His Unwanted Peace Offering: Claiming Eleanor

Eleanor POV:

The Prospect's smirk vanished, replaced by an ugly, twitching scowl. He stepped off his bike, his thumbs hooked insolently into his belt loops.

"You've got a mouth on you, Princess," he muttered, stepping close enough that I could smell stale energy drinks and unwashed denim. His gaze crawled over me, slow and greasy. "Pretty, too. Shame. Let's see if you talk that loud when the Prez gets bored of you."

I let my shoulders sag a little. Widened my eyes, pressed my lips together, put on a pitiful, delicate look. "I'm so scared!" Then my voice suddenly turned cold, mocking. "You'd better pray your Prez finds me boring. Otherwise, the teeth he pulls will be yours."

"Back up, boy," Diesel growled, the big Enforcer stepping into the Prospect's space like a brick wall. "Before I take your teeth as a souvenir for your boss."

"Enough," I said coldly, no longer in the mood to play. I placed myself between them. Glancing at the knives and shotguns on their belts, I turned to the two patched members flanking the Prospect. "Lead the way."

They boxed us in. Two Bastards in front, one behind, our small convoy moving like a chain gang down the cracked two-lane blacktop toward their compound.

The closer we got, the more I remembered the legendary Jax Tucker. The same romantic story, except his ending was cruel.

Jax had survived that frozen night in the cabin. He had carried Clara ten brutal miles down the mountain on a shattered leg, using a fallen branch as a crutch, leaving a crimson trail in the mud. When the search party found them, Jax collapsed in the gravel, his arms still locking Clara safe against his ribs.

The club medics had cut away his jeans, and the verdict was merciless: permanent nerve death. He would walk with an iron brace and a crippling limp for the rest of his days.

In the infirmary two weeks later, Clara had knelt by his bedside, tears streaming down her bruised face, begging to take his patch, swearing she would be his Old Lady forever.

Jax had looked at her with eyes turned to pure granite.

He had ripped his hand from hers with such force she stumbled backward. "Look at me!" he had roared, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. "I'm a cripple! An Enforcer who can't mount a bike without a brace is a dead man on the road. I can't protect you. Get the hell out and find a real man."

He drove her away to save her from his own ruin. It was the toxic, arrogant nobility of outlaw men—they'd rather tear your heart out than let you see them bleed.

Jax was crippled protecting a woman; Clara waited to be protected until the end of her life. I was different from Clara. I came to their Prez with a plan, and from the very beginning, all I wanted was blood and revenge—not love.

A sharp hiss of air brakes shattered my thoughts as our bikes rolled through the Bastards' compound gates.

The fortress was a sprawling concrete bunker surrounded by ten-foot chain-link topped with razor wire. The courtyard was pure chaos. Engines revving on dyno stands, half-naked Sweetbutts laughing over bottles of cheap bourbon on the clubhouse porch, and dozens of fully patched 1%ers leaning against workbenches, their cold eyes tracking my arrival.

I let the patched members size me up like cargo, and while they were busy guessing who I was, I was already mapping the terrain in my head. I needed to find the emergency exits—my way out.

Diesel killed the engine. The silence that followed was suffocating.

"Prez is on the second floor," the lead patched member said, jerking his chin toward the heavy steel fire door of the main building. "Leave the bag. He said you come up alone."

Diesel grabbed my arm, his jaw tight. "Eleanor—"

I reached up and touched his wrist, pressing down on his trembling hand. "Wait by the bikes," I commanded, keeping my chin level. "Keep the engines warm. Don't let them die."

I turned my back on the staring crowd, my boots crunching over the gravel. I pushed through the heavy door. The smell of stale beer, gun oil, and industrial disinfectant washed over me, accompanied by the muffled bass of heavy metal vibrating through the floorboards.

I walked past the crowded downstairs bar without glancing left or right, feeling every predatory gaze burning into my skin. At the foot of the dark wooden staircase leading to the private quarters, I paused, drawing a single, deep breath into my lungs.

Up there was Dexter Fulton. The man who owned these roads. The man who had demanded me as the price of peace. I had come here for him. And he had no right to decide whether I stayed or left.

I placed my boot on the first step.