His Unwanted Peace Offering: Claiming Eleanor

Eleanor POV:

"You take off that Kidd patch, Eleanor, and ride into Iron Bastards territory as Dexter Fulton's claimed Old Lady, you're handing your neck to the unpredictable President of the Iron Bastards MC."

Damaris's steel-toed combat boot slammed against the rusted metal tool chest, the deafening clatter echoing through the concrete compound garage. She strode toward me, her leather vest heavy with road dust and the unmistakable scent of burnt motor oil and copper.

I didn't flinch. I looked her in the eye and said, "Everett and Alvy are already dead, Damaris. The alliance is bleeding out on Interstate 101. If I don't ride into the Bastards' territory tonight, the next thing crossing our border won't be a peace envoy-it'll be a convoy of iron and hollow-points. I'm not going there to die. I'm going to find out who sold them out."

My fingers remained curled around the collar of the worn leather cut hanging from the iron rack. The thick leather was stiff, scarred by years of asphalt runs and tavern brawls, bearing the Kidd family's twin-eagle crest on the back. For twenty years, that patch had been my armor. Today, it felt like an iron noose. If Dexter Fulton thought I was just a sacrifice, he was wrong. I pressed my lips together, frowned, and watched Damaris approach.

"So you're selling yourself to Dexter Fulton? And don't give me that poor-little-me look. As your ally, I won't pity you." Damaris snatched the cut from my hands, tossing it onto the grease-stained wooden workbench. A cloud of fine dust puffed into the air. Her knuckles were raw, scraped from yesterday's patrol. "He's a butcher, El. He ran the northern corridor by putting three rival charters in the ground. You think being his claimed Old Lady makes you safe? You'll be a hostage in a den of rabid dogs."

"I'm not looking for safety." I pulled my olive-drab duffel bag from beneath the bench. Inside, I had already started gathering information: the Bastards' route maps, Church schedules, and the name of the rat who fed Everett and Alvy to the cartel. I yanked the heavy brass zipper shut with a sharp, metallic zip. "I'm buying our people time-and I'm going to take his club apart from the inside."

"Look at me." Damaris caught my wrist, her grip like a vise. Her eyes burned with fierce, protective rage. "Don't play the martyr. You remember what happened to Clara Montgomery when she thought she could tame an Enforcer."

My pulse hitched. I pulled my arm free and turned to the bottom drawer of the rusted metal cabinet against the far wall. The drawer screeched as I yanked it open, pulling out a battered, leather-bound photo album.

I flipped the crumbling paper pages until I found the faded photograph. In the frame stood Jax Tucker-his Enforcer rocker bold across his chest, jaw set like granite-and beside him, Clara, her smile radiant and soft against the backdrop of roaring choppers.

"I remember," I murmured, my thumb tracing the cracked laminate over Jax's stern brow. "I was twelve when the cartel ambushed their chase on Route 9. The rain was coming down so hard the asphalt turned to grease."

Damaris leaned against the workbench, crossing her arms over her chest, the hard edge in her posture sagging slightly. "The cartel wanted payback for the hijacked shipment. They boxed them in with two semi-trucks."

"Jax kicked the door open before the cab crushed them," I whispered, the ghost of that night rising vividly in my mind. "He threw Clara onto the mud bank, shielding her with his own back while windshield glass blew out over his skull. He didn't even blink. He drew his Glock, firing blind into the headlights until the bastards backed off."

"And look how it ended," Damaris countered coldly, kicking a stray motorcycle tire across the concrete floor. "Jax destroyed himself, and Clara ended up in the dirt two years later. Fulton isn't Jax, El. Men wearing the Bastards' colors don't know how to protect. They only know how to conquer."

"Then I won't ask for protection," I said, shoving the album back into the darkness of the drawer and slamming it shut. "I'll make them need me."

Outside, the heavy thunder of twelve customized Twin-Cam Harley engines rattled the corrugated iron walls of the garage. The escort had arrived.

I grabbed the duffel bag, the strap digging deep into my shoulder muscle. Damaris stepped into my path, silent for three agonizing seconds, before pulling me into a fierce, suffocating embrace. Her leather vest ground against mine, hard and smelling of cedar and exhaust.

"Come back breathing," she hissed into my ear. "Or I burn their clubhouse to the foundation."

"Count on it," I said, stepping back and pulling my full-face black helmet over my head. "Even if I have to play his Old Lady, I won't lose to that brute."

I slammed the visor down, locking the noise inside. Pushing open the heavy garage door, the harsh afternoon sun blinded me for a second. Diesel Knight sat atop a matte-black Road Glide, nodding once toward the empty rear pillion.

I threw my leg over the machine, my gloved hands locking onto the cold steel grab bars behind me. Diesel twisted the throttle, and with an earth-shattering roar, our pack surged onto the open highway, leaving a black trail of rubber and burning fuel behind us.