# Chapter 9: Sadie's Strength
The desert morning tasted of diesel and anticipation. Sadie stood in the clubhouse courtyard, watching prospects load the battered Suburban with medical supplies, bottled water, and more firepower than a county sheriff's department. The cracked burner phone in her pocket felt like a live grenade—Victor's taunt about Maria still echoing in her bones three days later.
"You sure about this, tiny?" Jace's voice carried an edge she'd learned to recognize—part concern, part barely leashed protective fury. "Could send Smoke and the boys. Don't need you riding into cartel territory."
She turned to face him, noting the way he favored his left leg where shrapnel had torn through muscle. The wound would heal—Doc had declared him lucky, femoral artery missed by inches—but watching him bleed had carved something permanent into her chest. She'd spent those terrifying hours with her blood flowing into his veins, understanding finally what it meant to choose this life. To choose him.
"This is my fight too," she said, adjusting the shoulder holster Luna had helped her fit that morning. The .38 sat heavy but familiar against her ribs—a weight she'd grown accustomed to carrying. "Maria's in that hospital because of me. I'm done hiding behind your cut."
Brick emerged from the garage, wiping grease from his hands. "Prez ain't wrong about the risk. Victor's people crawl the border like roaches. We go in hot, might not come out clean."
Ryder leaned against his bike, ever-present smirk replaced by something harder. "Could be walking into a meat grinder. Girl like you—no offense—ain't exactly trained for this shit."
Sadie's laugh surprised them all—sharp as broken glass. "Girl like me survived three years with Victor Valdez. Girl like me cracked a bottle across his skull and walked out breathing. You think some cartel soldiers scare me more than that?"
The courtyard went quiet. Even the prospects stopped their loading, sensing the shift in atmosphere. This was her proving ground, she realized. These men had accepted her presence, even Jace's claim, but acceptance wasn't respect. Not yet.
Jace studied her face, those glacier eyes cataloguing every micro-expression. "Tell me the plan again."
She pulled out the folded map, spreading it across the Suburban's hood. Her finger traced the route she'd memorized during sleepless nights. "Hospital's here—twenty miles inside Arizona. Cartel's got eyes on it, but they're stretched thin. Everyone's looking for me to run east or west. Nobody expects Iron Kings to roll straight through their backyard."
"Because it's fucking suicide," Smoke muttered, but he moved closer, studying her marks.
"Or it's smart," she countered. "Victor's locked up, but his lieutenants are scrambling. Power vacuum means chaos. Chaos means opportunities." Her finger tapped a small border town. "Maria's transfer papers show her discharged here—small clinic, off the grid. We pick her up, switch vehicles, ghost back through New Mexico. In and out before they realize we were there."
Youngblood pushed forward, eyes bright with calculated admiration. "Fake medical transfer. Nice. Use their bureaucracy against them."
Sadie nodded. "Plus, they won't expect a woman driving the getaway. Sexism works both ways."
Jace's jaw tightened. "You don't get to play bait. Not happening."
"I'm not bait. I'm the fucking point man." She met his stare, refusing to flinch. "You taught me to shoot. Luna taught me to drive like the devil's chasing. Doc's been walking me through trauma response. I'm not asking permission—I'm telling you how this goes."
The silence stretched taut. Sadie felt the weight of every eye, every judgment. These men lived and died by hierarchy. By respect earned through blood and bullets. She was asking them to follow her lead—asking Jace to let her step out from behind his shadow.
Brick broke the standoff. "Girl's got stones. And the plan's solid. Better than anything we had on the board."
Ryder nodded slowly. "Risky as fuck, but risk is our middle name. I'm in."
One by one, the others voiced agreement. Not because she'd charmed them. Not because of Jace's claim. Because she was right. And because they'd seen the map she'd drawn with hands that knew the terrain better than any of them.
Jace was last to speak. When he did, his voice carried the weight of every promise made in blood and bed. "You ride point, you answer to me. You get twitchy, you bail. Maria's important, but you're irreplaceable. You copy?"
