Crimson Steel

Chapter Five - Blood Oaths & Broken Lines

The sun barely crept through the blinds when Avery sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor of her father’s old bedroom, surrounded by dust, silence, and memories that felt too heavy to breathe through.

She’d come back to the house alone that morning, before the clubhouse stirred to life. Told Colt she needed to grab something. He didn’t stop her.

Maybe he thought she just wanted space.

She didn’t.

She wanted proof.

Her father’s room had always been neat—but not impersonal. Books still lined the shelves, mostly crime thrillers and motorcycle mags. His desk drawers were clean, organized. Too clean.

It wasn’t until she pried up the loose floorboard beneath the bottom drawer—one only someone who’d spent years studying the angles of this house would know about—that she found it.

An envelope.

Unmarked. Thick. Folded twice.

She opened it with trembling fingers.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

Typed. Dated three weeks ago.

Her father’s name signed at the bottom. Notarized.

It was a statement.

A warning.

If something happens to me, it wasn’t natural. There’s something going on in the club—money disappearing, routes changing. I’ve kept quiet because I thought Colt would fix it when he stepped up. But now I think someone’s working against him. Someone from the inside. If I’m found dead, it wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a heart attack. Look for the name “Riker.” He’s not who he says he is. Don’t trust anyone. Especially not Bear.

Avery’s blood ran cold.

Her father had known. He’d felt it coming.

And he hadn’t told her.

She sat there frozen for a full minute, the letter clutched in her hand, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum.

Riker.

The name was unfamiliar.

But the rest? The rest confirmed what she already suspected. Her father hadn’t just died.

He’d been taken out.

And Bear—retired or not—was still playing his hand.

She stood quickly, tucking the paper into her bag, locking it inside the inner zipper pocket like it was made of gold.

She had to be smart now.

Careful.

This was no longer about grief or fear or memories.

This was about truth.

And survival.

Avery didn't go back to the clubhouse that afternoon.

She didn’t want to see him.

Didn’t want to walk into another room and wonder who would be wrapped around him next. Didn't want to watch the man who once made her heart flutter now rule over criminals with that same damn magnetic ease.

She hated that he still got to her.

Still made her skin prickle and her chest twist, even after everything.

She told herself it was just the shock of it—seeing Colt Mercer getting his ego stroked in the kitchen like it was just another Tuesday. But it wasn’t just the act. It was the familiarity. The same script he’d followed in high school, playing it cool, knowing how to use attention to make everyone feel like the center of his world.

Even her.

Back then, she thought he was different. Like maybe he looked at her and saw something real.

Now?

Now he was the president of Crimson Steel.

Not a boy anymore.

Not a high school crush.

Not the guy with a crooked grin and oil-stained hands who used to lean against her locker just to get a reaction.

He was the man Bear raised—harder, colder, more calculating than anyone realized.

And he led with an iron fist.

She couldn’t forget that.

Wouldn’t.

She parked her car two blocks down from The Hollow, a dive bar on the edge of Blackridge that doubled as a neutral meet-up spot for club business. Her father used to stop in every Thursday night for a beer and a game of darts. He’d claimed it was just for downtime—but Avery remembered the way he always checked over his shoulder going in and coming out.

Today, she wasn’t here for nostalgia.

She was looking for a man named Denny Lyle.

He’d ridden with her father since before Colt could drive. He was gruff, blunt, and more likely to talk if he didn’t think it would get back to anyone at the clubhouse.

Especially Colt.

Avery found him in the back, hunched over a whiskey sour and nursing a bad attitude.

He looked up when she slid into the seat across from him.

“Well, hell,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you in this shithole.”

“I’m not here for the ambiance,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “I need to ask you something.”

Denny took a slow sip of his drink. “Not sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart, Denny,” she said flatly. “Tell me about Riker.”

That got his attention.

He didn’t move, but his eyes sharpened. “Where’d you hear that name?”

She leveled him with a look. “From someone who had a damn good reason to write it down. Just answer the question.”

He hesitated, then looked around the bar, lowering his voice.

“Riker showed up about a year ago. Said he was patched in from another charter down south, somewhere near Corpus. Claimed Bear brought him in personally—but it all moved too fast. Paperwork was thin. Background didn’t line up.”

“So why’d everyone accept him?”

“Because no one says no to Bear. Not then.”

“And Colt?”

Denny shrugged. “Didn’t like the guy. But Bear had more pull back then. Colt was still wearin’ the VP patch.”

“And now?” Avery pressed. “Now that Colt’s in charge?”

Denny took another sip. “Riker’s still here. Quiet. Keeps to himself. But something ain’t right.”

Avery leaned forward. “Did you know my dad wrote a statement? Said if he died, it wasn’t natural. That Riker might be behind it?”

Denny’s face paled a little. He looked down at his drink.

“No,” he said softly. “But I believe it.”

Avery swallowed the sick feeling rising in her throat.

“Why didn’t you say something?” she asked.

“Because Bear made it clear you were out,” he said. “That you’d turned your back. We were told to stay away. To let you go. Now?” He looked at her. “Now you’re here, asking the kind of questions that get people killed.”

She sat back, fire sparking in her chest.

“Then maybe someone needs to start being afraid of me.”

