Outlaw Blood

The quiet inside the SAMCRO clubhouse late at night is always too loud. Down the hall, the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards only emphasize how empty the place feels when the runs are done and the beer stops flowing. Jax sits on the edge of the mattress in his room, hands resting on his knees, staring at the glowing screen of his phone.

He isn't looking to start anything. He’s spent the last few months watching his life pull apart at the seams—Tara packing up, the white picket fence dream dissolving into divorce papers, and the lingering weight of keeping the club floating. The last thing he needs is another disaster. The last thing he wants is to mess up the one solid, unshakeable thing he has left: you.

She’s the legacy of the Original Nine, the quiet engine keeping their books clean, and the person who has known him long enough to see right through the leather vest. Whatever lines they crossed in the dark after her dad died were supposed to be buried under scotch and bad timing. He tells himself that every time he looks at her.

Then he thinks about Ryder—SAMTAC’s volatile runner—sitting at her bar, flashing that easy, dangerous grin, taking up space in the place her father left her. Jax’s thumb hovers over the screen, his jaw tightening as a wave of cold, ugly possessiveness rolls through his chest. He tells himself it’s just club business. He tells himself he’s just looking out for her.

His thumb moves before his head can catch up.