"I copy." She stepped closer, close enough that her words were only for him. "But when we come back—with Maria safe and Victor's people scattered—you see me different. No more keeping me wrapped in cotton. I'm Iron Kings now, same as you."
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing the cheekbone that carried the fainst scar from Victor's ring. "Been seeing you different since the night you pressed a gun to Marco’s temple and didn't blink. But this? This is your choice, Sadie girl. Make sure it's one you can live with."
"I've been dying slow for three years," she whispered. "Time to live fast."
They rolled out at dawn—three bikes and the Suburban, engines tuned to perfection. Sadie drove the lead vehicle, her hands steady on the wheel despite the adrenaline singing through her veins. Jace rode shotgun, his presence both comfort and challenge. Behind them, Smoke and Ryder flanked on hogs, while Brick followed in the truck loaded with firepower.
The first checkpoint came at the border. She watched the guard approach in her rearview, heart steady, rehearsing her lines. The uniform leaned toward her window, eyes scanning the interior.
"Paperwork says medical transport," he noted, taking in her scrubs and the medical equipment visible in back.
Sadie pulled out forged documents, her hands steady as a surgeon's. "Patient transfer from Desert Hope. Complications from blunt-force trauma. We're taking her to specialists in Douglas."
The guard studied the forms, then glanced at Jace. "You medical personnel too?"
"Security," Jace said, his voice carrying just enough edge to suggest they weren't people you fucked with. "Hospital's been receiving threats. Patient's testimony could put some very bad people away."
The guard's expression shifted. He tapped the clipboard. "Drive safe. And fast."
The barrier lifted. They rolled through, and Sadie felt the weight of a dozen eyes following them. Cartel spotters, probably. She kept her speed steady, hands relaxed, projecting the kind of calm that came from knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
Twenty miles in, the Suburban's engine began making sounds that weren't in any manual—metal grinding against metal, the transmission whining like a dying animal. Smoke signals rose from under the hood as they crested a hill overlooking the scrub valley that held their target.
"Fuck," Sadie muttered, guiding the vehicle onto the shoulder as steam billowed. "This wasn't in the plan."
Jace was already out, hood up, flashlight beam cutting through rising vapor. "Radiator's shot. Looks like sabotage—someone dumped sugar in the tank."
The implications hit like a punch. Someone knew they were coming. Had known in advance. The medical transport papers were burned, their route compromised.
"They're expecting us to run," Sadie realized, pulling out the backup map. "Which means they're not expecting this."
She traced a new route with her finger—a dirt track winding through the hills, passable by bike but not by car. It would add hours to their journey, but it would also put them well off the main surveillance grid.
"Plan B," she announced. "We split up. Smoke and Ryder take the bikes, create a diversion on the main road. You and I cut across country—approach the clinic from the west. Brick stays with the Suburban, pretends to be struggling with repairs. When they come to investigate, he gives them something to think about."
Jace studied the map, his expression unreadable. "Dirt track's rough terrain. You sure you can handle it?"
She pulled up the video on her phone—her, three weeks ago, Luna teaching her to handle a heavy bike on loose gravel. Her form wasn't perfect, but she stayed upright, controlled the skid, powered through the turn.
"Been practicing," she said. "Figured if we were going to do this, I needed to be able to ride out if things went sideways."
He stared at the footage, something shifting in his expression. "You planned for this."
"I planned for everything," she corrected. "Including you not trusting me to pull it off."
Smoke and Ryder returned from their reconnaissance, confirming what they'd suspected—the main road was being watched. The new route would work, but it meant traveling light, moving fast, and potentially engaging hostiles without backup.
"I'm in," Smoke said without hesitation. "Girl's got bigger stones than half the prospects."
Ryder nodded. "Dirt track's a bitch, but I've seen her handle worse."
Brick checked his weapons with practiced efficiency. "I'll hold the fort. They come sniffing around, they'll find more than they bargained for."