Denny let out a slow, humorless laugh.

“You sound just like your old man.”

She didn’t smile.

Because if that was true, then someone made a mistake in killing him.

Because now?

Now she was listening.

The sun was setting when Avery pulled back into the lot behind the Crimson Steel clubhouse.

This time, she wasn’t walking in slow. She moved with purpose, fury pulsing just beneath the surface like blood in her teeth.

She stormed up the stairs to the room Colt had given her—his room—and shoved her things back into her bag. She didn’t bother folding anything. She just wanted out. Of the leather, the smoke, the memories, the weight of eyes that had never stopped watching her.

The letter from her father was tucked safely in her jacket pocket. The only thing that mattered now.

She zipped the bag closed and slung it over her shoulder.

Time to go.

She made it halfway down the stairs before Colt stepped out from the hallway below, his arms crossed, blocking the exit.

“You going somewhere?” he asked.

Avery didn’t slow down.

“Yes,” she said. “Away from here.”

“You’re not safe out there.”

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, just inches from him, her voice low and cold.

“I’m not safe here, either.”

Colt’s jaw tensed. “I gave you a place to stay.”

“And I didn’t ask for it.”

He took a breath. “Avery—”

“No,” she snapped. “Don’t ‘Avery’ me. Don’t stand there and act like you’re some kind of shield. You can’t even keep yourself safe in this place.”

His eyes narrowed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means your club doesn’t respect you,” she spat. “They still see you as Bear’s kid. The one who took over too early. The one who wears the patch but hasn’t earned their fear. You think you’re untouchable?”

Colt’s mouth set into a hard line, but she wasn’t done.

“You’ll always be the boy who let cheap girls suck you off in dark corners because that was easier than leading. Easier than becoming someone who actually made a difference.”

The silence cracked like a gunshot.

Colt’s eyes flashed—not anger, not quite—but something raw. Something unguarded.

But Avery didn’t let up. Her voice trembled now, but not from weakness.

From rage.

“Don’t pretend you’re some noble savior. Don’t pretend you can protect me when the truth is, you’re just as lost as the rest of them. You’re not a shield, Colt. You’re just another threat.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Then, quietly—too quietly—he said, “You don’t know everything that’s going on.”

“I know enough,” she whispered. “I know my father was right. I know someone in your club killed him. And I know staying here will only get me hurt—or worse.”

She pushed past him, hard.

He didn’t stop her.

Didn’t reach for her.

Just watched her walk away, jaw clenched, hands fists at his sides.

Because she was right.

She wasn’t safe here.

And maybe neither was he.

The clubhouse was quieter than usual, but it wasn’t calm.

There was tension in the air—thin, crackling, like the pressure before a thunderstorm. A few of the guys played cards at the bar. One was patching a tire in the garage. But every conversation fell quiet when Colt walked by.

No one challenged him.

But no one respected him either.

Not yet.

He felt it in the way they paused before answering. In the way their eyes flicked to his patch, then past it. Like they were still waiting for Bear to take the reins back. Like he was just keeping the seat warm.

He didn’t go upstairs.

Didn’t go to his new office. Didn’t even light the cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He went out back, past the lot, down the slope to the little trailer Bear had moved into when he stepped down six months ago. Colt had paid to fix it up, tried to make it comfortable. Bear still called it his “damn cage.”

The old man was sitting in a lawn chair, boots up on a cooler, half-watching the game on a tiny mounted screen and sipping from a silver flask like it held the answers.

He didn’t look over when Colt stepped into the light.

“Took you long enough,” Bear muttered. “I thought you’d come storming down here the minute she showed up.”

Colt didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch. He just crossed his arms.

“I need your advice.”

Bear glanced at him then. Just once. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s bad,” Colt said. “The club’s cracked. They don’t say it, but they don’t believe in me. And now Avery’s digging around and lighting matches I can’t put out fast enough.”

Bear chuckled dryly. “That girl’s got more fire than half the men upstairs.”

“She thinks I’m weak,” Colt said, jaw tight. “She thinks I let this place run me instead of the other way around.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Colt stiffened.

Bear took another drink. “You’re leading like someone still asking for permission. You want the club to follow you? Make them. You want her to believe in you? Show her she was wrong. Earn that shit.”

Colt looked away, frustration burning behind his ribs. “It’s not just her. There’s a name—Riker. He’s dirty. My gut’s telling me he’s behind what happened to Danny. But I’ve got no proof, and no one’s willing to talk. Half of them still act like they answer to you.”

Bear finally set the flask down, his expression hardening.

“You’re the president now. Act like it. You think they’re gonna hand you the truth because you ask nice? You want respect, Colt? You take it. You dig it out with your bare hands if you have to. That’s how I built this place.”

Colt’s lip curled. “Yeah, and look how many bodies it cost.”

Bear stood slowly, groaning under the weight of old bones and older regrets.

“And yet, here you are. Still wearing the crown I built.” He stepped close. “You’ve got fire, son. But fire without focus just burns everything down. You want her to look at you like something more than a patch? Handle your business. Clean house. Fix the cracks. And don’t come to me again until you’ve reminded those men up there why you wear that cut.”

Colt said nothing.

Because Bear was an asshole.

But he wasn’t wrong.