The nightmares were never far away. Most nights I suffered them alone, waking up in the middle of the night in a deep sweat with my hair stuck to my neck as though it were trying to strangle me. My hands trembled so violently I was forced to ball them into fists to stop the muscles from seizing. Drew slept heavily beside me—oblivious to the night terrors that haunted me, mainly because the nightmares often faded after that first one to be replaced by dreams of he and I together once I finally drifted back to sleep.

Waking up next to him every morning was a blessing I no longer took for granted, even if the bastard did look like he’d stepped off the cover of a magazine from the moment he woke and those beautiful blue-green eyes sought me out.

So much had changed in my life since I’d met Drew, and it didn’t matter how much bad had occurred in the duration. Every ache in my joints, pull of a scar, and look of concern was worth the time I had with him. I couldn’t imagine my life without Drew in it, and I didn’t really want to. He and the heathens who came as a package deal were just as much my family as Tate. I didn’t miss the grief in their glances when I wore a tank top and the scars peeked over the top of the material. We all had scars from that night; some just showed more than others.

I wasn’t the naïve woman I’d been before that night in the warehouse with the Emps. I was no longer the girl who felt sorry for herself because her parents had died and left her to parent her younger brother. I was much stronger. I was war-torn, ravaged, and hardened just enough to get rid of the rose tinted glasses that had made words like unfair fall into my mental tirades on a regular basis. I still loved and cared the same way I always had, but I refused to see myself as a victim anymore. I refused to be the damsel in distress who needed saving. I wanted to be stronger, harder, and have the ability to fight that would put me shoulder-to-shoulder with the man I loved rather than cowering behind him.

I was sure if he could hear the diatribe in my head he would scowl in that way of his and then storm off to crush a car or shoot at an inanimate object. Drew didn’t have a hero complex by any means. He was under no illusions about the life that he led. He protected the people he loved, and that was the end of the discussion. If he’d known I was taking shooting lessons from Sutton, he’d probably have locked me in a room for a week to deprogram that kind of thinking. Again, not because he thought I wasn’t capable, but because he was there to protect me, which meant I didn’t need to learn how to defend myself. A fact we were destined to disagree about for a long time to come.

As I lay in bed staring at the ceiling of the room I shared with Drew, I knew that day was going to be difficult—more difficult than any of us were truly prepared for. The Hounds of Babylon were holding a memorial service for the Emps who had perished in the terrible warehouse accident. After the fire had been set, the media had descended on the town like locusts to the end of the world, and following many negotiations between Howard Sutton and Drew, they’d decided to use the opportunity to gain sympathy for the MC and show our community-orientated side.

The story was that the Emps had gone to the warehouse for the sole purpose of setting up an explosion before luring in the Hounds and ambushing them. Only, before we could be lured to the site, something had triggered the explosion early while the Emps had been in the old equipment room with enough explosives to bring the place down, meaning they were stuck with no way to escape—something I could attest to. The Fire Marshall had been in there for weeks trying to figure out the chain reaction. He’d concluded that because the fire exits had been chained shut after the factory had been closed indefinitely, the door to the shop had been the only way in and out after the place had closed. A death trap was the terminology they’d used in the news reports. What had helped our claim even further was the fact that the security guard who normally patrolled the area had been found bound and gagged in his car at the back of the property. He hadn’t seen us there in any capacity, but he’d remembered the Emps’ patch just fine.

Climbing on the back of Drew’s bike, and wrapping my arms around his waist, I looked around at the members of our delegation. It was only our charter today, but that was all that was needed. This memorial would hopefully keep the other Emp charters away. We were being the bigger men here. We were acknowledging that this situation had been arranged to kill us, but we were still mourning the loss of life. The gesture had been the very thing to lead to a roundtable discussion between a few leaders of the MCs we shared this part of Texas with. The Hounds of Babylon were waving a white flag after this terrible accident.

The truce wasn’t indefinite, but from what I understood, the arrangement was opening communications, a way of talking about things in order to fact-find rather than point a finger of accusation that would undoubtedly be followed by a bullet of condemnation.

I just hoped this worked, because even as the bike carried us forward, I could feel the dread in the pit of my stomach.

I knew Cortez was dead.

Did that mean we were safe?

No, not even a little. His death just meant we were safer for now and that we could sleep side by side without worrying about the Emps rolling through the gates with threats. However, like the mythological beast, Hydra… you cut off one head and two would replace it, and when that happened, our enemies would want their pound of flesh for the men we’d wronged. Retaliation was something that came with the club. It was also something I’d come to accept. I just needed to be prepared for when that happened. I needed to have the ability to protect what was mine, and every soul in this club fell under that umbrella, including myself.