**Chapter 5: Club Business**

The bass in the basement doesn’t just vibrate through the floorboards. It moves through your ribs, settles in your teeth, and hums right under your skin until you forget where your body ends and the music begins. I’ve spent enough nights on the bar stools behind the polished mahogany counter to know every crack in the paint, every stain that won’t come out, every whisper that slips past the noise. I know the regulars. I know the dealers. I know the way the shadows cling to the corners when the lights dip low and the air gets thick with sweat, whiskey, and something darker.

And I know Knox.

He’s leaning against the back wall near the private office door, arms crossed over his chest, one boot propped behind him on the frame. Even in a room full of men who carry themselves like they own the air they breathe, he stands out. He’s all sharp angles and contained force, tattoos snaking up his neck and disappearing under the collar of his black tee. The ink tells stories I’ve only heard in fragments—old wars, broken oaths, blood paid in full. His jaw is set, eyes scanning the room like a predator measuring distance. Possessive. Calculating. Always watching me. Always tracking me.

“Drinks on Deck Seven are running late,” I say, stepping into his line of sight, setting down a tray of water bottles and a fresh pitcher of bourbon. I don’t look directly at him. I don’t have to. I feel the heat of his attention like a physical weight.

Knox doesn’t answer right away. He just watches me take a sip, his gaze dragging down my throat, lingering on the pulse that beats too fast in the quiet space between us. “You’re still here,” he finally says, voice low, rough like gravel under tires.

“Shift ends in two hours,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “You know how it goes when the weekend hits. I’m not leaving until the last patron stumbles out the front door.”

He steps closer. Close enough that I catch the scent of him—leather, sandalwood, and something metallic underneath. Blood? Or just the phantom memory of it? His shadow swallows mine. One of those tattooed hands comes up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. The touch is gentle. Deliberate. A claim disguised as care.

“You should leave earlier,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe.”

I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “This is a biker bar in the middle of the city. Nothing about it is safe. But I’m fine.”

His thumb presses against my bottom lip. “You’re not fine. You’re tired. And you’re pushing yourself because you think if you stay longer, you’ll prove something.”

I freeze. He always knows. Always sees past the performance. “What am I proving?”

“That you belong here. With me.” His voice drops, rougher now. “You don’t have to prove it. I know it. You know it. Stop fighting the current.”

Before I can answer, the front door slams open.

The music doesn’t stop, but the room shifts. Conversations die mid-sentence. Glasses pause halfway to lips. Shoulders tense. I feel it before I see it—the air changing, thickening, turning sour. The kind of shift that happens when wolves circle the edge of a pack.

Three men walk in. Not regulars. Not here for the music or the drinks. They move like they own the pavement beneath them, boots heavy, jaws set, eyes scanning the room like they’re measuring kill zones. The man in the center wears a denim vest stripped of patches, but I know the territory he represents. The Iron Vipers. We’ve had a cold war for months. A few dead bodies. A few broken bones. Nothing declared. Nothing settled.

And tonight, they’re bringing it to our doorstep.

The leader, a scarred bastard with a broken nose and cold eyes, doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He struts to the bar, boots echoing over the polished wood. “Poppy,” he drawls, voice like ground glass. “Heard you’re running this little operation. Cute.”

I don’t flinch. I’ve dealt with worse. I set the tray down, wipe my hands on my apron, and meet his gaze. “We don’t serve Vipers. You know that. Walk out, or I call the patch.”

He laughs. It’s a ugly sound. “Patch? You think those boys in leather are gonna save you? This territory’s changing. We’re taking what’s ours. Starting with your boss’s attention.”

The bar goes dead silent. The bass still pumps, but it feels distant now, muffled by the tension coiling in the room. I know that look in his eyes. He’s looking for a fight. He’s looking for blood. And he’s banking on me staying silent so he can make his point.

But I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just watch over his shoulder.

Knox is already moving.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t posture. He just steps off the wall, boots hitting the floor with a heavy thud that cuts through the music like a blade. The tattoos on his forearms flex as his hands curl into fists. His expression doesn’t change, but something inside him snaps. The controlled, calculating enforcer melts away, replaced by something older. Something feral.

“You don’t get to say her name,” Knox says, voice quiet, deadly calm. “You don’t get to look at her. You step one foot closer to that bar, and I’ll peel the skin off your hands and feed it to the dogs.”

The Viper leader sneers. “You gonna make me, patch boy? You think you’re the only enforcer in this city?”

Knox doesn’t answer. He just moves.

