Page 10 of Tank

"Jesus Christ," someone mutters. Shocked curses echo around the room.

"They did a real number on her. Broken ribs, concussion. And...worse."

The implication hangs heavy. Mason's eyes blaze with cold fury. His hands clench into white-knuckled fists on the table.

"She got out, somehow. Escaped and ran for her goddamn life," I continue, pacing like a caged animal. "Managed to make it here before passing out. Scared out of her mind that they'd find her again."

"Motherfuckers," Dagger growls, slamming his fist on the table.

I meet Mason's steely gaze again. "She needs our help, brother. I gotta protect her. Get her somewhere safe, away from those sick fucks."

The room is utterly still except for the sound of my own ragged breaths. Every man hangs on my next words.

"I ain't letting them lay another finger on her, Mason. I'll kill every last one of 'em myself if I have to." My voice is low and deadly. "But I need the club's backing on this. I need your help to keep her safe, get some justice. You feel me?"

Mason stands slowly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He braces his hands on the scarred wood, head bowed as if the weight of the world rests on his broad shoulders. The seconds stretch out, fraught with tension.

"Fuck," he finally mutters, dragging a hand over his face. Haunted eyes meet mine. "You know the shit this could bring down on the club, Tank. On our fuckin' doorstep."

I nod grimly. "I know. But we can't just turn our backs. Not on this."

Mason begins to pace, every line of his body coiled tight. The club watches him, waiting. Trusting his lead.

He freezes. I see it in his eyes--the warring instincts. Protect the club, our way of life. Or protect an innocent caught up in the devil's snare.

He squares his shoulders, facing the room. His expression is granite, resolute.

"The club protects its own," he rumbles. "And if Tank vouches for her, considers her family, then that makes her our family too. Our responsibility."

Murmurs of assent rise from the guys. Dagger nods firmly, loyalty shining in his eyes.

"We're with you, boss," he affirms. "Just give the word."

Mason's gaze finds mine again, understanding passing between us. A silent vow. He turns back to the club, a king rallying his warriors.

"Listen up," he barks. "This is how it's gonna go down. tank and i will work out the details, but one thing's crystal fuckin' clear."

He leans forward, voice dropping to a lethal register.

"We protect what's ours. And god help the bastards who come lookin' for that girl. 'Cause they just picked a fight with the wrong motherfuckers."

A roar of agreement fills the room, harsh and defiant. The sound of brotherhood, of blood ties thicker than any threat.

I meet Mason's eyes over the chaos, something easing in my chest. He nods once. It's a promise, an oath of reckoning.

"For Sophie," I rasp. "For family."

I waste no time. "Dagger, I need you on surveillance. Work with Slick, tap any contacts y'all got. We need eyes on the streets yesterday."

Dagger's grin is pure trouble, but there's steel beneath. "You got it, brother. Time to rattle some cages, see what shakes loose."

"Rig, Ghost - lock this clubhouse down tight as a virgin's--" Mason clears his throat. Right. Not the time. "Just make sure we're secure. Rider, post up some hidden scouts 'round the perimeter."

The guys jump into action, already barking orders and strapping on gear. Dagger claps my shoulder as he strides past, his grip solid as an oath.

"We got you, man. Bastards won't know what hit 'em." His eyes dance, but there's a lethal edge to his smirk. "Hell, I almost feel sorry for 'em. Almost."

A chuckle punches outta me, grim but real. Leave it to Dagger to find the fuckin' humor in a shitstorm. "Yeah, well. They picked the wrong girl to mess with."

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