Axle Hart is the toughest man I’ve ever known. He had a towel in the backseat of the SUV and had me press it against his wound as he drove one-handed back to Port Azrael. We followed Zig in the other vehicle.

When we pulled off and went up a winding driveway to a simple black building tucked into the woods, that’s when I started to breathe again. Axle put the car in park and took out the keys. His color turned to ash and he gripped the steering wheel.

“I’m okay.” He lifted a hand when I leaned in closer.

“You need help,” I said. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into letting you drive. Let me get Zig or one of the others to help you out of the car.”

“No,” Axle said. He straightened. “I’m walking into that clubhouse under my own steam. Let Junior see that.”

“What does it say about me that part of me wishes you’d just put him out of his misery back there?” I said.

Axle laughed. “So do I, baby. But Zig was right. Junior’s fate is Bear’s call. It impacts the club.”

Bear. Axle had told me that’s what they called the club president. It hadn’t meant much to me, but now, something shook loose. “Axle, that night. When I was in the alley and Junior roughed up Cory, I remembered something.”

“What, baby?”

“It might be nothing. I mean, it’s the kind of thing people say. But Cory said it more than once, I think. And when he did, it seemed to set Junior off. Actually, after Cory said it, that’s when Junior started to wail on him. Cory said something about how Junior should be careful not to poke the bear. Do you think that means something? About the club?”

Axle stiffened in his seat. “You’re sure you heard him right?”

“Yeah. Don’t poke the bear. Or, be careful of what happens if you poke the bear. Like I said, I know that’s an expression, but it sure as hell sent Junior over the edge.”

Junior. He was tied up in the back of the van with his own shoulder wound. I hoped he suffered. There could be no doubt he followed us out on that highway to kill me. He’d admitted as much to Axle when he begged for his life before they stuffed him in the van. Axle surmised that Detective Langley called Junior after hearing from me. He’d called the club too, figuring the two sides could sort out what to do with me.

My heart still pounded half out of my chest as we walked into the clubhouse of the Dark Saints M.C. together. It didn’t look like much from the outside. Just a flat-roofed, L-shaped black building with a steel door. Inside, it was separated into three sections. In the middle, the guys had a bar and game area with pool tables and round tops. On one end, Axle told me they kept some rooms where the members could crash if they needed to. In the back, they had a conference room where only members were allowed.

Axle plopped onto a chair near the bar. Sweat poured from his brow and I didn’t like the looks of him. “Can we get some help here?” I said; my voice sounded choked.

A woman came out of the shadows. She was tiny, barely five feet tall with white, spiky hair cropped close to her head. She had steel-gray eyes that flashed as she looked at me. Her features were striking if not severe with a long, knife’s-edge nose, high cheekbones, and full lips.

“This is Mama,” Axle coughed.

Mama looked me over then muscled around me. She ripped Axle’s sleeve down the center to assess his wound. The bleeding had stopped, but his left shoulder looked like raw hamburger meat.

“E.Z.,” she called. “Get my kit!”

E.Z., looked more like a lumberjack than a biker with a full, graying beard, broad shoulders, and a permanent scowl on his face. I put him at his mid-forties. He brought a medical bag and thumped it on the table next to Mama.

She pulled out strips of cloth and a bottle of iodine and set to work. “You Maya?” she asked, not looking up from her task. Axle had told me in the car that “Mama” was his club president’s wife. She was a former army medic and from the looks of things, she was used to patching these men up on a regular basis.

“Yes,” I said. “Maya Ballard.”

“You’re Axle’s?” she asked. It was only then that she looked up and met my eyes. It was a simple question, but loaded. I knew on some preternatural level that my answer would determine the course of things.

I hesitated, meeting Axle’s stare. The hint of mischief danced in his eyes and I flat out wanted to strangle him. All the events of the last twenty-four hours flooded through me. Axle had lied to me. He’d been sent to deal with me so I wouldn’t testify against Junior. Except he didn’t. Instead, he’d risked his position with the club to get me out of harm’s way. I could see that now. And less than an hour ago, he’d put his body between mine and Junior DiSalvo’s bullet. Finally, he’d put his life in my literal hands when he handed me his gun and made me turn it on him.

I’d spent the last week in part of his world. He’d shared the deepest parts of himself and I’d shared mine. I told him once that he was the rightest wrong choice I’d ever made. I felt that now, warming my heart at the same time it took my breath away.

“Yes,” I said, facing Mama Bear straight on. “I’m Axle’s.”

She dabbed a swab of iodine into Axle’s wound, making him hiss with pain. “Oh hush,” she said. “Don’t be a baby. The bullet went clean through. It made a track, not a hole. Didn’t hit anything important though it screwed up some of your ink. Once the bleeding’s good and stopped, I’ll stitch it up. You were lucky.”

Axle met my eyes. “Damn straight I was.”

“Well, Maya,” Mama Bear said. “Welcome to club life. It’s never boring. You think you can handle it?”

The question took me aback. Club life. Axle’s club. Axle’s life. He looked at me with hard intensity and laid his heart open as Mama Bear tended to his wounds.

“I’ll do that,” I said. Something told me the next moment was a test. I moved closer, almost shoulder to shoulder with Mama Bear. I picked up the bottle of iodine and held out my hand, asking for the cotton cloth she held.

Mama Bear set her jaw to the side, almost cracking a smile. She put one hand on her hip and glanced at Axle. He narrowed his eyes at her in an unspoken challenge. Mama Bear put the gauze in my outstretched hand, clasping my fingers with hers. Then I turned to Axle, dipped the gauze in more iodine, and pressed it to his wound.

This was club life. Axle’s life. And I was his.