Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Highway

Dawn barely breaks, the world outside still clinging to the night. Lyric is nestled beside me, and I absently run my hand up and down her back. She stirs and looks around the room.

"What time is it?"

"Dawn." I point at the window above our heads. "You can see the sun's rays streaking across the sky."

"Why are you awake?"

"Creed will want to see us all. There's work to be done, and I've slept enough."

Lyric moves and places her chin on my chest, a frown creasing her pretty face. "Does that mean you'll be busy all day?"

"Probably, but I'll check in on you from time to time."

A smile transforms her face into a thing of beauty. "I'd like that."

"What are you going to do today?"

"Help Dad in the infirmary with the women. He's still not sure about keeping them here, and I need to reassure him that here is the safest place for them."

Lyric turns over and sits up, putting her feet on the floor.

"You could sleep in," I offer.

"With so many people in the clubhouse, I think I should go help with breakfast."

I move to sit beside her, and my heart warms that she's thinking about the MC and not herself.

"We'll catch up later?"

"Yeah."

Leaning in, I close the distance between us. Our lips meet, a soft, gentle touch at first, tentative and tender. The kiss deepens, her lips parting slightly as our breaths mingle. It's not perfect—there's the undeniable reality of morning breath—but it doesn't matter. The intimacy of the moment, the connection we share, overshadows any imperfections.

Lyric's hand comes to rest on my cheek, her fingers warm and soft. I respond in kind, my hand finding the small of her back, pulling her closer. The kiss is unhurried, a slow exploration. It's a kiss that speaks of comfort, love, and thousands of shared mornings to come.

When we finally pull back, her eyes are bright, and she's smiling in a way that makes my heart race.

"Coffee?" she suggests, her voice still a little drowsy.

"Yeah," I reply, grinning. "Coffee sounds good."

In this simple moment, I realize that love isn't about perfection. It's about sharing all the little things—the good and the bad—and still feeling like the luckiest person in the world.

***

After a shower, I walk downstairs and along the corridor to check on Lyric's dad, who is already in the infirmary.

"Mr. Fullerton," I greet, pushing open the door with a creak. He looks up, his eyes are sharp, and they track to me, searching, measuring. "Are you okay?"

Something flickers in his eyes, but he nods. "The girls are doing better, especially Mia. The things they endured." He shakes his head. "They should speak with a counselor."

"Too many secrets could come to light. Could you act as that for them for now?"

"I'm a plastic surgeon, not a psychologist."

I nod, not really knowing what else to say to this man, so I change the subject. "Ahh, Lyric is making coffee. Would you like a cup?"

"Lyric?" He shakes his head again and moves closer to me. "I don't know what it is about your MC that has my girls so devoted to you, but know this, Highway, if you hurt Gwen, you'll have me to answer to."

With a nod, I say, "There'll be nothing for me to answer to you for. Lyric, like Lucy, fits in with us. She gets it." I step back into the hallway. "I hope you will too."

I keep walking to the kitchen, where Jet is talking to Lyric. Jet's smile is bright enough to chase away shadows. She's got the other women from the raid with her, and their chatter and smiles are letting me know they are not scared to be here.

Leaning against the doorway with my arms crossed, I watch the scene unfold. Jet catches my eye and winks, and I can't help but crack a grin. Yeah, we're doing something right here. And damn if it doesn't feel like a victory, at least for this moment.

"Highway," Jet calls, head tilted, inviting me in.

But I stay put like a sentinel at the gate.

"Everything good?" she asks.

"Good as gold," I reply, and it's true enough.

Lyric bounds toward me with a coffee cup in her hand. "For you."

"Thanks, babe." Her face lights up at my endearment. "I think your dad could use a cup."

Mia smiles at me and shyly says, "I'll get it for him."

Jet rubs her arm, and all the women go back to the infirmary, leaving Lyric and me alone.

"Have you seen Creed?"

"Not yet. About to head in now." I hold up the cup. "Thanks for this."

"Come back when you're done, and I'll make you breakfast."

This all feels like it's meant to be, and I smile at her and head for the meeting room. When I open the door, Creed is sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table.

"Prez," I say by way of a greeting.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

"Yeah, like a log."

