Page 21 of Dagger

I hesitate, the words caught in my throat.

“I’ve been around long enough to know what that kind of sick looks like,” he says, lowering his voice. “Are you pregnant?”

The blood drains from my face, and my head snaps up to meet his gaze. “What? No! I mean—” I stop, stumbling over my words, unable to lie convincingly.

Hawk studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then his lips press into a thin line. “It’s his, isn’t it?”

I freeze, my chest tightening. My silence is all the answer he needs.

Hawk exhales slowly, shaking his head. “Dagger,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Of course it’s his.” He looks back at me, his gaze softer now but still intense. “Does he know?”

I shake my head quickly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “No. And he can’t—not yet. Please, Hawk, don’t say anything.”

He rubs the back of his neck, letting out a long sigh. “Chloe, this ain’t something you can hide forever. You know that, right?”

“I know,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He stares at me for a long moment before finally stepping aside. “Go home. Get your head straight. Whatever you decide, you need to take care of yourself first. And don’t worry—I won’t say a word. But you gotta deal with this sooner or later.”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak, and grab my bag. As I head for the door, his words follow me.

“Take care of yourself, Chloe. You’re not in this alone, whether you believe it or not.”

The cool night air hits me as I step outside, and I feel the weight of the evening pressing down on me. Hawk knows. And now I have to figure out how I’m going to face everything—and everyone.

EIGHT

DAGGER

Harlanand I work side by side through it all, figuring out how to get the club back on track. He’s sharp, quick to adapt, and doesn’t flinch when things get rough. He trusts his gut, but he listens to reason, which makes him a good leader. That doesn’t mean we always agree. We butt heads more than a few times, but we’ve got enough respect for each other to hash it out. Somehow, it works.

One of the toughest situations we face is with Rigs. He’s one of the rogues Harlan mentioned early on, but we don’t realize just how deep he’s in until one of the younger guys overhears something he shouldn’t have. The kid, Max, comes to me, wide-eyed and shaking.

“Rigs is feeding intel to the Serpents,” he says, his voice low. “I heard him on the phone last night. He’s giving them details about our shipments, man.”

“Shit,” I mutter, running a hand over my face. “You sure about this?”

Max nods frantically. “Yeah. He was bragging about it to someone, saying the Serpents are gonna owe him big.”

I head straight to Harlan’s office, where he’s hunched over a pile of papers. The second I tell him, his face darkens, and he slams his fist on the desk.

“That bastard,” he growls, standing and pacing like a caged animal. “We can’t let this slide, Dagger. If the rest of the club finds out and we don’t handle it, we’re finished.”

“I agree,” I say, leaning against the desk. “But we’ve gotta be smart about it. If we go in guns blazing, we risk making things worse.”

Harlan stops pacing and looks at me, his jaw tight. “So what do you suggest?”

“We take him somewhere neutral,” I say. “Somewhere he won’t feel cornered right away. If we can get him to talk, we might be able to use what he knows to shut the Serpents down for good.”

He considers this, his eyes narrowing. “Alright. But if he doesn’t talk, we handle it our way. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I say.

We spend hours hashing out the details. Where to take Rigs, who to bring along, how to make sure it doesn’t blow up in our faces. By the time we’re done, the plan is airtight—or as close to it as we can get.

The next day, we lure Rigs to an old warehouse on the outskirts of town. It’s just me, Harlan, and two of his most trusted guys, Axe and Bishop. Rigs walks in like he owns the place, his cocky grin fading when he sees the four of us waiting.

“What’s this about?” he asks, his voice steady, but his eyes dart around the room.