Sadie turned to Jace, raising an eyebrow. "Still think I can't handle this?"
His laugh was short, sharp—surprised out of him. "I think you've been planning a coup since the day you walked into my clubhouse."
"I've been planning to survive," she corrected. "Now I'm planning to win."
They prepped with military efficiency. Sadie changed into riding gear—black leather jacket, reinforced boots, hair braided tight. The .38 found its accustomed place against her ribs, but she added a backup piece strapped to her calf and a blade tucked into her boot. Jace watched her gear up with the focused attention of a man memorizing details, his hands checking straps and weapons with clinical precision.
When they mounted up—the Harley Road King she'd been practicing on rumbling beneath her like a contented predator—he pulled her helmet closer for one last check.
"You follow my lead," he said, voice low. "Anything goes sideways, you ride hard and don't look back."
"I look back for no one," she replied, echoing his words from what felt like a lifetime ago. "Especially not when I've got allies worth dying for."
The dirt track proved every bit as challenging as predicted. Loose gravel sent her rear wheel fishtailing through the first turn, but she controlled the skid the way Luna had taught her—loose on the bars, feeling the bike rather than fighting it. Jace rode point, his body language telegraphing turns and obstacles with the instinct of someone who'd been reading terrain since birth.
By mid-morning they'd covered twenty miles of brutal terrain, climbing into the hills that overlooked the border town. The clinic sat in the valley below—a modest building surrounded by cottonwood trees, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. From their vantage point, Sadie could see the obvious surveillance—two SUVs parked with engines running, men who made no pretense of casual conversation.
"Six that we can see," Jace murmured, binoculars pressed to his eyes. "Probably more inside. They know she's valuable."
They studied the layout from cover of boulders and scrub, planning their approach. The clinic's rear entrance was obscured from the street by a delivery truck, its windows dark. The front entrance was monitored, but the side door—employee only—showed minimal traffic.
"We create one distraction, slip in during the confusion," Sadie proposed. "But it needs to be subtle enough that they don't call in reinforcements."
Jace's grin was sharp as broken glass. "I've got just the thing."
The diversion was elegant in its simplicity—Jace's bike, unmanned and in neutral, rolling downhill toward the clinic's parking lot. The machine gathered speed, chrome flashing in the sunlight, before colliding with the rear bumper of a cartel SUV. The impact wasn't devastating, but it was loud and sudden enough to send the watchers scrambling.
In the confusion, Sadie moved. She'd traded leather for a shapeless scrub top, hair tucked under a surgical cap, clipboard clutched like armor. She walked with purpose toward the side door, projecting the weary confidence of someone who'd pulled a double shift and had no patience for interruptions.
The employee entrance led to a hallway lined with supply closets and administrative offices. She moved quickly, counting doors, remembering the floor plan Doc had drilled into her head for hours. Maria's room was third on the right, private, guarded by a cartel soldier who was probably wondering why his backup hadn't checked in.
The guard was younger than she'd expected—maybe twenty-two, with the kind of sharp-featured attractiveness that would age badly under prison tattoos. He looked up as she approached, hand moving automatically toward the gun hidden under his loose shirt.
"Delivery for Maria Ortega," she said, not breaking stride. "Discharge papers need signing."
"Nobody said anything about discharge," he replied, suspicion narrowing his eyes.
"That's because it's a medical decision, not a military one," she snapped, channeling every ounce of authority she'd learned from years of bartending drunk assholes. "You want to explain to your boss why delayed paperwork triggered a federal audit, be my guest. Otherwise, let me do my job."
The bluff worked—barely. He stepped aside, muttering in Spanish she pretended not to understand. Through the door's window, she caught sight of Maria, propped up in bed, face still mottled purple but eyes sharp and alert.
The guard followed her inside, positioning himself against the wall where he could watch both the door and the window. Sadie kept her movements economical, settling into the chair beside Maria's bed with practiced ease.
"Good morning, Mrs. Ortega. I'm here to discuss your discharge options."
