“Show me,” she says.
I bind her carefully—snug, not cruel—checking her face while I smooth the last edge down.
“Breathe shallow on bumps,” I murmur. “You want out at any point, you tap twice.”
“Not tapping,” she whispers, chin high.
The heavy leather swallows her small frame, and she looks impossibly fragile and fiercely strong all at once. I’m standing so close behind her I can smell the clean, sharp scent of citrus from the soap Sloane gave her, see the vulnerable line of her neck where her still-damp hair has parted. Every instinct in me screams to pull her back against my chest, to wrap her up and keep her here, safe in this house where the world can’t touch her. The desire to protect her is so tangled up with the desire to simply touch her that it’s a goddamn knot in my gut.
Her breath hitches, a tiny, almost inaudible sound, and I know she feels it too—this sudden, suffocating intimacy.
A low throat clear cuts through the tension from the doorway.
“East.”
Nash’s voice is a bucket of ice water. I pull my hands back like I’ve been burned and take a step away. The moment is shattered. I turn and see him standing there, his expression unreadable, just a silent, steady reminder that we have a job to do. This isn't the time.
“Right,” I say in a tight voice. I turn back to Darla, who is looking down, rolling up the sleeves of the jacket that are comically long on her. The spell is broken, but the air between us is still humming with an unspoken current.
She swings on behind me and sucks a breath through her teeth as the leather pulls across her ribs. I reach back, palm wide and steady along her side until the spasm passes.
“Easy,” I say, angling my body so she can settle without torque. “Hands here.” I guide her grip to my hips. “Two taps if you need me to stop.”
With Darla on my bike, there’s no turning back now. She presses against my back, and the heat radiating from her body seeps through my shirt like a live wire. My instincts scream for control, for safety, but the thrill of her closeness is a white-hot distraction. As we roll out, with Nash, Rider, and Kyle fallinginto formation around us, I’m acutely aware of her hands resting lightly on my hips.
We ride through town, and I can feel the shift as we approach the shipyards. The air thickens, laden with the scent of rust and oil. I cut the engine a short distance from the entrance, the sudden silence enveloping us in eerie stillness.
Nash’s voice is a low command in my ear through the comms. “I’m on point. Rider, get up high. Overwatch. Kyle, you’re with me. Eyes on everything.”
I let him take the lead, slipping into the familiar rhythm of an operation. His job is the mission. My job is her. I turn to Darla, my voice firm.
“You own this spot,” I say, low and firm. “If anything breathes wrong, two taps on the comms and I’m back.”
She gives a sharp nod, her eyes wide but determined. The agreement is quick, but I still sense that spark of rebellion in her, a gut feeling that tells me she won’t sit idly by if things go south.
I fall in behind Nash and Kyle, my eyes scanning the rooftops and shadowed windows, my focus split between the mission ahead and the bikes behind us. Nash signals, and we move, creeping toward the dilapidated office. My eyes lock onto Chuck Giles inside, his hands twitching with anxiety. He makes a break for the back door in a desperate, clumsy scramble. The chase is short. He shoves a stack of crates over in a pathetic attempt to slow us down before Nash cuts him off at the end of a narrow corridor between two towering stacks of shipping containers. It’s over in an instant. Nash is a blur of motion, swift and merciless, neutralizing Chuck before a real scream can even leave his throat.
In moments, we’ve got him bound and gagged, dragging him out of the office like a trophy, but the victory feels hollow. A surge of anger churns within me, mixing with sadness for the brother Chuck used to be.
Nash hefts Chuck’s dead weight over his shoulder and looks at me, his gaze clear and direct. “I’ve got him. You and Kyle get her out of here,” he commands in a low voice. “Meet you back at the clubhouse. No stops.”
Without needing further instruction, he and Rider secure Chuck to a bike and rev their engines, disappearing into the night. Kyle falls into step with me as we head back to Darla. I turn back to her. She’s standing by my bike, her expression a mixture of fear and awe. No more words are needed. We both know where we’re going next.
I swing my leg over the bike, and she settles behind me, her presence a familiar, electric heat. The weight of our shared experience wraps around us. This is just the beginning, and with Darla beside me, a flicker of hope ignites amidst the chaos. This finally feels less like a promise I have to keep and more like a partnership. Together, we’re ready to face whatever comes next.
Chapter 19
Darla
TheHarley’senginedies,and the sudden silence of the clubhouse parking lot is a living thing. It presses in, heavy with the ghosts of laughter from nights past and the grim purpose of the night ahead. I slide off the back of East’s bike, my body a roadmap of aches. My bruised ribs scream in protest from the vibration of the ride with a sharp, stabbing pain that makes me wince. But underneath it, my skin still thrums with the memory of the wind, the intoxicating, raw freedom of moving that fast, of being that close to him.
Nash pulls up beside us, a dark shape of leather and steel. He swings off his bike and hauls a bound and gagged Chuck Giles from the back with an unsettling lack of ceremony. He doesn’tlook at me. His focus is a laser, aimed at the back rooms where the club dispenses its brand of justice. A moment later, two more bikes pull in, their engines cutting out. Knox, Kyle, and Rider. They all dismount, their faces stony masks. Knox gives me a single, assessing nod before his gaze follows Nash. Kyle’s new patch looks stark and unfamiliar on his cut, a symbol of the trust he's just earned. He stands with a hard resolve next to Rider, who is still in his prospect vest, his eyes watchful. The team is assembling for a task I know would be brutal, and a cold dread coils in my stomach.
East’s hand settles on my arm, his touch a grounding warmth in the sudden chill. “Come on,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t follow them. He stays with me, his body a solid shield between me and the grim procession disappearing inside. The common room’s stale beer and old smoke hang heavy in the air as he leads me inside. It’s mostly empty, a ghost of the chaotic energy it usually holds. I catch Kyle and Rider taking up positions flanking the front door, their shoulders set as they scan the room—an unspoken, immovable guard. East guides me to a worn leather couch in the corner, a small island in a sea of tense quiet.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, the question feeling both impossibly large and deeply sincere.
