Page 64 of Fury
Downstairs, they file into the kitchen like conquering heroes, filling the space with leather and testosterone. Greyson's eyes find mine immediately, possessiveness flashing in their depths when he sees me.
"Well?" I ask, leaning against the counter. "How was your 'conversation'?"
The men exchange looks, a silent communication passing between them.
"Productive," Torch says finally, his scarred face creasing in a smile that's all predator.
"Very educational for all parties involved," Kyle adds, his usual calm demeanor firmly back in place, though there's a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
"Especially the part where Bethany's husband pissed himself," Zach says with a smirk, loosening the tie he's clearly been forced to wear. "Right after Greyson explained what would happen if his wife ever came near you again."
Greyson
"What did you do to them?" Livie asks, her eyes widening as she takes in our satisfied expressions.
I move to her side, my fingers gently tracing the bruise blooming around her eye. Rage flares in my chest again at the sight of it. Someone put their hands on what's mine. Someone hurt her.
"Nothing they didn't deserve," I say, keeping my voice measured despite the fury still simmering beneath my skin.
I don't tell her how we rolled up to Bethany's husband's insurance office in formation, six bikes in perfect sync, the rumble announcing our arrival long before we cut the engines. How the secretary's face drained of color when we walked in, all cuts and patches and brotherhood.
"Prez," Zach murmurs, nodding toward the group dispersing to raid my fridge. "Maybe we should give her some details. So she knows it's handled."
I consider this, watching Livie's expression. There's concern there, but also something else—a fierce pride that matches what I feel for her.
"Fine," I decide. "But the condensed version."
Earlier in the day
The ride to the insurance office had been silent, each of us locked in our thoughts. These aren't club enemies, not rival MCs or drug dealers threatening our territory. They were civilians, businessmen who thought their money and status put them above consequences.
They're about to learn differently.
"James Whitmore," I say when the trembling secretary shows us into the main office where Bethany's husband and his partners are gathered for a morning meeting. "We need to talk."
The four men from last night freeze, recognition and fear washing over their faces in waves.
"This is a place of business," one of them, the red-faced man who'd called Xavier names, stammers. "You can't just barge in here."
"Actually," Kyle says pleasantly, closing the door behind us, "we can. And we have."
I step forward, keeping my voice calm and measured. "Last night, you and your wives put hands on our women. Made comments about our family. Disrespected people under our protection."
"It was just a bar fight," another protests weakly. "Everyone was drunk?—"
"Everyone was not drunk," Torch cuts in, his face twisted in a scowl. "Our princesses were having a night out. Your wives started trouble. You backed them up. And now here we are."
The four men exchange nervous glances, clearly realizing the gravity of their situation.
"What do you want?" James finally asks, sweat beading on his forehead.
I smile, the kind of smile that never reaches my eyes. "Understanding. We want you to understand exactly how things work in this town."
For the next twenty minutes, we educate them. Explain how the MC has protected this community for generations. How we don't tolerate disrespect toward our families. How the consequences for crossing that line again would be severe and permanent.
"Your wife put her hands on my woman," I tell James, leaning over his desk. "Left a bruise on her face. Do you have any idea what I'd normally do to someone who hurts what's mine?"
He swallows audibly, his face ashen. "Please, we have families?—"
