Reaper's Rose

The iron bar felt like an old friend in my hands—cold, unforgiving, three hundred and fifteen pounds of dead weight that didn’t give a shit about excuses. I pushed through the last rep of my bench press, muscles burning, breath controlled. Six a.m. and the compound gym was mine alone. The way I liked it.

I racked the bar with a metallic clang that echoed off the concrete walls, sat up, and reached for my water bottle. Sweat dripped down my chest, tracing the lines of ink that covered my torso—a sleeve of memories, kills, and brothers lost. The dragon my mother had insisted I get when I turned eighteen coiled up my right arm, a piece of her I carried everywhere. She’d wanted me to remember where I came from, even when the world tried to make me forget.

Forty years old and I could still outwork men half my age. Had to. In this life, the moment you got soft was the moment you got dead.

I grabbed my towel and wiped down, checking my phone. Three texts from Techy about some surveillance footage he wanted me to review, one from Tiny about a shipment coming in tonight, and—fuck me—two more from Jewel.

Don’t forget the flowers, Reaper. I’m SERIOUS. Scout said you’d handle it.

I want roses, peonies, and those purple things. You know the ones. Don’t come back without them!!!

I stared at the screen, jaw tight. Flowers. The woman had me running errands for fucking flowers.

A year ago, Jewel had decided the compound needed “beautification.” Said we looked like a prison yard with all the concrete and chain-link. Scout, pussy-whipped as he was for his old lady, had agreed. Now she wanted a full garden in the back section of the property—raised beds, a greenhouse, the whole nine yards. And somehow, I’d gotten voluntold to source the plants.

“Reaper, you’re detail-oriented,” Scout had said last week during church, our weekly meeting. “You’ll make sure we get quality shit, not some gas station roses.”

Translation: Jewel had demanded it, and what Jewel wanted, Jewel got.

I typed back a single word: Copy.

Then I headed for the showers.

***

By seven-thirty, I was dressed—black jeans, black boots, black t-shirt stretched across my chest, my Death Riders cut over it. The leather was worn soft from twelve years of wear, the patches telling anyone with eyes exactly who the fuck I was. Enforcer. Bottom rocker: Texas.

I kept my beard trimmed close, my hair in a dark fade with the sides shaved clean. Professional. Controlled. My mother used to say I had my father’s intensity and her precision. Deadly combination.

I strapped my Glock to my hip—concealed carry, always—and slid two knives into their sheaths. One at my ankle, one at my back. Old habits from my SEAL days. You didn’t walk around unarmed, not when you’d made the kind of enemies we had.

The Death Riders weren’t your average MC. We didn’t run drugs, didn’t traffic women, didn’t play in the shit that brought heat we couldn’t control. But we handled our business. When the government fucked with us, when law enforcement overstepped, when someone threatened our family—we took care of it. Permanently, if necessary.

Twelve years ago, Scout, Viper, Tiny, Beast, and I had mustered out of the Navy and decided we were done taking orders from bureaucrats who didn’t understand what it meant to bleed for your brothers. We’d started the Death Riders with money we’d saved and skills we’d earned in blood. Now we had legitimate businesses—a security firm, a construction company, a bar—and enough firepower to make anyone think twice about testing us.

I walked out of my room and into the main compound. The clubhouse was already alive with activity. Prospects cleaning, brothers drinking coffee, the smell of bacon and motor oil mixing in the air. Home.

“Reaper!” Viper’s voice cut through the noise. “Got a minute?”

I turned. Lionel “Viper” Bastian, our VP, stood near the bar with Beast and Techy. All three looked like they’d been up for hours.

“What’s up?” I crossed to them, my boots heavy on the concrete floor.

Viper slid a folder across the bar top. “That property developer who’s been sniffing around the east side businesses? He made an offer to buy out Martinez’s garage. Low-ball bullshit, with a threat attached if Martinez doesn’t sell.”

I flipped open the folder. Photos, financial records, a background check Techy had run. My jaw tightened. “He threaten Martinez’s family?”

“Implied it,” Beast rumbled. Liam was six-four, two-sixty, with fists like cinder blocks. “Said accidents happen to people who don’t know when to take a good deal.”

I studied the developer’s face in the photo. Soft. Entitled. The kind of man who’d never had someone break his fingers one by one to teach him about respect.