Maria's eyes widened fractionally—recognition flickering across features carefully schooled to neutrality. "About time. They treat me like prisoner here."
"That's because you are," Sadie murmured, barely audible. "But not for much longer." Louder, she continued, "If you'll sign these forms, we can arrange transport to your preferred facility."
She slid the clipboard across the bed, positioning it so the guard couldn't see what she wrote. Her pen moved across paper—not signing, but sketching: two figures by the window, one in the hallway, timing, weapons.
Maria's finger tapped twice against the sheet—understood.
"The ambulance arrives in twenty minutes," Sadie continued, using the same weary nurse voice. "Your family will meet you at the new facility."
"My family is here," Maria said, voice carrying just enough emphasis for the guard to hear. "All of them. Very close."
The young man's posture shifted—subtle tension that said he understood the threat. Sadie estimated five minutes before he called for backup. They needed to move now.
She stood, clipboard clutched to her chest, turning toward the guard. "Patient needs to use the restroom. Medical protocol requires privacy. You can wait in the hallway."
He hesitated, hand near his weapon. "I stay."
"Then you can explain to federal investigators why you compromised patient dignity and violated HIPAA regulations," Sadie replied coldly. "Or you can take three steps into the corridor and maintain your professional distance."
The mention of federal investigators did what threats couldn't. He moved into the hallway, leaving the door cracked open just enough to maintain visual contact. Through the window, Sadie could see him speaking into a radio—calling for reinforcements.
"Three minutes," she breathed to Maria, who was already swinging her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing as bruised ribs protested. "You able to move?"
"I've birthed six children, mija. I can move."
The emergency exit window was their only option—painted shut but unlocked. Sadie forced it open with a strength born of desperation, the old wood screaming protest. Below, the delivery truck provided cover from the parking lot, its roof close enough to reach with a controlled drop.
"Go," Maria ordered. "I follow."
"No fucking way. We do this together or not at all."
They moved as one—Maria swinging her legs through first, Sadie following as soon as the older woman's feet touched truck roof. The drop to the ground was longer than it looked, jarring bruises and testing old injuries, but both women landed upright.
Behind them, shouts erupted as the guard realized his mistake. Radio chatter crackled through the quiet afternoon—orders being barked, positions confirmed. They had maybe ninety seconds before the perimeter closed.
Sadie pulled Maria toward the prearranged meeting point—a drainage ditch that ran behind the clinic, connecting to a service road where Jace waited with the bikes. They moved as fast as Maria's battered body allowed, adrenaline masking the damage each step inflicted.
The first shots came as they cleared the cottonwood stands—pistol fire that spat chunks of bark from nearby trees. Sadie returned fire with her .38, not aiming to hit but to provide cover, forcing their pursuers to seek shelter. The gun felt familiar in her hands now, an extension of will rather than a foreign object.
Ahead, Jace emerged from cover like a wraith, bike engine already running. Smoke flanked him, providing suppressive fire that sent their pursuers diving for safety. The plan was simple—get Maria on Smoke's bike, Sadie and Jace providing distraction, then split up and meet at the rendezvous point thirty miles north.
"Ambulance never showed," Maria panted, understanding dawning. "You crazy kids—"
"The ambulance showed," Sadie corrected, helping her climb behind Smoke. "But it's being driven by Iron Kings prospects right now, complete with bullet holes and a very confused EMT who's learning about witness protection programs."
Smoke grinned over his shoulder. "Lady, you ready to ride like the devil?"
Maria's answer was to wrap her arms around his waist and hang on for dear life. The bike roared away, kicking up a rooster tail of dust that created temporary cover.
Jace pulled Sadie toward his Road King, engine rumbling with barely contained power. "Time to go, tiny. You good?"
She looked back at the chaos they'd left behind—cartel soldiers scrambling for vehicles, radios crackling with panicked reports, the clinic's orderly facade shattered by gunfire. "I'm better than good. I'm fucking magnificent."
