Coin arrives next. Dark hair, blue-gray eyes, the scar through his eyebrow catching the overhead light.
He pours himself a cup, sits at the table, and waits without asking why he's here. Coin never asks why. He shows up, he listens, and he does what’s needed of him.
Ounce is last. Ducking through the doorway, a head taller than the frame, filling the kitchen with his presence the way a bass note fills a room.
He doesn't pour anything. Leans against the far wall with his arms crossed and nods once at Ruger.
Four officers at dawn. And me. The prospect. Standing by the pot because even now, even after everything, standing is what prospects do.
Ruger flattens both palms on the table. "Tell them."
I tell them everything about last night.
Creedy in the Backroads lot. The fake breakdown setup. The fact that he got within arm's reach of Saylor while we had a prospect on watch twenty feet away.
I keep my voice level. Facts first. Emotions somewhere else, locked in a room I'm not opening in front of these men.
They see through it anyway.
Bloodhound's gaze hasn't left my face since I started. His thumb runs slowly along the rim of his cup, which means he's thinking.
Coin is motionless. Not because he's unaffected.
Because he's calculating. I've watched Coin operate long enough to know his silence isn't absence—it's the sound of a man deciding what needs to happen next.
Ounce's arms uncross. "How many times has he made contact?"
I tick them off. "He showed up at her mother's door, then started circling—gas station, her street, the Kroger. He’s shown up at Backroads, in the lot waiting for Saylor after close."
Bloodhound's gravelly voice breaks in. "And Taylor? How's she handling it?"
My teeth clench before I can stop them.
"Her name is Saylor," I say it even though I know I shouldn't correct a patched member, even though prospect protocol says I take whatever they give me and swallow it. "She's scared, angry, and pretending she’s fine."
The kitchen goes still.
Four sets of eyes on me. I've shown my cards.
Every man in this room now knows exactly how I feel about Saylor Bell, and the protective fury bleeding through my voice isn't something I can stuff back down or explain away.
Ounce's lips press together against something close to a smirk. "Saylor. Not 'the girl.' Noted."
Ruger cuts through without raising his voice. "Enough." He looks at me. "Creedy did twelve years for putting women in hospitals. He's circling someone connected to this club. I don't care if she's your woman or a stranger—the code is the code."
No brother raises a hand to a woman. And nobody who does it walks away clean.
Coin speaks without looking up from his cup. "He's escalating. First the mother. Then the gas station. Now the bar."
He sets the cup down. "Each contact is bolder. He's testing how far he can push before someone pushes back."
Bloodhound's thumb stops. "Then we push back."
"Not yet." Ruger holds up a palm. "We do this smart. Prospect, what do we know about Creedy's movements? Where's he staying?"
I pull my phone out, showing the screenshot from the parking lot. "I got a partial plate last week. Four of six characters. Not enough for a full match. But if the brothers at Backroads can get a clean read next time his truck shows up, I can have an address in an hour."
Ruger looks at Ounce. "You hear that?"