Page 65 of Dagger

“Give me a sec,” I mutter to Chloe, answering the call. “Yeah?”

“Church,” Mason says, his tone sharp and urgent. “Get your ass to Perdition. Now.”

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, glancing at the clock. “What’s going on?”

“Just get here,” he says, then hangs up without another word.

I set the phone down, sighing as I push my chair back. Chloe’s watching me, her brow furrowed. “Everything okay?”

“Urgent church meeting,” I tell her, rising to my feet. “I’ve got to go.”

She stands too, following me to the door. “Leave the dishes,” I say, pulling her into a quick kiss. “I’ll take care of them when I get back. Go rest.”

Her smile is small but understanding. “Be careful.”

“Always,” I promise, grabbing my keys and heading out.

When I pull into the lot at Perdition, my gut tightens. The place is packed—bikes lined up like soldiers, chrome glinting in the sunlight. It’s not just the usual crew; this is everyone. Shit. Whatever’s going down, it’s big.

I kill the engine and swing off my bike, scanning the lot for familiar faces. The air feels charged, like a storm’s about to break, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into something I’m not ready for.

Inside, the clubhouse is alive with noise—boots stomping, voices raised in conversation. The smell of leather, beer, and old wood is as familiar as my own skin. The second I step in, heads turn, and the noise quiets just a fraction.

“Look who decided to show up,” Mason calls from across the room, his tone laced with that trademark sarcasm. He’s leaning against the bar, a beer in hand, his eyes sharp as ever. “Thought maybe you’d gone soft on us, Dagger.”

I shoot him a look, but there’s no heat behind it. “Nice to see you too, asshole.”

He grins, pushing off the bar and crossing the room to clap me on the shoulder. “Four months,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to carry weight. “You disappeared on us for four goddamn months.”

“I know,” I say, meeting his gaze. “And I’ve been busting my ass to earn back the trust I lost.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods, like he’s satisfied with what he sees. “Good. Because the club’s got no room for half-measures. You’re either in, or you’re out.”

“I’m in,” I say firmly, and I mean it.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he reaches into his back pocket, pulling something out. My breath catches when I see it—the VP patch I’d worn for years, before everything went to hell.

“Welcome back, brother,” Mason says, holding it out to me.

For a second, I can’t move. The room’s gone quiet, every eye on us, and the weight of what’s happening sinks in. Mason’s giving me back my patch—my place in the club—and it’s more than I expected, more than I feel like I deserve.

“Take it, Dagger,” he says, his voice low. “You earned it.”

I reach out, my fingers closing around the worn leather. The moment I do, the room erupts—cheers, whistles, hoots of approval filling the air. My brothers crowd around me, slapping my back, pulling me into rough hugs, their voices blending into a cacophony of acceptance.

It’s overwhelming, and for a moment, I can’t speak. All I can do is hold that patch in my hand, the weight of it grounding me, reminding me who I am and where I belong.

Mason claps me on the back one last time, his grin as sharp as ever. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and for the first time in a long time, I mean it.

The clubhouse is loud, the kind of chaos only a packed room of rowdy bikers can create. The cheers and laughter echo off the old wood-paneled walls as my brothers crowd around me. Hands clap my back, fists bump into my arm, and voices rise over each other, congratulating me like I’ve just won a damn prize. In a way, I guess I have.

The VP patch feels heavier than I remember as I hold it in my hands. It’s worn, familiar, but it might as well be brand new to me. After everything that’s happened, I didn’t expect to get this back—not really. Now, Mason’s standing next to me, holding a bottle of whiskey like it’s some kind of ceremonial torch.

“This calls for a toast,” Mason announces, raising the bottle high. The room quiets just enough for his voice to carry. “To Dagger—welcome back, brother. You’ve earned it.”

“To Dagger!” the brothers echo, their voices loud and full of conviction.

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