Page 39 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

"Come on," I say, tugging on the leather of his cut. "Let me wash my hands. You need to go get that Prospect rocker torn off."

He tracks my movements with dark focus as we walk up the grassy incline to the farmhouse. The windbreak he built stands tall and sturdy against the northern edge of the property, blocking the harsh downdrafts. Beyond the hives, the south trail stretches into the dense pine forest. It’s empty. The neon orange surveyor markers are gone. The splintered wooden stakes are currently sitting in a garbage bag by the burn barrel. The Syndicate's legal right-of-passage is dead and buried.

He erased the threat. He held the line.

Inside the kitchen, I run the water over my hands. The soap foams, washing away the sticky residue of the honey, but the deep, earthy scent of the wax remains. Alas stands right behind me. He doesn't hover; he simply claims the space behind me, his chest a solid wall against my back.

"You're not wearing a dress," he orders quietly.

"It's thirty-five degrees outside and we’re going to a biker compound. I’m wearing jeans, boots, and my thickest sweater."

"Good." His hand slides over my hip, his thumb pressing possessively into my hip. "I don't want anyone looking at your legs."

"They're going to be looking at you. It's your night."

"They better not look at you," he repeats, serious. The possessive rage in his voice is a low, humming wire. He doesn't care about the club's celebration. He doesn't care about the party. He only cares about the boundary line drawn around my body.

We walk out to his truck. The sun dips below the jagged peaks of the Eastern Ridge, bleeding dark violet and bruised orange across the sky. The eight-mile stretch of the Ridge Road is a winding corridor of dense, imposing pines. I used to drive this road with my teeth gritted, constantly checking my rearview mirror for the dark SUVs from Crimson Hollow. Now, I sit in the passenger seat, relaxed.

Alas drives with one massive hand draped over the top of the steering wheel. His other hand rests flat on my thigh. He doesn't move it for the drive. The heavy heat of his palm sears right through my jeans.

The rutted gravel track leading to the Broken Halos MC compound rattles the truck's suspension. Three miles north of town, the trees break, revealing the fortress. Iron gates stand open. Razor wire gleams viciously along the top of the high perimeter fences. The scale of the place is imposing. A bonfire rages in the center of the dirt courtyard, sending a tower of sparks thirty feet into the black night sky.

The air smells intensely of burning pine, gun oil, old leather, and stale beer.

Alas parks the truck near the edge of the tree line. The second he cuts the engine, the chaotic noise of the compound bleeds through the glass. Deep shouts. Roaring motorcycle engines. The thud of boots on packed dirt.

He gets out, walks around the hood, and opens my door. He doesn't offer his hand to help me down. He catches me by the hips, lifting me clean out of the cab and setting me down on the dirt. The physical dominance of the move sends a sharp, hot spike of adrenaline straight through me.

"Stay close," he commands.

"I'm not going anywhere."

We walk toward the roaring fire. The brotherhood is gathered. Men in leather cuts form a loose ring around the flames. Unpatched prospects stand off to the side, coiled energy. I spot Kevin, Joey, Cage, and River—the newly patched generation. They stand taller, their cuts pristine, their eyes tracking the perimeter. An orange tabby is curled against Cage's boot, sound asleep despite the roaring fire and the thunder of engines. Nobody comments on it. The cat belongs here the same way Cage does—silently, stubbornly, on its own terms.

A familiar voice cuts through the low rumble of the crowd.

"I brought a thermos. Figured you wouldn't drink whatever sludge Valerie brewed up for the boys."

Carol steps out from the shadow of the clubhouse and presses an insulated silver thermos into my hands. The rich smell of dark roasted beans and cinnamon cuts perfectly through the harsh scent of the gun oil and smoke.

"Thank you," I say, wrapping my cold fingers around the warm metal.

Carol's eyes are bright and fierce in the firelight. She offers a sharp, approving nod. "We watch out for each other now," she states simply. "You held the line up north. The club knows it."

She doesn't linger. She doesn't crowd me. She delivers the message, reinforces the boundary, and steps back toward the clubhouse porch where the other women of the club are gathered. Lexi, Eve, Fae. They stand together, an impenetrable circle of fierce, protected women. For two years, I believed I had to face the world alone. I believed the burden of the bee farm was a solitary cross to bear. Looking at the women on the porch, looking at the violent men standing guard around the fire, the truth finally sinks in.

I’m not alone anymore. I have an army.

The low chatter of the crowd cuts off. The silence is sudden and complete. The only sound left is the violent crackle of the bonfire and the howling wind screaming through the pines.

Logan Gunnar, the President of the Broken Halos, steps into the center of the dirt circle.

He’s an imposing, terrifying man. The flames cast long, dancing shadows across the lines of his face. Austin Gunnar stands immediately to his right, quiet and lethal.

"Alas," Logan's voice booms over the fire. No microphone needed. It carries the weight of a judge's gavel. "Step up."

Alas doesn't hesitate. He leaves my side. The cold air instantly rushes into the space he leaves behind, but the tether between us remains solid. It pulls tight across the dirt as he walks into the center of the ring. He stands before the President. He’s bigger than Logan. He’s more dangerous, more scarred, bleeding violence just by breathing. But he stands still. The impossible stillness that the bees respect.