It happens fast. Too fast for the room to process. One second he’s three steps away, the next he’s inside the man’s space, grabbing the front of his vest, yanking him forward, and slamming his face into the edge of the bar. The crack of bone on wood echoes. Blood sprays across the bottles. The man howls, stumbling back, but Knox is already on him, a knee driving into his gut, knocking the breath out of him, then a fist connecting with his jaw that sounds like a tree branch snapping.

Chaos erupts.

The other two Vipers draw knives, but before they can swing, Knox is already turning, moving like he was born in the space between strikes. He catches the first knife hand, twists it with a sickening pop, and uses the man’s momentum to drive him into the floor. The second swings wild, but Knox ducks, grabs the man by the throat, and slams him against the wall. Hard enough to crack plaster. Hard enough to make the whole room flinch.

I should run. My instincts are screaming it, claws digging into my ribs. *Leave. Now. This isn’t you. This is blood and bone and the kind of violence that stains your hands and doesn’t wash off.* Every survival instinct I’ve ever cultivated tells me to step back, to disappear into the shadows, to let the men handle it. I’m a bartender. I mix drinks. I don’t watch men break each other apart.

But I don’t move.

Because beneath the brutality, beneath the blood and the grunts and the sickening sounds of impact, I see it. I see the raw, unfiltered truth of what Knox is. Not the polished brother. Not the man who buys me coffee and traces my collarbones in the dark. This is the underbelly. The primal engine that keeps this club running. The violence isn’t random. It’s calculated. It’s territorial. It’s protective. And it’s directed at the threat that dared to cross the line.

He doesn’t kill them. He doesn’t have to. He breaks what needs breaking, leaves them gasping on the floor, blood pooling around their boots, and stands over them like a storm given human form. His chest is heaving. Blood streaks his knuckles. A cut on his temple bleeds into his jawline. But he doesn’t stop. He leans down, grabs the Viper leader by the throat, and pulls him close.

“Tell your patch,” Knox growls, voice stripped of everything but iron, “that if you step within fifty yards of this place again, I won’t just break your bones. I’ll erase you. Understood?”

The man nods frantically, choking on the words. “Y-yes. Understood.”

Knox shoves him back. The man collapses. Knox doesn’t watch them leave. He turns. And in that moment, all the violence seems to drain out of him, replaced by something heavier. Something desperate.

His eyes lock onto mine.

And I see it. The adrenaline. The primal need. The raw, unfiltered hunger that has nothing to do with territory and everything to do with me.

He crosses the room in three strides. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. He just grabs my wrist, his grip firm, unyielding, and pulls me toward the office. I don’t resist. I let him. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The taste of copper and fear and something else—something hot and heavy and undeniable—fills my mouth.

He shoves the office door open, kicks it shut behind us, and pins me against it. The door rattles in its frame. His hands are everywhere. One slides into my hair, tilting my head back. The other grips my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel the heat of him, the tension coiled in every muscle, the way his breath racks when he inhales my scent.

“You stayed,” he breathes, voice wrecked, raw. “I told you to leave. You stayed.”

“I know,” I whisper. My hands are on his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard planes of him, the rapid beat of his heart. “I told myself I should run. But I didn’t.”

His eyes darken. “Good.”

He crashes his mouth onto mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s a collision. A claiming. His mouth moves over mine with a desperation that matches the violence just minutes ago, but this is different. This is hunger. This is need. This is the primal side of him that doesn’t care about rules or territory or consequences. He tastes like blood and bourbon and something fiercely, undeniably mine.

I kiss him back like my life depends on it. Like I’m drowning and he’s the only air. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything. He groans against my lips, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest, and his hands slide down my back, gripping my ass, lifting me, pressing me harder against the door. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, the denim of my jeans rough against his boots, and he growls, a sound so primal it makes my knees weak.

His mouth moves down my neck, biting, sucking, marking. I arch into him, a moan tearing from my throat as his teeth graze the sensitive skin below my ear. “Knox—”

“Say it,” he demands, voice ragged, hands sliding up my shirt, rough fingers pushing fabric aside. “Say you’re mine. Say it and I’ll put you through this wall.”

I shiver. The threat isn’t empty. I feel it in the tension of his arms, in the way his breath hitches, in the dark, possessive fire in his eyes. “I’m yours,” I breathe. “I’ve always been yours.”

