The Savage Saints' clubhouse was a fortress of controlled chaos in the hours following the warehouse m******e. Raven sat in Jax's office, still wearing the clothes she'd worn during her surveillance mission, the scent of gunpowder and fear clinging to her like a second skin. Through the reinforced windows, she could see armed guards patrolling the perimeter while wounded Saints received medical attention in the main room.
Jax paced behind his desk like a caged predator, his long dark hair disheveled and his hazel eyes burning with the aftermath of violence. His black t-shirt was torn and stained with blood—not his own, but that of enemies who'd gotten too close during the final moments of the battle. Even in the dim lamplight, she could see the way his muscled frame radiated tension, the
