Page 39 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

“I won’t ask you to.” That earns a few surprised looks. “You know exactly who my father is. You have every reason to doubt me.” I swallow. “But I’m done running.”

Another brother steps forward. Big. Broad enough to block the doorway. “You gonna leave him?”

Walker tries to shield me. “Crimson...” I don’t need Walker to fight my battles.

“No,” I say, stepping in front of him.

“Betray him?”

“No.”

His expression never changes. “You willing to fight beside him?”

I don’t hesitate. “Until I stop breathing.”

No one speaks. Not immediately. Then the big man gives a single nod. Not acceptance but respect, and that’s enough.

Walker squeezes my hand, pride blazing in his eyes. My chest aches, tight and raw. For the first time, I don’t feel like a weapon. I feel like someone worth fighting for.

A phone rings and the president answers without taking his eyes off me. He listens, and his expression hardens. Every trace of warmth disappears.

When he ends the call, the yard falls silent. He looks at Walker. Then at me. “Samuel made his move.” The words settle over the yard like smoke. “He just declared war.”

No one flinches. No one asks why. Around me, brothers straighten, hands sliding toward weapons as engines tick in the morning chill. The peace I almost believed in shatters.

War has found us again.

****

The kitchen is suffocating. Sweat, spilled coffee, too many bodies pressed close, every one of us pretending we’re not seconds from violence. My feet thud on the sticky floor. I try to shrink, to disappear, but I can’t make myself small enough. Walker pulls me down on the chair beside him, his big hand resting on my thigh.

Savage drops his phone on the counter, smacks it to “speaker,” daring anyone to fuck with us now.

Static spits before a woman’s voice cuts through, pissed and sharp as broken glass. “Guess who just fucked up our shop while you clowns were busy playing hero? The Forgotten Sons MC. Subtle as a goddamn brick.”

I frown and shoot Walker a look. “Who the hell is that?” I keep my voice low, but everyone’s too keyed up to notice even if I had shouted the question.

He grins, lazy and dangerous. “That’s Raven. Savage’s old lady. She runs the legit side, keeps the shop legal, keeps Savage from burning down half the county.”

He says it like she’s a legend, and maybe she is.

A chair screeches. Someone mutters, “Fuck.”

Knuckles whiten around mugs. That voice, the way she talks to these men like she owns them, makes the whole room clench. For a split-second, I wonder how Samuel would react to a woman talking to him like that.

The answer is easy: he’d explode, punish, crush any hint of challenge. But here, nobody shouts her down. Nobody dares.

Raven steamrolls on, not waiting for an answer. “Calm your tits, boys, before you go smashing shit. I handled it. No bodies, no fires. But I’m fucking tired of mopping up this bullshit every time the Forgotten Saints act tough. Something’s gotta fucking give, Savage. I’m not your janitor.”

Silence. Every eye snaps to Savage, waiting for the reaction.

Tension crawls under my skin, but Walker just grins, wolfish, like he’s starving for the chaos. The other men don’t flinch or bristle, they listen, maybe even respect her.

If any of Samuel’s men had been spoken to like that, especially by a woman, they would’ve lashed out with violence, not laughter. These men are rough, but they aren’t Samuel. Not even close.

Names ricochet, guns get checked, and plans are formed. The talk turns low and mean. This isn’t a discussion. It’s a damn war council, and I’m trapped in the center of it.

“Keep me updated,” Savage says to Raven.