My end, p.1
My End, page 1
Iron Fiends MC
Book 10
Wall Street Journal & USA Today Bestselling Author
Winter Travers
Copyright © 2025 Winter Travers
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduction, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) utilization of this work without written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks are not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Also by Winter Travers
Devil’s Knights MC Series
Loving Lo
Finding Cyn
Gravel’s Road
Battling Troy
Gambler’s Longshot
Keeping Meg
Fighting Demon
Unraveling Fayth
Forever Lo
Devil’s Knights MC 2nd Gen
Passing the Torch
Riding the Line
Royal Mess
Changing Lanes
Bucking Tradition
Reining It In
Fractured Brotherhood
Ride the Wind
Chase the Sunset
Freedom Ride
Skid Row Kings Series
DownShift
PowerShift
BangShift
Fallen Lords MC Series
Nickel
Pipe
Maniac
Wrecker
Boink
Clash
Freak
Slayer
Brinks
Fallen Lords Christmas
A Moo Christmas
Kings of Vengeance MC
Drop a Gear and Disappear
Lean Into It
Knees in the Breeze
Midnight Wreckage
Thrill Seeker
Livin’ on the Edge
Blacktop Freedom
Ride or Die
Powerhouse MA Series
Dropkick My Heart
Love on the Mat
Black Belt in Love
Black Belt Knockout
Nitro Crew Series
Burndown
Holeshot
Redlight
Shutdown
Royal Bastards MC: Sacramento, CA
Playboy
Six-Gun
Monk
Rebel
Barracuda
Jet
Jinx
Mace
Urn For Me
VII Knights MC: Golden, CO Chapter
Iced
Iron Fiends MC
My Biker
My Savior
My Romeo
My Hero
My Prince
My Dream
My Knight
My Casanova
My Hotshot
My End
Sweet Love Novellas
Sweet Burn
Five Alarm Donuts: Standalone Novellas
Kissing the Bad Boy
Trapped with the Bad Boy
Daddin’ Ain’t Easy
Silas: A Scrooged Christmas
Wanting More
Mama Didn’t Raise No Fool
Tangle My Tinsel
Mr. Motorcycle
Oral Communications
Coasting In
Holly’s Biker
Alice & Meg Adventures
Alice & Meg
Alice & Meg: Girls Trip
Alice & Meg: Summer Vacation
Banachi Family Series
His Reward
His Claim
His Sacrifice
His Forever
Kings of Anarchy MC: Michigan
Property of Anchor
Property of Prime
Saint’s Outlaws MC: Wisconsin
Twister’s Salvation
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Coming Soon
About the Author
1st Chapter of Property of Anchor
1st Chapter of Twister’s Salvation
Chapter One
Three weeks before the phone call from Tilly
Stretch
They told me the address was in the suburbs of Dallas, but this wasn’t the kind of suburb that had block parties and cul-de-sacs full of tricycles and seasonal yard flags.
No, this was the kind of suburb where money dripped off rooftops and fences were ten feet high. Just low enough to not raise suspicion, but tall enough to say “don’t fucking look in here.”
Every house had space, big lots, winding driveways, gates with security booths, and camera poles disguised as decorative light fixtures. It was like the homeowners wanted to flaunt their money, but not the messy part of having a life. No neighbors peeking over hedges or borrowing sugar here. Just secrets and silence.
I pulled up to the gate on a crotch rocket that had cost me more than I wanted to admit. It was sleek, fast, and just anonymous enough to keep questions at bay. It killed me to ditch the Harley, but there was no way in hell I could pull up to this place on an Iron Fiends bike. Not when it had taken everything in me to convince the people surrounding Boone and Gibbs that I was legit.
They thought I was here to protect them.
Far from the fucking truth.
I was here to end them.
The gatehouse sat just to the right and was tucked in like an afterthought. The guy who stepped out wasn’t anyone’s afterthought. He was built like a vending machine and wore mirrored sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
He walked toward me like I’d insulted his mother.
I turned off the engine, kicked the stand, and swung my leg off the bike slowly.
“Hands where I can see ‘em,” the guy barked.
I lifted both hands without a word, with my palms out, and didn’t even flinch when he ran them down the inside of my thighs and around my waist. He was thorough.
