The dart in my other hand feels heavy. I turn and throw it without aiming. Thwack. Dead center.
“East?”
It’s Nash. He’s walked over from the pool table, his expression unreadable, but his eyes miss nothing. He saw the shift, the easy charm shattering to be replaced by ice. Only he would know what that implies.
“What is it?” he asks, his voice low, steady.
“It’s Darla,” I say, the words clipped, cold. “She needed space. She’s safe.” I pause, my gaze locking with his. “She’s at Frankie’s.”
Nash holds my gaze for a long second. There’s no judgment, no questions. Just a deep, unspoken understanding. Even though he didn't see what happened that night seven years ago, he helped me pick up the pieces. Nash knows what that night cost me and understands the weight of the promise I carry. He just nods. “Go.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I grab my keys from the hook by the door, the jingle of the metal a sharp, angry sound in the sudden quiet of my head.
Outside, the cool night air does nothing to calm the fire in my gut. I swing my leg over my bike, the worn leather familiar under my hands. The engine catches on the first try, a low, guttural roar that’s the only thing that matches the fury in my blood. I don’t tear out of the lot. I pull out slowly and steadily, a predator leaving its den.
The ride to Frankie’s shop isn’t long, but it’s long enough for the rage to cool, to harden from a wildfire into a glacier. Helplessness is a poison. But now I have a direction.
I kill the engine a block away from Amaranth and coast the rest of the way, parking in the mouth of an alley across the street where the shadows swallow me whole. From here, I can see the entrance to the rickety back stairs and the brightly lit windows of Frankie’s loft above the shop.
Then I see a shadow passing in front of the curtained window. A silhouette moving with a freedom and ease that she never has in her father’s house. For a second, I think I can hear the faint sound of a laugh on the breeze.
Relief is a quiet flood, washing the panic away, leaving only the cold, hard bedrock of purpose. Darla’s safe. She’s with Frankie. She’s okay.
And she’s okay without me.
The thought should sting, but it doesn’t. It clarifies. My promise to Declan—take care of her—it wasn’t a command to stand on her doorstep. It wasn’t about hovering. I see that now. Taking care of her means dismantling the cage she just escaped.
I watch the window for another minute, my mind racing. Winston Graves is a pillar of the community on the outside and a monster behind closed doors. Trent Moreland is his heir apparent, another snake in a tailored suit. I know it. The whole club knows it. But knowing and proving are two different circles of hell.
My promise was never about saving her from a random drunk at a bar. It’s about saving her from them. It’s about ripping down their world so she can finally build her own.
A plan forms, cold and sharp, in my mind. It’s a long game, one played in shadows and whispers, with ledgers and secrets as weapons. It’s the game I was born to play.
I stare up at the light in the window one last time, a silent vow passing between me and the girl I can’t protect up close.
I’m coming.
But this time, the words aren’t for her. They’re for them.
Chapter 10
East
TheHarleyeatstheasphalt, a guttural roar tearing through the quiet, sleeping streets of Willowridge. My only focus is the plan solidifying in my mind, a cold, hard structure built on the bedrock of rage. This isn't a battle of fists; it's a war of numbers and secrets. And I know exactly where the best arsenal is.
I ride the bike toward the other side of town, where the lots are bigger and the mailboxes have family crests on them. The house I pull up to isn’t a stuffy, old-money tomb like the Graves’ mansion. It’s modern, all warm wood and wide panes of glass, light spilling out onto a meticulously kept lawn. It’s a fortress, but it was built to let the light in. A beacon.
I cut the engine at the end of the long driveway and walk the rest of the way, the crunch of my boots on the gravel the only sound in the still night. A light is on in the den. I don’t even have to knock. The front door swings open before I reach it.
My mother stands there, a silk robe wrapped around her, a book in one hand. Her smile is warm, but her eyes are sharp, instantly taking in the tension in my shoulders and the MC cut on my back without a flicker of judgment.
“Well, look what the bat dragged out of hell,” she says, her voice dry. “You want coffee, or do you want to tell me why you’re breaking the sound barrier on a Saturday night?”
“Just coffee. Thanks, Mom,” I say, stepping inside and kissing her cheek. The house smells like lemon polish, her expensive perfume, and something else—the faint, comforting scent of home.
“Heard that,” a voice booms from the den. My father appears in the doorway, wearing reading glasses and a grin that’s the blueprint for my own. “Technically, it’s Sunday morning, Carol,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “It’s past midnight. Have some respect for the timeline.”
“Sorry to wake you, Dad.”