"Good." He stands as I take my seat at the table. "The Ivanovs are coming to us. Lev wanted a sit-down and a conversation that can't be overheard by outside forces. I want all of you to stay sharp. No one is to leave the compound, and no one is to enter it today. Fingers will do sweeps looking for bugs, and I want you all to keep everyone happy. I know some of the women will want to leave, but you need to explain to them and their kids that, for today, they need to stay put." His lips turn down at the corners. "At least until after the meet. I don't need to tell you all how badly we need this to go in our favor." He takes a deep breath. "So, let's get to work keeping us and our loved ones safe."

***

The sun hangs low, a dying ember in the sky as they roll in—black sedans with tinted windows.

"Time to play nice with the big bad wolves," I mutter to myself, watching as Lev Ivanov steps out, flanked by six of his Russian shadows. They move with a predator's grace, all sharp suits and sharper eyes.

Ivanov is different. He blends like he's cut from the same cloth as this American wasteland we call home. No accent laces his words when he greets us with a nod, which is more calculation than courtesy.

"Highway," he says, his voice as smooth as a polished gun barrel. "Shall we?"

We file into the clubhouse, a room heavy with the scent of spilled beer and old smoke. It's our turf, our rules, but the Russians? They don't seem to care much for boundaries.

"Let's cut through the bullshit," Ivanov starts, taking a seat at our table without waiting for an invitation. Creed is already there as we all sit, a council of warlords in our own right. "You've done well clearing the path. Now it's time to push the Diablos out of Jacksonville."

His men mutter agreements in thick accents. They're eager, hungry for the chaos to come. But Ivanov? His eyes are cold and calculating. This is chess, not checkers.

"Thanks to you, we have their supply routes. The rest will follow." Lev's hands gesture, painting pictures of a city free from rivals, a throne waiting for a new king. "It will be simple." Simple for him, maybe. A man who doesn't flinch at the thought of blood staining his manicured hands.

I lean back, arms folded, feeling the weight of every decision, every alliance forged in fire and necessity. The Russians might be our guests today, but tomorrow? Who knows which way the gun will be pointing?

Creed's chair scrapes the wooden floor, a harsh sound that cuts through the tense air. He leans in, tattoos on his forearms twisting with the movement.

"Lev," he says, his voice low and gritty. "The Diablos are dug in deep. Not just some rats we can smoke out."

Ivanov's lip curls up ever so slightly, a predator baring teeth to a lesser beast. "The Diablo Cartel is strong…" he concedes, tapping a finger on the table, "… but not invincible."

"I need to keep my club safe," Creed pushes, his eyes locked on the Russian. "That's the deal. We don't need another war on our doorstep."

"Da, of course," Lev replies. "Your safety is paramount." But his eyes flicker with something else. Ambition, maybe? Or is it contempt?

"Timeline," I cut in. "We need specifics. Intel. When do we move?"

"Swiftly." Ivanov stands, commanding the space as if he owns it, which he damn well doesn't. "Two days. No more. Gather what you need. Prepare your men."

"Two days?" Creed's surprise mirrors my own, but there's no time for doubt. Our window is narrow, closing fast.

"Time is blood, gentlemen." Lev's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "And blood? It waits for no one."

Lev Ivanov places his hands on the back of his chair, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. I watch him, trying to read between the lines.

"Diablos…" he begins, rolling the word off his tongue like it's personal, "… they're no street gang. They've got reach. Power." He pauses, eyeing each of us in turn. "But they bleed like the rest. A predator knows the strength of its prey."

"Prey implies you're going to eat them alive," Creed says.

"Exactly," Lev agrees, his confidence a palpable force in the room.

"Your plan?" I prod because we're all thinking it. If Lev's so sure, he's got to have an ace up his sleeve.

"Simple," Lev holds his arms wide as if embracing the challenge. "We strike at their heart… Camilla and her father, Mateo. Without them, the Diablos crumble."

"Her brother, Gabriel?" I throw in, skeptical. There's always a wild card, and blood ties run deep.

Lev laughs, sharp and cold. "The brother? Please. He doesn't have the balls to lead, let alone fill his sister's shoes." His gaze is steely, confident. "Another will rise, but by then, they'll be limping. Market share gone, their reputation in tatters."

"Easy pickings for you," I conclude, the plan unfolding in my mind. It's bold and brash, but it just might work.