They tore out across the desert, bikes skimming across terrain designed to break lesser machines. Behind them, the cartel's SUVs began pursuit, but the heavy vehicles struggled with the loose sand and unexpected obstacles. Smoke and Maria were already disappearing into the heat shimmer, following a route they'd mapped during hours of reconnaissance.
The chase lasted thirty miles—through arroyos that threatened to swallow tires whole, across flats where speed was their only defense, up hills that tested every skill Luna had drilled into them. Sadie rode point, her smaller bike nimble enough to weave through tight spaces, Jace's larger machine providing covering fire when their pursuers got too close.
When the first SUV flipped—too fast around a bend, too heavy for the loose gravel—it felt like vindication. The second vehicle lost ground when its front tire blew, victim of a roadside spike strip one of their prospects had placed hours earlier. By the time they reached the rendezvous point, only one enemy vehicle remained, and it was limping badly, radiator shot and tires shredding.
They made the pickup—a box truck converted to haul motorcycles, driven by Brick with mechanical precision. Within minutes, both bikes were loaded, Maria transferred to the truck's interior, and they were rolling toward safety at highway speeds that felt almost anticlimactic after the morning's chaos.
Sadie found herself in the passenger seat, shaking with reaction now that the adrenaline was draining away. Jace drove with the same careful attention he'd shown during the chase, but she could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.
"You were magnificent," he said finally, voice rough with residual adrenaline. "Fucking magnificent."
"That's what I said." She managed a shaky grin. "Though I think my exact words were—"
"Don't push it." But there was a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. "You've got brass balls, tiny. Bigger than half the prospects. They'll be telling this story for years."
"I don't want stories," she said quietly. "I want safety for the people I care about. I want Maria home with her kids. I want—" She stopped, surprised by the depth of her own need.
"What do you want, Sadie?"
"I want to stop being the reason people bleed."
"You weren't the reason today." He reached across, fingers finding hers on the seat between them. "Today you were the solution. You planned it, you executed it, you got our people home safe. That's not collateral damage—that's fucking heroism."
The word felt too big, too bright for what she'd done. But maybe that was the lesson—maybe heroism wasn't about grand gestures or epic battles. Maybe it was about choosing to stand when running would be easier. About protecting your people even when the cost might be your own safety.
They dropped Maria at the clubhouse that evening—greeted by her crying children and stoic husband, by Luna's fierce embraces and Sage's gentle hands. The older woman's eyes held questions, but also understanding. She'd been where Sadie was now—caught between who she'd been and who she was becoming.
Later, when the clubhouse had settled into its evening rhythm, when prospects cleaned weapons and patched members swapped stories that would grow larger with each retelling, Sadie found herself on the roof with Jace. The desert stretched endlessly below them, stars burning holes in the fabric of night.
"You know what this means," he said quietly, passing her a beer that tasted like celebration and survival.
"That we pulled it off?"
"That you're not the woman who walked through my door a month ago." He turned to face her, leaning against the railing. "You're crew now. One of us. The patch ain't on your back yet, but it's stamped on your bones."
The words settled deep in her chest, taking root. "You think I'm ready for that?"
"I think you earned it the moment you refused to leave Maria behind. Rest is paperwork."
She studied his profile in the starlight—the sharp cut of cheekbones, the beard that hid scars she was learning to read. "What does it mean? Being crew?"
"Means your enemies are our enemies. Your fights are our fights. Means you don't stand alone ever again." His hand found hers, fingers intertwining automatically now. "Means I stop worrying every time you leave my sight that you won't come back."
"Pretty sure that worry's permanent," she said softly. "Pretty sure it's what love feels like."
The air between them shifted—electric, charged. They hadn't spoken of love before, dancing around it with careful words and careful touches. But tonight, with gunfire still echoing in memory and victory burning bright as phosphorus, caution felt like a foreign language.
His grip tightened. "You saying what I think you're saying?"
