The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 497

Chapter 244-1

The rain doesn’t let up as Dad’s heavy pickup truck rolls past the high chain–link gates of the

Grinning Skulls compound.

Electric security wire glints wetly along the top of the fence, and Hawk and Big Mac, both in heavy

oilskin coats, stand guard by the iron post, automatic rifles slung low across their chests beneath

their cuts.

They give Dad a single, sharp nod as we pass through, their eyes scanning the road behind us

before the heavy gates slide shut with a loud, mechanical clank.

Inside, the compound and clubhouse are both humming like hornets‘ nests.

The main asphalt yard, usually scattered with custom bikes and guys washing chrome, is packed

tight with heavy steel–plated SUVs, transport vans, and covered utility trucks.

Mechanics and road captains move through the gloom with absolute, singular focus. Headlights cut through the misty downpour, illuminating rising plumes of white exhaust and the steady,

rhythmic thump of heavy boots on wet gravel.

Dad parks near the rear entrance of the clubhouse, cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, his big hand resting on the steering wheel as he looks at me.

“You stay inside the clubhouse hall,” Dad says, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. “You sit at the corner table in the back by the fireplace and you let Trench take care of anything you need. He’s the prospect, and today he’s your personal servant. You do not wander down into the armory, and you do not go near the rear bay doors while the boys are loading. Clear?”

“Clear,” I say, pulling my coat tighter around myself. “I get to play lady of the manor.”

“Goddamn correct.” He squeezes my knee once before opening his door. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

In its place is a cold, heavy silence broken only by the sharp metallic snap of weapon slides, the low murmur of tactical coordinates, and the constant thud of heavy supply crates being dragged across the concrete floor.

Dad leads me straight into the main bar. The massive stone fireplace is lit, and crackles at the far end of the room, casting a deep, amber glow across the dark oak tables.

Sitting at the long corner booth near the hearth, out of the direct line of foot traffic but right in the center of the room, is Willow. She looks up as we approach, her eyes filling with quiet warmth.

She’s wearing a thick hand–knit cream cardigan over her purple tunic, her long hair braided loosely over one shoulder; I’m delighted to see that the feathers are back. On the table before her, a

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