“We handling this?” I asked, looking at Viper.

“Scout wants your read first. Martinez is a friend of the club. We’ve used his garage for years.”

I closed the folder. “Then we handle it. I’ll pay our developer friend a visit. Explain the error of his ways.”

Techy grinned, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You want me to dig deeper? Find leverage?”

“Everything,” I said. “Bank accounts, mistresses, parking tickets. I want to know what he’s afraid of.”

“On it.”

This was what I did. What I was good at. Enforcing. Protecting. Making sure the people under our umbrella stayed safe. I’d been a sniper in the Navy—patient, precise, lethal. Now I applied those same skills to a different kind of warfare.

“Reaper.” Scout’s voice carried from his office. “Need you.”

I nodded to the guys and headed back. Gareth “Scout” Jones sat behind his desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked like someone’s dad until you saw his eyes—cold, calculating, the eyes of a man who’d killed more people than he could count.

“Close the door,” he said.

I did, then took the seat across from him. “The developer?”

“Viper briefed you?”

“Yeah. I’ll handle it.”

Scout nodded, unsurprised. “Keep it clean. We don’t need ATF crawling up our ass right now.”

“When have I ever been messy?”

He snorted. “There’s clean, and then there’s Reaper clean. Just remember we’re trying to keep a low profile.”

“Copy.” I leaned back. “That it?”

“No.” Scout set down his coffee and fixed me with a look. “Jewel’s on my ass about these flowers. You going today?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. “Yeah. This morning. Got the list.”

“Good. Because if you don’t, I’m sleeping on the couch, and if I’m sleeping on the couch, I’m making your life hell.”

“Noted.”

“She wants quality. Not some bullshit from a big box store.”

“There a flower shop in Raleigh that meets her standards?”

Scout pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, then showed me the screen. “Jewel found this place. ‘Lena’s Blooms.’ Downtown. Owner’s supposed to be some kind of artist with flowers. Jewel saw pictures online, lost her shit over the arrangements.”

I studied the address. Small shop, locally owned. Probably some hippie chick who smelled like patchouli and talked about plant energy.

“Fine. I’ll check it out.”

“And Reaper?” Scout’s voice dropped. “Be nice. Jewel likes this place. Don’t scare the owner.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m always nice.”

“You’re a six-five wall of muscle and murder who looks like you eat nails for breakfast. Try smiling.”

“I smile.”

“Smiling without looking like you’re about to kill someone.”

I stood. “I’ll get your fucking flowers, Scout. Jewel will be happy. You’ll get laid. Everyone wins.”

He flipped me off as I left.

* * *

By ten a.m., I was on my bike—a custom Harley Davidson Fat Boy, blacked out, with an engine that purred like a predator. I’d built her myself in the compound garage, every piece chosen for performance and reliability. She was the only woman I’d ever needed.

Until now, apparently, I needed flowers.

I pulled out of the compound gates, nodding to the prospect on guard duty, and headed into Raleigh. The Texas sun was already climbing, promising another scorcher. I kept my speed steady, my mind running through the day’s tasks. Flowers first, then the developer, then the shipment tonight with Tiny.

The town rolled past—small, dusty, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and strangers stood out. We’d chosen Raleigh specifically for that reason. Easier to control, easier to protect.

Downtown was a strip of old brick buildings, mom-and-pop shops, a diner that served the best chicken fried steak in the state. I spotted the flower shop wedged between a bookstore and a coffee house. Lena’s Blooms in hand-painted letters on the window, flower boxes overflowing with color.

Quaint. Delicate. Completely out of my element.

I parked the bike, killed the engine, and sat for a moment. Through the shop window, I could see movement—someone working inside, surrounded by flowers and greenery. The place looked like something out of a fairy tale, all soft and pretty.

I was a man built for war, not gardens.

But orders were orders, and Jewel wanted her flowers.

I swung off the bike, adjusted my cut, and headed for the door. The bell above it chimed as I pushed inside, and the scent hit me immediately—roses, something sweet I couldn’t name, earth and green growing things.

And then I saw her.

Small. Delicate. Bent over an arrangement with her back to me, crimson hair catching the light like fire.

She turned.

Green eyes. Freckles. A face that belonged in a Renaissance painting.

And just like that, everything fucking changed.