The first thing I noticed about Howlers wasn’t the noise.
It was the eyes.
Every single one of them tracked us the second we walked in.
Howlers sat at the edge of Iron Fang territory like a warning—half diner, half outlaw clubhouse. Chrome flashed from the walls, old photos layered over graffiti, patches pinned like trophies. The air smelled like grease, leather, and gasoline.
This wasn’t just a place to eat.
This was club ground.
And everyone inside knew it.
Cade and River didn’t hesitate. They moved like they belonged here—like they’d bled for it. I followed between them, aware of every stare, every shift in posture.
Claimed.
Judged.
Measured.
We slid into a booth near the back. Cade took one side, River the other, boxing me in without making it obvious.
Protection.
Always.
