"He protected a woman when she was being stalked. He built the system that caught the network threat. He did what needed doing without flinching."
The room is airless. Every man at the table is looking at me, and the weight of their attention is so heavy I can feel it pressing against my sternum.
"I'm calling a vote." Ruger's voice carries the gravity of a man who's done this before and understands what it means. "Full patch. Bottom rocker. All in favor."
Bloodhound's hand goes up first. Then Ounce. Then Coin, Bracken, Maddox, Decorum. Daemon, Wraith, Satyr, Krypton.
Every hand at the table.
Unanimous.
Ruger reaches behind him. From the shelf on the wall, he pulls a folded piece of leather. He unfolds it, and the bottom rocker catches the overhead light.
MORGANTOWN.
He walks to my end of the table. I stand because my body tells me to, not because anyone asked.
"Turn around." Ruger's voice is rougher than usual.
I turn. His hands are on my cut, and I feel the prospect patch peel away—the velcro tearing with a sound that vibrates through my spine.
Three years of wearing that patch.
Of it defining who I was in every room I entered.
Of standing in hallways, washing bikes, making coffee, swallowing the word "kid" and letting it sit in my stomach like a stone I wasn't allowed to spit out.
Gone. Peeled off in two seconds.
The leather feels lighter without it, which doesn't make physical sense.
My legs are numb. My throat is tight.
The backs of my eyes burn with something I'm not going to let out in front of these men.
Then the new patch goes on. The bottom rocker. Pressed into place, smoothed flat, Ruger's palms running across the leather to seal it.
MORGANTOWN.
The word on my back that tells every person who sees me where I belong.
I turn back around. The table is standing. Every man on his feet.
Ruger extends his hand. I take it. His grip is iron and his expression is the closest thing to pride I've ever seen from a man who doesn't trade in emotion.
"Welcome to the table, brother."
Brother.
Not kid. Not prospect.
Brother.
The word hits me behind the ribs and stays there. It's going to stay there for the rest of my life.
Bloodhound is next. He doesn't shake my hand.
He pulls me into a one-armed embrace, his palm clapping against my shoulder blade hard enough to rattle my teeth.