Chapter 3: Bullets and Bad Decisions
Chapter 3
Chaos erupted outside the chapel walls like thunder rolling across the desert.
Rowe’s pulse hammered in her ears as Reaper’s hand lingered on her jaw for one dangerous second longer.
His steel-gray eyes held hers, a storm of warning and something far more heated swirling in their depths.
Then the moment shattered.
"Stay down," he barked, already moving.
He shoved the folder back into the drawer and slammed it shut, pocketing the key.
In one fluid motion, he drew the gun from the holster at his side—a matte-black Glock that looked like it had seen plenty of use.
Gunfire cracked again, closer this time.
Shouts rose from the main room of the clubhouse.
Reaper grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the far corner of the chapel, behind a heavy steel cabinet that could stop bullets.
"I told you this town wasn’t safe," he growled, positioning his body between her and the door. "Devil’s Disciples have been testing our borders for months. Your return just gave them an excuse."
Rowe’s fingers itched for a weapon.
The .45 she’d taken from the ranch was locked in her saddlebag outside.
Stupid.
"Then let me fight. I wasn’t raised to hide behind men."
Reaper’s laugh was short and bitter.
"You were raised to survive. There’s a difference."
He checked the magazine in his gun, then handed her a spare from his cut.
"You know how to use one of these?"
She took it without hesitation, chambering a round with practiced ease.
"Dad taught me before I could ride a bike."
Something like pride flickered across his face before it hardened again.
"Good. You shoot anything that comes through that door that isn’t wearing our colors. Understand?"
The door to the chapel rattled under a heavy fist.
"Prez! They breached the south fence! Three down already!"
Reaper cursed.
He looked at Rowe one last time—really looked at her, as if memorizing every detail in case this went south.
"Do not leave this room until I come for you."
Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
Rowe locked it from the inside and pressed her back to the wall, gun raised.
Her breathing was too loud in the sudden quiet.
Outside, the battle raged.
Roaring engines.
Shattering glass.
The unmistakable pop of gunfire.
Minutes stretched like hours.
She heard a window break somewhere in the main hall.
Footsteps pounded past the chapel door.
A man screamed—a sound cut short by another shot.
Rowe’s mind raced.
The folder.
Her father’s name.
The wrong details in the police report.
Reaper had known.
He had always known more than he let on.
And now her presence was dragging the club into open war with the Devil’s Disciples.
A new sound reached her—someone trying the chapel door handle.
It rattled hard.
"Open up, princess," a voice called, oily and mocking.
Not one of the Reapers.
"Heard you were back. Let’s have a little chat about your old man."
Rowe’s grip tightened on the gun.
She didn’t answer.
The door shuddered as something heavy rammed against it.
Once.
Twice.
On the third hit, the wood splintered near the lock.
She raised the weapon, her heart in her throat, her finger resting beside the trigger, the way her father had taught her.
The door burst open.
A man in a Devil’s Disciples cut lunged inside, blood streaking his face.
He spotted her immediately and grinned, raising his own pistol.
Rowe fired first.
The shot took him in the shoulder.
He staggered but didn’t go down, roaring as he charged.
She fired again, this time hitting center mass.
He collapsed at her feet, his eyes wide with shock.
Her hands started shaking.
"Rowe!"
Reaper’s voice cut through the noise from the hallway.
He appeared in the shattered doorway, blood on his knuckles and a fresh graze wound along his left arm.
His eyes swept the room, landing on the dead intruder, then on her.
Something primal flashed across his face—relief, fury, and a fierce possessiveness that made her stomach tighten.
He crossed the room in three strides and pulled her against his chest, one large hand cradling the back of her head.
"You okay?"
She nodded against his leather cut, inhaling the scent of him—gun smoke, sweat, and that underlying trace of cloves.
For one treacherous moment, she let herself lean into the solid wall of his body.
He felt safe.
Like home.
Like the worst mistake she could make.
Reaper pulled back just enough to look at her.
His thumb wiped a smear of blood—someone else’s—from her cheek.
"You did well."
More Reapers poured in behind him.
Viper took one look at the body on the floor and whistled low.
"She dropped one of theirs. Word’s gonna spread fast."
Reaper’s expression darkened.
"Lock it down. Double the patrols. No one rides alone."
His gaze never left Rowe.
"Church meeting in thirty. Bring her."
The next half hour passed in a blur of controlled chaos.
Prospects cleaned up the mess while patched members tended wounds and secured the perimeter.
Rowe sat at the bar with a glass of whiskey she barely touched, acutely aware of eyes on her.
Some curious.
Some hostile.
A few appreciative.
Lila—a curvaceous sweet-butt with fire-engine red hair—sauntered over, eyeing Rowe with open assessment.
"So the prodigal princess returns. You gonna stick around and cause more trouble, or you just here to get Reaper’s dick wet before you run again?"
Rowe’s smile was razor-sharp.
"I’m here for answers. What are you here for?"
Lila laughed, but there was no warmth in it.
"Careful, honey. Men like Reaper don’t do attachments. They do property."
Before Rowe could respond, Reaper’s voice cut through the room.
"Chapel. Now."
The club officers filed in, and to Rowe’s surprise, Reaper didn’t make her wait outside.
He jerked his chin toward the seat at his right hand—the vice president’s usual spot.
Viper raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, taking a chair farther down instead.
The meeting was tense.
Reports of the attack.
Three Reapers were injured, one seriously.
Four Disciples dead, including the one Rowe had shot.
Retaliation was expected.
Reaper presided over it all like a king on a throne of bones—calm, decisive, ruthless.
But Rowe noticed the way his hand rested on the table near her, close enough that their fingers nearly brushed.
A silent claim.
When it was her turn to speak, she laid out what little she knew: Cade’s frightened phone call, the inconsistencies in the police report, and her determination to prospect.
Murmurs rippled through the room.
Ghost, an older member who had been her father’s best friend, leaned forward.
"Girl’s got balls. Her old man would be proud. But prospecting? She’ll get eaten alive."
"She already proved herself today," Reaper said flatly.
"She stays. She prospects. And nobody touches her."
His tone left zero room for debate.
"Any man who looks at her wrong answers to me."
The meeting broke up with assignments.
As members filed out, Reaper caught Rowe’s wrist, holding her back until they were alone again.
"You killed a man today," he said quietly.
Her stomach twisted.
"I know."
He searched her face.
"Most girls would be crying. You’re steady."
"I’m not most girls."
She met his eyes.
"You made sure of that."
The air thickened.
Reaper stepped closer, backing her against the table again.
This time, there was no gunfire to interrupt them.
Only the heat building between their bodies and years of unspoken want.
"You shouldn’t want this life," he murmured, his voice rough.
His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
"You shouldn’t want me."
Rowe’s breath trembled.
"I never said I did."
But when he leaned in, his forehead nearly resting against hers, she didn’t pull away.
Their lips were a whisper apart.
She could taste the danger on his breath.
A sharp knock shattered the moment.
Viper’s voice carried through the door.
"Prez. We’ve got a problem at the ranch. Looks like the Disciples visited your girl’s place. Torched the barn."
Reaper pulled back with a vicious curse.
The heat between them cooled instantly into cold rage.
Rowe’s blood ran cold.
The ranch—her last tie to her father and Cade—was burning.
She grabbed Reaper’s cut, forcing him to look at her.
"This ends now. I’m riding with you."
He didn’t argue this time.
But as they strode out together into the gathering night, guns strapped on and engines already rumbling, Rowe felt the weight of every secret still buried between them.
The barn wasn’t the only thing on fire tonight.
And she was terrified of what else might burn before the truth finally came out.
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