The atmosphere was suffocating. The tension was a physical thing, wrapping around the throats of the few civilians left. The bikers were the law of the room. Then, Jax's eyes swept the counter and stopped on Martha.

She hadn't moved. She hadn't looked back. She just brought the teacup to her lips, her silver hair catching the dull light from the fan overhead. The massive, battered leather jacket swallowed her tiny frame.

Jax nudged Miller, a silent mountain of a man sitting next to him. "Hey. Look at that." Jax sneered, his voice carrying easily across the quiet diner.

Cole was busy wiping a streak of grease off his knuckles with a napkin, ignoring the kid's chatter.

"Look at the jacket," Jax continued, standing up slowly. A cruel, bored smile played on his lips. "Looks like somebody's grandma raided the lost and found. What is that, cowhide? Thing weighs more than she does."

A few of the younger bikers turned to look. A low ripple of laughter spread through the group. It was an ugly, sharp sound—the kind of laughter that precedes cruelty.

"Probably belongs to her dead husband," one joked. "Or she bought it at a thrift store thinking it made her look tough."

Clink.

Martha set her teacup down. She didn't turn around. She just pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser, folded it neatly into a square, and dabbed the corner of her mouth.

Jax stepped out from the booth. He was running on adrenaline from the ride and looking for an audience. "I'm going to go ask her what chapter she rides with."

Cole looked up from his hands, his eyes narrowing. "Leave the civilian alone, Jax. Sit down."

"Just making conversation, boss," Jax called over his shoulder, already walking toward the counter. "Just paying my respects to a fellow enthusiast."

The heavy thud, thud of Jax's boots crossed the diner floor. The young couple held their breath. Brenda squeezed her eyes shut. Martha picked up her spoon and stirred her tea. Slow. Steady. She knew they were behind her. She knew what they were. But as the shadow of the young biker fell over her small frame, she didn't flinch.

Jax stopped two feet behind Martha's stool. The contrast was comical. Jax was broad-shouldered, radiating aggression. Martha was a fragile bird wrapped in old, cracked leather.

"Nice jacket," Jax said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.