"Da," Lev confirms, the hint of a Russian lilt coloring the word. "They won't even see us coming until it's too late."

I exchange a look with Creed. This is big. Dangerous. But if we pull it off, we could change the game for good.

Creed stands, and I notice he's not wearing the sling. He holds out his hand to Lev, and they shake. For us and our world, this is all the guarantee we need—a simple handshake to seal the deal.

"A deal between the Royal Bastards and the Ivanovs," Creed says as they shake.

"Indeed. We'll let you know how it plays out."

With that, the Russians file out, the low rumble of their engines a fading growl outside.

I turn to Creed, his voice is low. "Keep your eyes on them. Can't trust a damn word they say."

"Will do," I grunt, already at the door.

I scan the room, the tension still hanging in the air. But it's her I'm looking for—Lyric. She's the one who's got me hooked bad. I find her at the edge of the crowd, her hair cascading down her back. Our eyes lock, and something electric zips through me, fierce and protective.

"Lyric," I call across the room, my tone more urgent than I intended. She pushes through the others, her movements graceful, even in the thick of leather and denim.

"Highway?" Her voice is steady, but her eyes search mine.

We move outside, away from prying eyes and ears.

"Stay close," I say, gripping her shoulders just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. "This play with the Ivanovs, it's gonna get dirty. I need you safe."

She doesn't flinch from my touch. Instead, she leans in slightly. "I can handle a bit of dirt."

"Lyric…" I start, but she places a finger over my lips, silencing me.

"Trust me," she whispers. "I'm not going anywhere, and the women from the other MC, they're keen to meet the club women here." She looks over her shoulder and waves at Jet. "Go do what you need to do, and I'll be here with them."

As I watch her go, she's suddenly surrounded by new faces, women from a fallen MC, lost and looking for a foothold. Lyric stands among them, her voice rising above the rest as she introduces them to our clubhouse women. They're hesitant, glancing around like cornered animals, but Lyric is there, the bridge between two worlds. A smile plays on my lips—she's a natural, bringing light into the darkest corners.

"Hey, look at you…" I say when she catches my eye again, "… playing the MC diplomat."

"Someone's got to," she shoots back with a grin that hits me square in the chest.

"Come here," I beckon her over, knowing full well I should be talking strategy with Reaper or Winchester as we keep an eye on the Russians. But hell, she's under my skin now, and I'm not about to pretend otherwise.

As she steps closer, the club buzzing around us, I lean in, my words for her only. "Once this is over, we're taking a ride, you and I. Just the open road and no looking back."

"Promise?" She tilts her head.

"Cross my heart," I answer, sealing it with the faintest touch to her cheek.

"Good." She smiles and, with a last lingering look, turns back to the women.

My gut twists. This thing with the Diablos, it's a high-stakes game. And I'll be damned if I let it take down what's slowly becoming mine.

Walking into our meeting room, Creed and Reaper are leaning over the table, its surface scarred from past brawls.

"Those women…" Creed says as he looks out at them, "… we need some assurances from them."

Reaper nods, his eyes hooded. "Yeah. They can't stay here forever. And we can't let them leave until we know where they stand."

Creed is quiet for a beat too long. Then he pushes off the table, his leather jacket creaking. "I'll handle it."

He strides toward them. "Ladies, could you please come with me to the infirmary?" He doesn't wait for an answer but strides through the clubhouse, shoulders set like he's marching into war.. The women file in one by one, wary gazes meeting his square-on.

"Listen up," Creed's voice slices through the silence. "Once we settle the score with the Diablos, you're free to go. But answer me this…" His gaze locks on each one. "Any of you even think about running to the cops—"

He doesn't get to finish before Jet speaks, her spine straightening. "We owe you our lives," she says. "There's nothing we've seen, nothing worth talking about."

The others follow suit, a sea of nodding heads.

Mia is softer, almost shy. "Is it… okay, if I stick around?" Her voice barely makes it across the room.

Creed's face cracks just a fraction, happiness flickering in his cold eyes. Then it's gone. "Fine," he grunts. "But play by our rules."

"Understood," she whispers, relief flooding her features.

I watch from the doorway, my chest tight.

This life, these choices, there's no going back now.