"I'm saying I'm done running. Done hiding. Done pretending this is temporary." She stepped closer, until there was no space between them. "I'm staying. I'm claiming my place. And I'm claiming you."
He answered with his mouth on hers—not gentle, not patient. The kiss tasted of gunpowder and survival, of choices made and promises kept. When she pulled back, her hands were already working the buckles of his cut, fingers impatient with leather.
"Here?" His voice was rough.
"Right here. Right now." She pressed him back against the rough concrete wall, taking his weight, taking control. "Tonight I lead."
He let her. God help him, he let her. The cut hit the roof with a thud of worn leather and heavier meaning. She peeled the t-shirt over his head, revealing the map of scars she'd memorized during late-night explorations. Her mouth found each one—prayer, promise, possession.
His hands tangled in her hair but didn't guide, didn't demand. He held on while she mapped him with tongue and teeth, learning the taste of his pulse at the throat, the hitch in his breath when she bit down at the juncture where neck met shoulder.
"Sadie," he breathed, and it sounded like surrender.
"Keep saying my name like that," she murmured against his skin. "Like I'm the only word you've got left."
She claimed him piece by piece—unbuckling his belt with deliberation, tracing the edge of his waistband with fingers that held steady even when the rest of her shook. When she wrapped her hand around him through denim, his hips jerked against her palm.
The desert spread beneath them, endless and patient, while she learned the shape of him in starlight. When she finally took him in hand—bare skin against her palm, hot and impossibly hard—he groaned like it was killing him to stay still.
"Tell me," she demanded, working him slowly, learning what made his breath catch and his fingers clench in her hair. "Tell me what you want."
"You," he ground out. "Just you. Any way you'll have me."
She took him that way—sinking to her knees on the rough roofing, the concrete biting into skin she barely felt through the haze of want. The first slide of her mouth drew a sound from him that was half-groan, half-prayer. She loved that sound, loved the way his knees threatened to buckle, loved the taste of him sliding over her tongue.
"Jesus, tiny. Gonna kill me."
She pulled off with deliberate slowness, meeting his eyes in the starlight. "Don't you dare die on me now. Not when I'm just getting started."
He laughed—short, sharp, surprised out of him—before his hands lifted her, devouring her mouth in a kiss that tasted of him and need and the kind of wild freedom that came from surviving another day. They stripped each other with increasing urgency, clothes falling away like shed inhibitions.
When she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing them together skin-to-skin, they both gasped. He held her easily, big hands supporting her weight as she lined them up, took him in—slow, so slow she felt every inch of the claiming.
"Look at me," she whispered, when his eyes threatened to close. "See me. All of me."
His gaze locked on hers as she began to move, using the wall at her back for leverage, rising and falling in a rhythm older than the desert beneath them. The stars burned overhead, witnesses to this woman who'd learned to fight for herself finally learning how to ask for what she wanted.
"Harder," she breathed, when the first gentle pace threatened to build too slowly. "I won't break."
He gave her what she asked for—hips snapping up to meet her downward strokes, each impact driving the air from her lungs in sounds that were half-sobs, half-laughter. The friction was perfect, almost too much, building toward something that felt like flying.
She felt it cresting—the wave that had been building since she'd first refused to leave Maria's bedside. Not just orgasm, though that was part of it. Vindication. Victory. The knowledge that she'd earned this—that she'd earned him—through blood and choice and the stubborn refusal to be a victim anymore.
"Jace," she warned, feeling her body tightening around him. "I'm going to—"
"Let go," he growled. "I've got you. Always."
She came with his name on her lips, body clenching around him as the orgasm tore through her like lightning across a monsoon sky. He followed moments later, pulsing inside her as he groaned against her shoulder, teeth finding the sensitive skin where neck curved into shoulder.
They stayed joined for long minutes, breathing each other's air, feeling their heartbeats sync. When she finally lowered her legs, wobbling as they took her weight, he kept his arms around her—solid anchor in a world that had taught her to drift.
