"This is just the beginning," he promises, helping me into the car. "We'll figure the rest out together."
As he walks around to the driver's side, I notice a dark sedan parked across the street, engine running. Something about it sends a chill down my spine, though I can't say why.
Santiago gets in and starts the engine, but before he can pull out, I touch his arm.
"That car," I say quietly, nodding toward the sedan. "It's been there since we went in. Engine's still running."
His posture changes instantly, body tensing as he looks in the rearview mirror. "You sure?"
"Pretty sure. Same spot, at least."
Without another word, Santiago pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a quick text. Then he puts the car in drive and pulls out, deliberately casual.
"What are you doing?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Taking a little detour," he says calmly. "See if our friend follows."
Sure enough, the sedan pulls out behind us, maintaining a discreet distance. My heart rate picks up.
"Is it Derek? How would he know where we were?"
"Could be coincidence," Santiago says, though his tone suggests he doesn't believe that. "Could be Derek. Could be something else entirely."
He takes a series of turns, some sharp, some gradual, and the sedan stays with us through all of them. His jaw tightens.
"Definitely following us." He makes another turn, this one leading us toward a busier street. "Time for plan B."
"Which is?"
Before he can answer, a motorcycle appears in my side mirror, then another, and suddenly we're flanked by four bikes. I recognize Cruel on one of them, his distinctive helmet giving him away.
Santiago relaxes slightly, a grim smile on his face. "That's plan B."
The bikes form a protective barrier around us, two in front, two behind. When we reach the next intersection, two of them break off, doubling back toward the sedan. I twist in my seat to watch, but Santiago's hand on my thigh stops me.
"Eyes front," he says quietly. "Let them handle it."
"What are they going to do?"
"Just identify who's following us. Nothing more." He squeezes my thigh reassuringly. "Not tonight, anyway."
We drive in silence for a while, the remaining two bikes still escorting us. Eventually, Santiago's phone buzzes again. He checks it at a red light, nodding to himself.
"Well?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.
"It was Derek," he confirms, voice hard. "With a buddy. Cruel got a clear look at his face when they pulled alongside him."
My stomach drops. "How did he know where we were?"
"That's the question, isn't it?" Santiago's knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "I've got some ideas, none of them good."
"What do we do now?"
"Now?" He looks over at me, expression softening slightly. "Now I take you home. My home. Where I can keep you safe."
I should be scared. I should be demanding to go to the police, file a report, get a restraining order. But as we drive through the night, Santiago beside me and club members watching our backs, all I feel is a strange sense of safety.
For the first time in my life, I'm not facing my problems alone. I have people—I have Santiago—fighting for me. And that feels like the most natural thing in the world.
