Chapter Fifty-Two
The west wing of the compound was usually reserved for guests, new prospects, and temporary visitors. It was a drafty, echoing hallway made of concrete and old wood, far removed from the warm, private comfort of Jake’s quarters. But as I watched the prospect lead Vivian down that hallway, the chill of the concrete seemed to seep straight through my boots, settling deep into my bones.
I stood in the center of the clubhouse, frozen, even as the rowdy celebration of the men returning surged all around me. Patched members were shouting for beer, slamming their heavy fists on the wooden tables, and recounting tales of the northern highway. Ordinarily, the loud, familiar chaos of the Reapers would have grounded me. But today, the noise felt miles away.
My hand felt cold wher
