The storm had been circling Birmingham since nightfall, thunder rolling low and close—the kind that crawled under your skin and shook loose memories you worked hard to bury. Rain hammered the metal roof of the Iron Serpents MC clubhouse, loud enough to drown out engines and laughter alike.
I was at the workbench arguing with Logan about whether a mangled carburetor was worth saving or already junk, completely unaware that my life had about ten seconds left before it cracked open like an old scar that never truly healed.
The door didn’t creak.
It blew inward.
Wood slammed against concrete as wind and icy rain tore into the room, killing cigarettes and sending men moving on instinct—habits carved by combat zones, prison blocks, and blood debts.
And there he was.
A massive German Shepherd, soaked to the bone, filled the doorway. Mud caked his legs, rain slicked his coat, and blood—fresh and undeniable—darkened the fur along his side. He shook, not from fear, but from bone-deep exhaustion.
Dogs didn’t wander into outlaw clubhouses during a storm.
Not unless something was terribly wrong.
Then I saw her.