Kiera's POV

"You look like hell warmed over, sweetheart."

The gravelly voice cut through the fog in my head as I lifted my face from the sticky bar counter. A huge man had just spilled my drink and I wasn't finding it funny. Two weeks on the road had turned me into something I barely recognized. My leather jacket hung loose on my shrinking frame, and my hair felt greasy against my neck. The pregnancy wasn't helping, every morning brought a fresh wave of nausea that left me weak and shaking.

The man standing beside my barstool looked like he'd been carved from leather and cigarette smoke. His gray beard was braided with silver rings, and tattoos crawled up both arms like living things. The patch on his vest read "Steel Vultures MC" with "President" stitched underneath.

"I'm fine," I muttered, though we both knew it was a lie. The five dollars in my pocket wouldn't even cover the beer I'd been nursing for the past hour.

He snorted. "Right. And I'm the Pope." He signaled the bartender. "Get her some food, Tommy. Real food, not those stale pretzels."

"I don't need your charity." The words came out sharper than I'd intended, but pride was about all I had left.

The old biker studied me with pale blue eyes that had seen too much. "Name's Rogue Jack. And you're about two missed meals away from passing out on my bar floor, which means you become my problem anyway."

My wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin. Being this far from pack territory felt wrong, like trying to breathe underwater. Everything human felt flat, colorless. The constant suppression was making me pace and whine, but going back wasn't an option. Not with what I carried in my belly.

"Kiera," I said finally, accepting the plate of eggs and bacon Tommy slid across the bar. My stomach cramped with hunger, but I forced myself to eat slowly. Throwing up in front of these people would only make me look weaker than I already did.

Jack settled onto the stool beside me, his bulk making the old wood creak. "You're running from something."

It wasn't a question. I kept eating, not trusting my voice.

"Been there myself," he continued, lighting up a cigarette despite the no-smoking signs. "Sometimes running's the only smart move left."

The food helped clear some of the fog from my head, but it also made the exhaustion hit harder. I'd been sleeping in rest stops and cheap motels when I could afford them, always moving and looking over my shoulder. The Blackfang was drawing attention, too nice, and distinctive. But it was also the only thing of value I had, and selling it felt like cutting off my last connection to the person I used to be.

The past weeks had been a blur of survival. I'd learned to palm candy bars from gas stations, to sweet-talk clerks into letting me use restrooms, to hustle pool games when desperation overrode dignity. My wolf hated every moment of it, the deception, the weakness, the constant hiding. But she hated the alternative more.

"You got somewhere to go?" Jack asked.

I shook my head, not meeting his eyes.

"Well, you do now." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Got a spare room above the garage. You can crash there tonight, figure out your next move in the morning."

"Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Jack's weathered face creased into something that might have been a smile. "Maybe I like strays. I easily recognize the look of someone who'd rather die than crawl back to whatever they're running from." He stood up, tossing a twenty on the bar. "Either way, the offer stands."

The Steel Vultures clubhouse was nothing like Ironfang territory. Where Darius's pack flaunted their wealth and power, this place felt real. Motorcycles in various states of repair filled the garage, and the main building looked like it had been cobbled together from spare parts and stubbornness.

Jack introduced me to the others with minimal fuss. Most were older, worn down by life but still fierce. They nodded politely and went back to their business… drinking, playing cards, working on bikes. No one asked questions, which suited me fine.

"That's Sable," Jack said, nodding toward a woman bent over the engine of a red Kawasaki. "She'll get you sorted with some basics."

Sable looked up as we approached, wiping greasy hands on a rag. She was maybe thirty, with short black hair streaked with purple and enough piercings to set off a metal detector. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and completely unimpressed by my bedraggled appearance.

"Another lost little lamb?" she said, but there wasn't any real malice in it.

"This one's got teeth," Jack replied. "Found her ready to take a swing at Big Mike over a spilled beer."