Didn’t bother me.
“Name?”
“Jake Style,” I said like I’d been answering to it my whole life.
He grunted, satisfied but not impressed. “Go through the gate and to the front door. Jim’ll meet you there.”
I nodded once. That was the first obstacle.
Every person I got past, every locked door, and every fake name that rolled off my tongue was one step closer to taking them down.
I straddled the bike again, fired it up, and eased through the gate as it slid open.
The driveway curled like a snake through trimmed hedges and trees. Every inch of it was manicured. Even the gravel shoulder. No security cameras were visible, but I knew they were there. The whole property was probably rigged tighter than the White House.
Then the mansion came into view.
White stone with a wide wraparound porch, two turrets flanking the sides like old watchtowers, and more windows than a hotel. The house wasn’t showy in the flashy way; it was intimidating. Designed to blend in just enough, but once you looked at it, you couldn’t stop seeing how out of place it really was.
Like its owner.
I parked the bike in the circle drive and took a breath. My boots hit the pavement, and I pushed my sunglasses up onto my head. The air smelled like money and lies.
Then I looked up.
Someone was standing in an upstairs window.
I narrowed my eyes. I couldn’t make out details, but the silhouette was definitely female, tall, with long hair and a posture that said curiosity more than fear.
Not one of the staff.
And not part of the game I’d planned to play.
But something about her stuck.
I turned my head when I heard the front door open.
Jim stepped out and buttoned his jacket like I’d shown up five minutes early and ruined his groove. “Jake,” he called and walked toward me with measured steps. “You made it.”
Jim was all angles in his suit tailored within an inch of his life. He had a military stance and a jaw so sharp he could’ve cut drywall with it.
“Right on time,” I replied and shook his hand like I was grateful to be here.
“Yes, you are. Things are starting to brew with Boone and Gib
I nodded. “Glad to be here. I’m ready to help however I can.”
He gave me a once-over. “You come recommended by Max.”
Max.
The only reason I was standing here.
We’d gone to high school together.
Max had a hate for the government. Just politicians in general. He wanted to see them all taken down.
I wasn’t going to screw it up.
“Come inside,” Jim said, already turning. “I’ll give you the tour. You’ll be staying on-site.”
I nodded again, but my eyes flicked up.
She was still at the window.
Watching.
Unmoving.
There was something about the stillness, like she wasn’t just watching me. Like she was trying to figure out what I was doing here.
I followed Jim up the steps and into the mansion. The heavy door shut behind me like the lid on a coffin.
I was in.
And now, it was only a matter of time before the whole house of cards came crashing down.
The scent of polished wood, cold marble, and old money hit me all at once. The foyer was straight out of some kind of glossy architecture spread, with double-height ceilings, a staircase that split halfway up like a forked tongue, and a chandelier so massive it looked like it needed its own support system.
The walls were creamy white with gold accents, and the floors were smooth stone. Everything gleamed like someone had been through with a toothbrush and a damn laser level.
“This way,” Jim said and turned left.
I followed as my boots thudded softly on the tile.
We passed through an archway into a sitting room the size of a school gym, with couch clusters arranged with military precision. There was a baby grand piano and a fireplace that looked like it had never been lit.
“All of this is open access,” Jim said. “You’ll see other staff around, housekeeper, grounds, chef, a couple of floaters. You don’t answer to them, and they don’t answer to you.”
“Understood,” I said as my eyes scanned every door and every camera dome hidden in the corners.
We moved past a library with built-in shelves that stretched floor to ceiling. There was a formal dining room that could seat twenty, and a sunroom with high glass windows that looked out over a yard so big it had to be five acres minimum.
“Don’t ever go into the east wing alone.”
I stopped walking. “Say again?”
Jim turned, his face unreadable. “East wing. Double doors. Past the arch on the right.” He pointed back behind us. “That’s off-limits unless Boone or Gibbs are physically with you. Not just a pass. Not a radio call. With you.”
I didn’t nod. Just met his eyes. “Got it.”
“They keep their private files, business records, and... other materials in there.”
“Copy that.”
He kept walking like that hadn’t just been a red flag flapping in the wind.
We passed a hallway of framed photographs. Boone shaking hands with politicians. It was staged legacy. The kind of crap that was meant to say, I’m a respectable man.
