Chapter Thirty-Nine: Strings Pulled Tight

The clubhouse was thick with smoke and tension. Clay stood at the head of the room, cigarette hanging low, voice steady as gravel.

"We don't go in hungry," he rasped. "We don't go in eager. We get Hunter where we want him. Let him think he's sittin' at our table, but he ain't got a chair. We make him wait. We make him swallow it."

He flicked his ash into the tray, eyes sweeping over the room. "Mount up."

Chairs scraped. Boots echoed. The Sons moved in sync, grabbing cuts, checking pieces, the hum of war settling into their bones.

I didn't think. I just moved, boots slamming against the concrete as I darted toward Jax before he hit the door.

"Take me with you." The words tumbled out sharp, desperate.

Jax froze, shoulders going rigid. He turned, eyes cutting into me like I'd just asked him to hand me a bullet. "No."

"Jax—"

"You stay here." His jaw flexed hard. "You don't go near him again."

I caught his wrist, pulled him down into my words. "You can't play a man you don't understand. Clay doesn't know him. The others don't. I do. You need me there, even if I'm outside."

His eyes searched mine, fire warring with fear. For a heartbeat, I thought he'd shut me down cold. But then he exhaled, low and rough, and looked over my shoulder.

"Juice!" he barked.

Juice straightened instantly, already nervous.

"She stays with you," Jax said, stabbing a finger at him. His eyes were deadly calm. "If somethin' happens to her, it's on you."

Juice swallowed hard, nodding. "Got it, brother."

I wanted to thank him, to ease the weight he carried, but Jax was already tugging me toward his bike. His hand was firm at my waist, like even agreeing to this plan left him sick.

---

The ride was a storm. The roar of Harleys swallowed every thought, every fear. The wind whipped my hair back, tangled it in knots, but I clung tighter to Jax, cheek pressed to his back. Every vibration of the engine felt like a countdown. The warehouse loomed closer with each mile.

When we finally pulled into the lot, the building rose up like a skeleton—steel beams and concrete, empty except for the ghosts of bad deals waiting to be made. The air smelled like rust and dust, sharp and bitter.

"Stay with Juice," Jax said again, firm as stone, before pulling his helmet off. He kissed my forehead quick, like a soldier leaving for battle, and then he was gone, falling into line with Clay and the others.

Juice offered me a look somewhere between apology and terror. "Guess we're partners tonight."

I nodded, eyes locked on Hunter's truck parked by the loading bay. He leaned against it, casual, too casual. Even from here, I could see the smug tilt of his mouth. He straightened when the Sons walked in, grin widening like he'd just been dealt pocket aces.

---

"Well, well," he called, voice carrying across the lot. "Didn't think you'd show. Was half-expecting you boys to still be licking your wounds after what your VP did to my hood." He slapped the truck with the flat of his hand, grin wide. "Hell of a scrape you left, Teller. Hope you're handy with bodywork as well as knives."

The Sons spread out, leather creaking, eyes sharp. Nobody laughed.

Jax's face didn't change. He just adjusted his cut, stepping up alongside Clay like Hunter hadn't said a damn thing.

Clay's gravelly rasp cut the air. "This ain't a social call. We're here to talk business."

Hunter spread his arms, still smiling, trying to look like he'd been the one who sent the invitation. "That's what I like about SAMCRO—straight to the point."

Inside, the echoes carried every word. I pressed close to the wall, whispering to Juice. "He'll expect Clay to be eager. Tell him to drag it out. Make it sound like we're nervous."

Juice nodded, phone in hand, thumb ready. He relayed it in short bursts. I watched as Clay's body shifted, shoulders leaning back, voice dropping slow.

"These things take time," Clay said. "Boys spook easy when they hear SAMCRO's without a warehouse. Hot guns ain't worth the headache."

I smiled, small and grim. Hunter's jaw twitched, just barely. He covered it quick, but I knew the vein in his temple was there, pulsing.

Clay didn't stop. "So here's how it works. We keep it steady. You get your corner, but the split favors us. Sixty-forty. We're the ones puttin' our name on the line, keepin' buyers from bolting. You're just warehousing."

Hunter's smile flickered. "Sixty-forty," he repeated, slow. "That's generous of you. But Copperheads don't play second chair. We do the heavy liftin', we take the bigger cut."

Juice glanced at me. My chest tightened. "He's bluffing," I whispered. "Tell Clay not to bite. Remind him SAMCRO's rep is what keeps the clients from walking."

Juice typed, sent it. A moment later, Clay leaned forward, cigarette glowing in the dim light.

"You oughta be grateful we're even speakin' your name to our buyers," Clay said. "That's worth more than paper. You fuck it up, it's my head on the block. Forty percent's a gift."

Hunter froze. Just for a second. But I saw it. The crack in the mask.

---

The rest of the Sons shifted, watching him. He plastered on a grin, but it was tight, wrong. "Fine," he said. "Forty."

But his eyes slid past Clay. Past Tig. Past Bobby. Landed square on Jax.

And his grin widened.

"Always did have a thing for broken things, huh, Jackson?" His voice carried, smooth as oil. "Guess that hasn't changed."

My stomach dropped.

Jax didn't move. Didn't blink. His jaw flexed, but his eyes stayed steady.

Hunter tilted his head. "Funny, though. I can see why she ran back here. Charming's a nice place to hide when you don't want the world seein' what you really are."

Still, Jax didn't bite.

It wasn't until we were leaving, boots echoing across the concrete, that Hunter dropped the last match.

"Cute kid, by the way," he called. "Shame how easy kids are to scare."

Jax stopped cold.

The Sons froze behind him.

He turned slow, calm. Walked back toward Hunter like a storm moving across open ground. Then he grabbed him by the cut, slammed him back against the steel beam hard enough to rattle it. His voice was low, steady, the kind of quiet that made men listen harder.

"You ever let my kid leave your mouth again," Jax said, each word sharp as glass, "and I'll make sure you don't have a mouth left to use. You hear me?"

Hunter smirked, but there was something thin in it now. "Loud and clear."

Jax shoved him once more, harder, then let go. Turned without another word.

Clay barked, "We're done here." His voice echoed like a gavel.

The Sons moved as one, cuts swaying, boots striking. They mounted up fast, engines firing like thunder.

As I climbed on behind Jax, I felt Hunter's eyes burning through the dark, following me even as the warehouse shrank behind us.

And when Clay caught sight of me swinging onto the bike, his face darkened.

I knew the next words out of his mouth weren't gonna be about Hunter.