He curses, a harsh, broken sound, and his mouth crashes down on mine again. His hands are everywhere now, sliding under my bra, thumbs brushing over my nipples, making me gasp. I’m hard and aching and trembling, every nerve ending lit on fire. He breaks the kiss just long enough to shove his hands down my jeans, fingers slipping past the waistband, sliding over my bare skin, finding me wet and aching for him. I cry out as he presses two fingers inside me, curling them, hitting that spot that makes my back bow and my thighs shake.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice dropping to a whisper. “So fucking wet for me. You feel how badly you want this? How badly you want me to ruin you?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Please. Knox, please.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He lifts me higher, adjusts my legs around him, and drives his fingers deeper, pumping in a rough, relentless rhythm. I’m clutching his shoulders, nails digging into the tattoos, breath coming in broken gasps. He watches my face, eyes dark, hungry, consuming. Every thrust of his fingers is matched by the grind of his hips against mine, the hard length of him pressing through his jeans, begging for release.

“Look at me,” he orders, voice rough. “Look at me when I fill you.”

I do. I watch him as he pulls his fingers out, slick with my arousal, and unbuckles his belt with one hand. The sound of metal on metal echoes in the small room. He shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing himself. He’s thick. Veined. Already leaking at the tip. I reach for him without thinking, wrapping my hand around the length, stroking once, twice, and he curses, head falling back against the door.

“Fuck, Poppy. You’re gonna make me lose it right here.”

“I want you to,” I whisper. “I want you to take what’s yours. I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m staying. With you. In the blood. In the mess. In the dark.”

He shoves my jeans down, kicking them off my feet, then lifts me just enough to push me back against the wall. He lines himself up, the broad head pressing against my entrance, and I gasp, back arching. “You sure?” he growls. “Once I’m inside, I’m not stopping. I’m claiming you. Marking you. You’ll feel me for days.”

“I want it,” I breathe. “I want all of it.”

He drives in.

It’s too much. It’s exactly enough. I cry out, fingers gripping his shoulders as he stretches me, fills me, bottoms out with a deep, relentless thrust that makes my vision white out. He stills, forehead pressing to mine, breath ragged. “Breathe,” he orders. “Let me in.”

I do. I let him. I let him take up every space, let him claim me, let him own me in the most primal way possible. And then he starts to move.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow. It’s a storm. A collision of bone and flesh and need. He pulls out almost all the way, then drives back in with a force that knocks the air from my lungs. I clamp my legs tighter around him, nails raking down his back, feeling the tattoos flex under my touch. Every thrust is deep, relentless, claiming. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise, anchoring me as he pounds into me, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls. I’m trembling. Shaking. Drowning in sensation.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Taking me like you were made for it. Like you belong here. Under me. Inside me. Claimed.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp. “Always. Just keep going. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He increases the pace, hips driving in a relentless rhythm, balls slapping against me, the head of his cock grinding against that spot deep inside me over and over. I’m close. So close. My thighs are shaking. My back is pressed hard against the wall. I can feel the tension coiling in my belly, a hot, heavy pressure building with every thrust.

“Come for me,” he orders. “Now. I want to feel it. I want to know you’re breaking.”

I do. I shatter. A cry tears from my throat as my body locks, waves of pleasure crashing through me, milking him, tightening around his cock. He groans, a raw, broken sound, and drives in one last time, burying himself to the hilt, hips snapping forward as he spills inside me. Hot. Heavy. Claiming. I feel every pulse, every drop, as he empties himself into me, marking me from the inside out.

We stay like that for a long moment. Breathing. Shaking. Heartbeats syncing. The room is silent except for the sound of our ragged breaths and the distant bass still pounding through the floorboards.

Slowly, he pulls out. I whimper at the loss, but he doesn’t let me go. He adjusts me, pulls my jeans back up, fastens his belt, then pulls me back against his chest, one arm wrapping around my waist, the other tangling in my hair. His mouth presses to my temple. His breath is steady now. The storm has passed. But the aftermath is just as intense.

“You stayed,” he murmurs, voice rough but softer now. “You didn’t run.”

“I told you,” I whisper, turning in his arms to face him. I cup his face, thumbs brushing over the blood on his jaw, the cut on his temple. “I’m not leaving. Not for this. Not for you. Not ever.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. When he opens them again, the darkness is still there. But so is something else. Something quieter. Something that feels like promise.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not after this. Not ever.”

I smile. It’s small. But it’s real. “Then I’ll stay.”

He kisses me then. Slow. Deep. Certain. No more violence. No more urgency. Just us. Just the truth. Just the promise of what comes next.

The club outside keeps turning. The music keeps pounding. The world keeps spinning. But in here, in the quiet aftermath of blood and adrenaline and primal need, I’ve made my choice.

I’m not running.

I’m home.