Sable's eyebrows rose. "Big Mike? He's twice your size, honey."

"Size doesn't matter if you're fast enough," I said, and was surprised to hear some of my old confidence creeping back into my voice.

She grinned. "I like her already."

The room Jack gave me was small but clean, just a bed, a dresser, and a window that looked out over the parking lot. It was more than I'd had in weeks. I collapsed onto the mattress fully clothed, too tired to care about anything except sleep.

But sleep brought dreams, and dreams brought memories. Darius's hands on my skin. The way he used to look at me like I was something precious. The sound of the blonde woman's laugh echoing through the clubhouse.

I woke up gasping, my hand pressed to my stomach where the smallest curve was beginning to show. Five weeks now. Five weeks since my world had shattered.

Over the next few days, I fell into an uneasy rhythm with the Steel Vultures. They were nothing like the wolves I'd grown up with, no hierarchy beyond what Jack's leadership provided, no mystical bonds or ancient traditions. Just people who'd found each other and decided to stick together against a world that didn't want them.

Sable became my unlikely teacher, showing me how to blend in with the human biker world, carry myself with the right kind of swagger, spot trouble before it found me, and make five dollars stretch into a meal and a place to sleep.

"You've got good instincts," she said one afternoon as we worked side by side on my stolen Harley. "But you're holding back. Like you're afraid of what you might do if you let loose."

She wasn't wrong. My wolf was getting more restless by the day, pacing and snarling at the constant suppression. Being around humans felt like wearing clothes that were too small, everything pinched and chafed. But it was safer than the alternative.

I was learning that everyone here was running from something. Tommy the bartender had gambling debts that would get him killed if he went back to Chicago. Big Mike had done time for assault and couldn't find legitimate work. Even Sable had ghosts, I could see it in the way she went quiet sometimes, staring off at nothing.

"The thing about running," she told me one night as we shared a bottle of cheap whiskey on the roof of the clubhouse, "is that eventually you have to decide if you're running toward something or just running away."

I didn't have an answer for that. All I knew was that I couldn't stop, rest, or let my guard down for a second.

That instinct proved right two weeks later.

I was sitting in the clubhouse common room, playing poker with Sable and a few of the guys, when a familiar scent drifted through the open window. My blood turned to ice. Wolf. Faint but unmistakable, carried on the evening breeze.

They'd found my trail.

I forced myself to keep playing, laughing at Tommy's terrible jokes, acting like nothing was wrong. But inside, my wolf was going crazy, every instinct screaming at me to run. The scent was old, maybe a day or two, but it was definitely pack. Ironfang pack.

"You okay, honey?" Sable asked, studying my face with those sharp eyes. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just tired," I said, folding my hand even though I had a decent draw. "Think I'll turn in early."

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't push. That was one thing I was learning to appreciate about the Steel Vultures, they respected boundaries, understood that everyone had secrets they weren't ready to share.

I made it to my room before my hands started shaking. The scent had been outside, near the parking lot. They'd been close enough to touch the Blackfang, close enough to know I was here. But they hadn't come inside, or confronted me directly.

That meant they were watching. Waiting. Maybe trying to figure out if I was alone, if the pregnancy rumors were true, if I was worth the trouble of taking back.

I pressed both hands to my stomach, feeling the slight swell that was becoming harder to hide. Inside, my child grew stronger every day, blissfully unaware of the danger surrounding us both.

"I'll keep you safe," I whispered to the life inside me, my voice fierce with determination. "Even if I have to burn the world doing it."

The words felt like an oath, binding and absolute. Whatever came next, I had to do to protect my child, I would do it. The scared girl who'd fled the Ironfang clubhouse was gone. In her place stood someone strong, more dangerous.

Someone who had learned that sometimes the only way to survive was to become something worth fearing.

Outside my window, the night stretched endlessly, full of threats and possibilities. But for the first time since I'd run, I wasn't just afraid.

I was ready to fight back.