Rich fisted his hands and beat his knuckles against the wall next to the window in the bedroom of the house. His body trembled. Constant movement seemed to be the only thing that eased the stress in his body and made him feel stronger.

He'd lost track of the days and weeks he'd been shut up in the house. The only time he'd seen any of the Notus members was when they came to visit Gracie—which Glen was downstairs now.

Though he'd seen a Komoon member almost nightly outside the house.

It had reached the point where he couldn't step outside, or he'd be a dead man.

He'd waited too long to make an escape.

Blood dripped from his knuckles, and he wiped his hand on his jeans. He needed to get his shit together, gain his coordination back, his strength, his hardness. Beating the Komoon member sent after him would be the only way he could take the son of a bitch out.

Glen's Harley roared to life outside. Rich stepped away from the window. The sound a hard memory of his past. Glen's bike still knocked from a premature spark in the ignition. How he hadn't blown up the engine, running the motorcycle hot, all these years was a fucking lucky stroke.

A soft knock broke his concentration. He stared at the door. Gracie had never approached the bedroom or sought him out before.

He walked across the room and opened the door. Gracie's gaze dropped to his chest, and for a moment, he thought she'd hold her ground, but she snapped to attention, raising her eyes to his eyes, and stepped back. She was always stepping away from him.

She hid her fears as well as a skunk trying to hide its stripe. He scared her shitless.

Gracie's mouth opened, then she rubbed her full lips together. He waited for her to speak her mind and she simply held out a sack.

He took it from her. She hadn't cooked dinner like she'd been doing the last week, which was a real shame. His appetite had returned with her homemade meals.

Her chin came up. "Aren't you going to look to see what is inside?"

That bit of sass and show of strength confused him. Her complex personality waged a battle inside of her and could switch at any second.

More fascinated by her attitude, he dragged his gaze down, opened the bag, and peered inside. There were four cans of chew. Copenhagen. His brand since he was sixteen years old.

A spike of adrenaline surged through him and the paper rustled in his hands. He couldn't look away from the gift. His gut hurt at the same time his balls tightened. He swallowed, clearing his throat. Honest to fucking hell, he had no idea if he wanted to crack open a can or kiss the woman in front of him.

"You'll need this." She held an empty pop can in his view and her voice had gone soft again. The kind of soft that made him want to soak up all the comfort she could give a man like him. "I've seen guys at the bar spit that way. There are more empty cans in the recycle bin in the garage."

His throat constricted and he took the offer. She'd supplied him with a way to ease the shakes and keep his mind clear. A way to stay in the house. A way to fight through the urge to drink.

He raised his gaze and found her gone. Her bedroom door closed.

Disappointment filled him. He wanted to share this moment with her. She wouldn't be interested in chewing tobacco and spitting but he was, and he wanted to share those good feelings that came with the gift.

Withdrawing into the room, he sat on the bed, broke the seal on the can, and held the tobacco to his nose. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes. Damn.

He opened his eyes and took a pinch, shoving it between his lip and gum. The first hint of nicotine in his system hardened his dick. It was the most pleasurable thing he'd experienced in—fucking forever.

Energy filled him. He walked to the window, calmer and steadier. His thoughts centered, instead of splintering in every direction. He peered outside. The sun had already dipped behind the trees, and the fluorescent street lights were halfway to brightness.

Several vehicles drove past the townhouse. He spit into the can. The act a normal part of his life, he focused on the situation. The events he had control of, and those he'd lost.

A rumble came through the window. His lip tightened on the wad of tobacco, and he brought the can up to his mouth as he viewed a Komoon member rounding the corner. The son of a bitch probably thought he'd walk right in the fucking house and drag Rich's ass out. Rich stood in plain view in front of the window, daring him to try and take a shot at him.

He wouldn't let Komoon get the upper hand on him again. First chance he got, he'd go after the member outside. If for nothing else than the fact that they'd fucked up his Notus MC tattoo. They should've sliced his throat because the pain of covering up the most important thing in his life pissed him off.

The Komoon member rode out of sight. Rich swung his gaze back in the other direction, and another rider at the side of the street caught his attention. He narrowed his gaze, straining to take in the details. Recognizing the black Harley, the man standing beside his engine wearing a Notus vest, and the tilt of the man's head.

Glen.

Rich spit into the can and harrumphed. He didn't believe in coincidences.

Notus knew a Komoon member was in the area. That explained who was on the receiving end of the cameras on the outside of the house. The club watched. They weren't ignoring Gracie or turning their back on him.

Everything started to make sense. He tongued the chew behind his lip. The last thing he wanted was Notus involved in his life. One day soon, the member of Komoon who was sent to take him out would make his move. He understood the ins and outs of the club. Hell, he'd men tortured and killed within the Komoon clubhouse while they wore a Komoon patch.

He knew what was coming.

The only reason he wasn't dead yet was because Komoon enjoyed prolonging the punishment to those who were disloyal. It was the ultimate sentence, meant to inflict the most pain on a brother who broke the laws of the motorcycle club.

He'd broken plenty. His death wouldn't come easy or fast. All he could do was minimize the damage to those he loved.