Bullshit.
“You’ll be on the lower level,” Jim said and paused at a thick oak door beside the door to the garage. “We call it the staff level, but don’t let that get to your head. You’re still private security.”
He opened the door and started down a narrow staircase. The air cooled as we descended, and there was no marble here. Just sealed concrete floors, exposed beams, and low lighting.
Three doors lined the hallway at the bottom. Jim stopped at the far one and pushed it open.
“Here’s yours.”
I stepped inside.
The room was bigger than I expected, with a queen bed, a desk, a mounted TV, and a closet. No windows. The walls were painted gray, and there was a single industrial-looking light fixture overhead. Clean. Sparse. Efficient.
There was also a small keypad panel on the inside of the door.
Security ran both ways here.
Jim leaned in the doorway. “Dinner’s at six. Kitchen’s upstairs. Boone and Gibbs want to meet you when they get in town.”
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
He looked at me one more time. “You made it in. That’s not easy. Just keep your head down, follow orders, and you’ll do fine.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble.”
He grunted like he didn’t believe me. “See you at six.”
The door closed behind him.
I was alone.
I sank onto the edge of the bed and scrubbed my hands over my face. The concrete chill of the floor seeped up into the room, and the silence was heavy.
I’d made it inside.
Every instinct screamed that I was in deep. Maybe deeper than I was ready for.
Boone and Gibbs didn’t just play dirty. They built empires on blood and smoke. Hid behind politics and boardrooms while smiling in suits as they buried people like me in unmarked graves.
I didn’t have a full plan. No playbook. No mapped exit route.
But I had time.
I had access.
And I had something I hadn’t had since they started tearing the club apart: a second chance to burn them down from the inside.
I leaned back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and the echo of Jim’s warning bounced in my head.
Don’t go into the east wing alone.
Noted.
But eventually?
I’d be going in there.
And when I did, I’d make damn sure I didn’t walk out empty-handed.
Chapter Two
Tilly
The blue in the painting wasn’t right. It leaned too heavily toward teal.
I dipped my brush again, mixed in a touch more purple, and swept it across the curve of the jaw I’d been building up for the past hour. The abstract portrait on the canvas was starting to make sense now. That moment was always my favorite when the madness turned to something more. Something that breathed.
I stepped back, nudged the toe of my sock against a paint-splattered drop cloth, and tilted my head. Still not right. Maybe I needed to layer in orange instead.
The morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my studio and cut bright angles across the wooden floors. Boone had outdone himself when he set this place up for me. One room for sketching, one for painting, and a bedroom that I could disappear into whenever the world got too loud.
I was grateful, truly. Boone had always taken care of me.
After Mom died seven years ago, I wasn’t sure where I belonged. Then, when Boone’s dad passed away two years back, the mansion had felt… empty. Like a museum no one visited anymore. So, when Boone told me he wanted me here—for protection, for his image, and for our family—I didn’t question it.
I didn’t like politics. Or press. Or being asked things that didn’t have easy answers. I liked color. Texture. The way emotions could live in brushstrokes.
I set the brush down and stretched, my arms lifting high overhead until my shoulder popped. The oversized paint-streaked t-shirt I was wearing rode up a little, and I tugged it down before I padded barefoot across the studio to the window.
I wasn’t looking for anything. I just liked watching the breeze play in the hedges.
But something caught my eye.
A motorcycle.
Not just any motorcycle.
It was a sleek, black crotch rocket that cut up the drive like it had every right to be there.
I squinted and leaned a little closer to the glass. A man swung off the bike who was tall, muscular, and wrapped in a tight black T-shirt with dark jeans. His arms bulged, thick, and the fabric stretched across a chest that looked like it had been carved out of stone.
He wore sunglasses. His hair was dark and buzzed short, but the beard made him look… wild. Rugged. Dangerous.
Not like the rest of the staff.
Not like anyone Boone usually hired.
Jim came out of the gatehouse all business. I saw him pat the man down, and the man didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. He just stood there, calm and cool, like he could take Jim apart in three seconds flat but didn’t feel like bothering.
I pressed my hand to the glass, and my heart ticked a little faster.
Something about him hit wrong and right at the same time.
