Chapter Thirty-Five: Uninvited

The truck didn't move. Not at first. It just sat there across the street, engine idling, Hunter in the driver's seat like he was daring me to acknowledge him. His silhouette behind the windshield was too familiar, burned into the back of my eyelids from every nightmare I'd tried to drink away.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until Jax followed my line of sight. His whole body stiffened, like someone had yanked a chain inside him. Then, before I could even say his name, he was moving. Fast.

"Jax, wait—" My voice cracked, but it was too late.

He was already striding across the street, boots hitting pavement with a purpose that turned my stomach. His hand went to his belt, pulled the knife from its sheath, and before I could even blink he *slammed* it into the hood of Hunter's truck. The sound was awful — metal crunching, knife grinding deep into steel. Sparks of fury lit Jax's whole frame.

Hunter's door flew open, his boots hitting the ground. "What the fuck—"

"You think I didn't warn you?" Jax's voice thundered, cutting him off. He pointed at me without looking, eyes blazing on Hunter. "I told you to leave her the fuck alone!"

The words split the quiet air, so sharp it felt like they carried across all of Charming. My pulse hammered so hard it hurt.

The slam of doors followed, quick and heavy. The Sons poured out of the clubhouse like wolves scenting blood, leather cuts glinting under the sun, boots crunching on gravel. Chibs, Tig, Bobby, Piney — even Happy with his dead-eyed stare. They spread out fast, instinctive formation, backs straight and hands twitching close to the weight of weapons.

Hunter's face changed in an instant. Anger drained into something else — confusion, disbelief, like he was the only sane man in a room full of lunatics. His mouth tugged into a mock-smile.

"Jesus, Jax," he said, shaking his head. "Overreact much? I wasn't here for *her.*" His voice dipped, casual and cutting. "I was here to talk to Clay. Business."

A few of the guys shifted, eyes darting between him and Jax.

Hunter shrugged, tone sliding smug. "Course, you'd know that if you'd actually been there for it all."

The jab landed clean. I saw Jax's whole body coil before he lunged, a spring snapping. Chibs grabbed him just in time, pulling him back with a grunt, arms clamped tight around his chest.

"Don't!" Chibs hissed in his ear, straining against Jax's weight.

But Jax was a storm, thrashing in Chibs's grip, spitting fire. "You don't get to say her name! You don't get to breathe the same air as her!"

Hunter just raised his eyebrows, cool as a man at a poker table. He glanced past Jax, past me, to the line of Sons. "So this is how it is?" he asked. "You send your VP out here to stab my truck instead of shaking hands?"

Before Jax could break free, another voice cut through the chaos.

"Enough."

Clay.

The clubhouse doors creaked shut behind him as he walked out slow, every step deliberate, his authority like gravity pulling all eyes. He took in the scene — the knife in the hood, Jax held back, me standing frozen, Hunter standing smug — and his jaw ticked.

"You'll have to forgive my VP," Clay rasped, cigarette smoke curling from the corner of his mouth. "Doesn't like when people show up uninvited."

Hunter smirked, spreading his hands like a man who'd just been misunderstood. "No worries. Long as TM can patch her up for me." He nodded toward the knife still embedded in the hood. "On the house, of course."

Clay's mouth curled, not quite a smile. "Of course," he said smoothly. "But you'll have to take that ride you mentioned. I don't like mixing my garage business with club business. We'll talk later." His tone was cool steel, authority sharp enough to cut.

Hunter's jaw twitched, the first crack in the calm mask. He nodded anyway. "Fine. I'll get a ride."

For a long second, nobody moved. The air felt tight, brittle, ready to shatter. Then slowly, the Sons started to drift back toward the clubhouse, like wolves returning to the den. No one turned their back on Hunter until the very last second.

Clay lingered, giving Tig a sharp look. Tig caught it, nodded once — silent order received. He'd keep eyes on Hunter. Always.

Finally, Clay spoke, voice low and hard. "Meeting. Tomorrow morning. She's in it."

The way his eyes cut to me made my stomach sink. Rae, the problem Clay didn't want but couldn't ignore.

Then he turned, his cut shifting over broad shoulders as he walked back inside.

I stood rooted, heart hammering. The sound of Hunter's boots crunching gravel as he walked toward the edge of the lot scraped against my nerves. He didn't even look at me as he passed — just climbed back to his truck, pulled the knife from the hood with a grunt, and tossed it onto the passenger seat before slamming the door.

I exhaled, shaky. Didn't realize I'd been holding it in until Jax's hand was on my arm, grounding me.

"You're not walkin' home," he said, voice softer now but still edged with leftover rage. He nodded toward his bike parked out front. "Come on. I'll get you home."

My throat tightened. Part of me wanted to argue, to say I could handle myself. Another part of me just wanted to sink into the steady roar of that Harley and forget the way Hunter's eyes had followed me even when he wasn't looking.

I didn't argue.

Not this time.