Claimed By The Inferno Riders

Chapter Fifteen

Nadia didn't sleep.

She sat against the cold, damp cinderblock wall, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket Priest had tossed to her from a supply crate. She watched the fire in the burn barrel dwindle, the orange flames dying down to a bed of pulsing, rhythmic embers that cast long, distorted shadows across the garage floor.

Ghost was a statue at the bay doors, his silhouette framed by the relentless, monotonous drumming of the rain against the metal roof. Kayne had eventually moved inside, pacing the perimeter of the garage with the restless, caged-in energy of a man who hated being stationary.

Across the room, Slate was still working on his bike. He wasn't repairing anything—he had finished the clutch adjustment hours ago—but he kept his hands moving, wiping down the chrome, tightening bolts, performing a series of repetitive, meaningless tasks that served the same function as her wrench.

They were all managing the silence in their own way.

"Priest," Nadia said, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the hollow space.

Priest looked up from where he was sharpening a serrated combat knife with a whetstone. The rhythmic shhh-shhh sound stopped.

"The Russian syndicate," she said. "If the debt was bought, and the contract is binding, what are they waiting for? Why not come for me at the compound?"

"Because of the way River structured the charter agreement," Priest said, his voice calm and steady. "When you signed that paper, you became an official, registered member of the Inferno Riders' extended service support. It’s an old legal loophole. In the eyes of the law, and in the unspoken code of the MC world, attacking you is a direct, unprovoked assault on our charter."

"They don't care about the law," Nadia noted.

"No," Priest agreed. "But they care about the consequences of starting a localized war. If they come for you on our soil, they have to come through five fully patched members who have nothing to lose and nowhere else to go. They’re calculating the cost. They’re waiting to see if we’ll fold, or if we’ll break."

Nadia looked at the five men. They were a shattered, disparate group—a sergeant-at-arms holding a line, a prospect turned guardian, an enforcer, a scout, and a man who acted as the glue. They weren't fighting for a moral cause. They were fighting for the integrity of their own code.

And she was the anchor currently dragging them down.

"What happens when they stop calculating?" she asked.

"Then we move," River said.

He hadn't been asleep. He was sitting on the crate, his eyes fixed on the embers in the barrel. He hadn't moved for an hour.

"We don't wait for them to breach," River continued. "We stay mobile. We keep the perimeter fluid. We don't give them a fixed target. That's why you're riding lead tomorrow. You need to learn the transition points—where the roads end, where the logging trails begin, and where we disappear."

"You're teaching me how to run," Nadia stated.

"I'm teaching you how to survive," River corrected. "There's a difference."

He stood up, his movements fluid and efficient. He walked over to the bay door, stopping next to Kayne. The two men stood for a moment, their silhouettes sharp against the gray, watery light filtering in from the outside.

"We leave at 0400," River announced to the room. "Sleep while you can. Nobody stays on watch alone. We rotate in two-hour shifts."

River looked back at her. "Slate takes the first shift. You take the second."

"I don't need a shift," Nadia said.

"You're a member of this charter," River said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You pull your weight. That includes the watch."

He walked toward the back of the garage, where a small, cramped office area offered a sliver of privacy. The rest of the men began to settle in, finding corners to lean against, covering themselves in thick, oil-stained tarps.

Nadia didn't move. She felt the heavy blanket slip from her shoulders as she stood up.

She walked toward the bay doors. Slate was there, his back to the room, looking out into the rain. He heard her approach but didn't turn around.

"You heard him," Slate said.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked. The question felt small, a ghost of her previous anger.

Slate finally turned. In the dark, his face was a landscape of deep, hard lines. He looked older than his years, seasoned by the violent, internal politics of the club.

"Because you wouldn't have signed," Slate said. "And because you needed to believe you were doing this for your uncle, not because I forced the club's hand. If you thought you were a liability, you would have left. And if you had left, you would have been dead by morning."

"You risked your patch for a girl you hadn't seen in two years," she said.

"I didn't risk my patch," Slate said. "I exercised my right to claim a debt. The club respects the claim."

"But it wasn't a claim," she said.

Slate was silent. The only sound was the steady, unrelenting beat of the rain.

"It was a rescue," she said.

Slate didn't confirm it. He didn't have to.

He walked past her, his heavy boots making no sound on the wet concrete. He went to take his place at the perimeter, leaving her standing alone at the edge of the dark, listening to the world wait for the sun to rise.