Page 17 of Emmy's Ride

The tension in the clubhouse was thick enough to choke on. The men had checked the property, scoured the streets, and turned up nothing. Whoever had thrown that Molotov had done it from a distance—fast, clean, in, and out. No witnesses, no trace.

Professional.

Which meant this wasn’t some random enemy taking a shot in the dark. This was someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

The older members gathered around the bar, speaking in low, furious voices, while the younger guys still buzzed with pent-up aggression. Tank and Diesel were pouring over the security footage, but so far it had given them nothing.

Austin hadn’t left my side. Not once. And I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

I sat on a worn leather couch, arms wrapped around my body, too wired to sleep, too restless to sit still. Every few minutes, my gaze would flick to Austin—watching, calculating, never letting his guard down. I always knew he’d be an amazing leader, and he was. But he was going overboard with his alpha-ness.

I exhaled sharply and muttered something I’d said too many times in the last few days. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

His head turned slowly, and all that laser focus locked on to me. “I’m not babysitting.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Then what do you call it?”

Austin didn’t answer right away. He took a step closer, then another, until he was towering over me, heat rolling off him in waves.

“I call it keeping you from doing something stupid,” he said.

I refused to shrink under his stare. “Like what? Pull on Diesel’s beard and run? I’m at the clubhouse, remember. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

His lips twitched, but it wasn’t from amusement.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “And it’s going to stay that way. I still have the handcuffs.”

The words should’ve pissed me off. Instead, they sent a hot thrill through my veins. Damn him.

A throat cleared nearby. Tank was watching us with a scowl. “Hate to break up the lovers’ quarrel, but we’ve got more pressing shit to deal with.”

My cheeks burned. Austin didn’t even blink.

Diesel sighed. “We need to figure out our next move.”

I could see the fire raging just beneath the surface, the barely restrained violence coiling tight in Austin’s muscles. His stance was rigid, feet braced apart, hands flexing like he was moments from snapping. The room turned eerily silent, every eye on him.

Tank. Diesel. A handful of other men. They weren’t just looking at their leader. They were waiting for him to unleash hell, but he didn’t.

“There’s nothing we can do tonight except clean shit up. We know nothing at this point. Let Jax do his thing; we need more intel. Going off half-cocked will do nothing more than get us shot,” Austin finally said. “We reinforce security, keep the prospects on high alert, and wait.”

The words sent a ripple of unease through the room. This was not a sit-back-on-your-ass kinda group.

Tank’s scowl deepened. “Wait for what?”

Austin’s gaze flicked to me, and I stiffened under the heat of it, resisting the urge to fidget. I could feel the intensity behind his eyes. That old, familiar way he had of seeing too much. Of knowing things about me I didn’t want him to know.

There was no fear in me—there never had been—but there was doubt. Not in him, but in myself. In what I had walked back into.

Austin knew it. I could see it in the hard set of his jaw. I swallowed, hating how intimately he still knew me.

“For him to make another move,” Austin murmured, eyes still on mine. “Because he will.”

This wasn’t just an attack. It was a challenge. A message delivered in smoke and fire. And the Kings of Chaos weren’t used to being the ones played.

Tank’s fingers drummed against the table. “You sure about that? Because sitting around and waiting ain’t exactly our style.”

Diesel let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, brother, this feels a whole lot like waiting for a bomb to drop.”

---