Sons were lined up, watching, measuring. They weren’t family, not like the Saints, but they were brothers in the patch all the same. And family recognized family.
Bobby tugged off his gloves, his gaze flicking across the lot until it landed on her.
Sage.
Christ, the last time he’d seen her she was still half-wild, barely a teenager with too much fire in her veins. Now she stood with Silas Creed’s hand steady at her back, looking small but unbroken, bruised but still burning.
Pride cut through