"Christ, Sadie." His voice was wrecked. "You just—"
"Reclaimed myself," she finished. "In about a dozen different ways."
He pressed his forehead to hers, still holding her close against the cooling night air. "You were magnificent out there today. Magnificent on this roof. Magnificent every damn day you choose to stay."
"You too," she whispered. "Even when you're being a pain-in-the-ass alpha male who thinks he knows what's best for everyone."
"Especially then?" His laugh rumbled against her skin.
"Especially then." She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "I love you, Jace. Not the hero who saves me. The man who stands beside me while I save myself."
His expression shifted—something vulnerable cracking through the biker president facade. "I love you too, tiny. Never thought I'd say those words again. Never thought I'd mean them like this."
They dressed slowly, hands lingering, learning new vocabulary of touch and trust. When they were clothed and the evidence of their rooftop claiming had been tidied away, he pulled her against his side, both of them staring out at the desert that had been their testing ground.
"When we get back," he said quietly, "we do church. Full club. You sit at the table."
A shiver ran through her—equal parts terror and exhilaration. "The table's for patched members."
"You're getting patched. Brick's already drawing up the paperwork. Been talking about it since you walked out of that clinic with Maria on your arm like you'd been doing hostage rescues your whole life."
"What about tradition? I'm not—"
"You earned tradition today. Earned it with smart moves, earned it with guts, earned it by putting yourself between bullets and family." He turned her to face him. "You want this life? Want this club? Want me?"
She thought about the woman she'd been—always running, always hiding, always afraid. Thought about the woman she'd become—standing her ground, protecting her people, choosing to fight when flight would be easier.
"I want it all," she said simply. "Every beautiful, brutal, blood-stained inch of it."
He kissed her then—soft and sweet and promising forever in a language built on engine grease and desert dust. When they pulled apart, the stars had shifted, marking the passage of time and the beginning of something new.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand. "Let's go tell the brothers their future First Lady just orchestrated the cleanest extraction this club's pulled in a decade."
"First Lady?" She raised an eyebrow.
"President's Old Lady. It's a title. Means you're untouchable. Means you're legend." His grin turned wicked. "Means I get to keep you forever, written in leather and blood and every mile of asphalt we ride."
She let him lead her down from the roof, down through the clubhouse buzzing with stories she'd helped create. The boys looked at her differently now—not as Jace's woman or a protected civilian, but as one of them. She'd bled with them, fought beside them, proven that iron could be forged from trauma and stubborn will.
Maria caught her as they passed through the common room, pulling her into a fierce hug despite protesting bruises. "You crazy, beautiful girl. You bring my family home. You bring yourself home."
"You're my family too," Sadie whispered back, meaning it with every fiber of her being.
Later, much later, when the stories had been told and retold, when weapons had been cleaned and stored, when the club had drunk to her health with the same reverence they showed Jace, she found herself back on his couch—her couch now too—his arms around her while dawn crept across the desert outside.
"I meant what I said," she murmured against his chest, listening to his heartbeat—a rhythm she'd learned to read like Morse code. "Every beautiful, brutal inch. But if you ever call me First Lady in front of strangers, I'll shoot you myself."
His laugh rumbled under her ear. "Deal, tiny. But I'm keeping the part about forever."
She smiled into his skin, feeling the future settle around them like a well-worn cut—stitched with violence, patched with loyalty, embroidered with the kind of love that came from choosing each other every day in a world designed to break them apart.
"Forever works," she said, and meant it.
Outside, the desert kept its secrets and its promises. Inside, they held each other and planned tomorrows built on survival and strength and the radical act of staying when every instinct screamed run.
The war wasn't over. Victor was in custody, but the cartel stretched like smoke across borders and bedrock alike. There would be other fights, other nights spent holding weapons instead of each other. But tonight, with dawn approaching and hearts beating in sync, they'd won something more valuable than territory or revenge.
They'd won the right to choose each other. And in a world built on chaos and blood, that was the most defiant act of all.