Spinner slammed the doors. The sound cracked through the night like a warning to whatever gods still listened.
Engines roared alive. I swung onto my bike, the leather seat slick with rain, heart still beatin’ a war in my chest. Ash’s truck rumbled behind us, Gearhead and Thunder flanking the van.
We rolled out together, club first, the women between us, the road stretchin’ black and endless under the storm. Thunder rolled overhead, loud and close, and I couldn’t help thinkin’ it sounded a hell of a lot like freedom.
I spat blood into the dirt, thumbed the throttle, and muttered under my breath, “Welcome back to the world, darlin’. No burnin’ you alive on my watch.”
Then I rode.
***
THE RAIN HITharder the farther we got from the fire. Cold needles against the skin, biting enough to cut through the ache in my arm. Didn’t matter. I welcomed it. Needed somethin’ to drag me outta the chaos still burnin’ behind my eyes.
I could still see that room, the smoke thick enough to choke, the door barred from the outside, her voice raspin’ through the cracks. She hadn’t screamed. Hadn’t begged. Just fought like she meant it. I’d seen plenty of women broken by men who thought themselves gods. She wasn’t one of ’em.
The van’s taillights glowed ahead, red and certain through the storm. Inside, she was probably fightin’ to stay awake, lungs torn raw from the smoke. But she was alive. Hell, she shouldn’t’ve been. The whole damn compound went up like a matchbook.
I kept my eyes on those lights like they were a tether. The road slicked beneath the tires, thunder rollin’ overhead, low and constant, the kind that settles in your bones. My brothersflanked me, engines hummin’ under the weight of silence. No one spoke into the comms. Didn’t have to.
Ash said a lot of the women never made it out, living their whole lives in that shithole. Lark was one of the lucky few along with Sable. The brand on her cheek. The burns on her hands. Scars that came from devotion turned cruel.
My jaw locked. They called themselves Shepherds. Men like that always got somethin’ to answer for.
The wind carried the faint scent of smoke even miles out. I twisted the throttle, let the engine drown out my head. But every time I blinked, I saw her face again—half hidden by soot, half defiant, all fire.
Didn’t make sense, how she’d gotten under my skin so fast. Wasn’t lookin’ for it. Didn’t want it. But when I’d kicked that door in and she’d looked up at me like she couldn’t tell if I was real or another punishment—Hell. That look stuck.
“Chain, you good?” Gearhead’s voice crackled through the comm, rough with static.
“Yeah,” I said, low and even. “Just ridin’.”
“Just checkin’.”
The line went dead, leavin’ me with the rain and the hum of engines.
We rode until the sky started to pale, the wet asphalt turning silver under the first light of dawn. When the van slowed near the treeline, I eased back on the throttle. The storm had broken to a drizzle by the time we rolled up the dirt road that led to Miriam’s old farmhouse.
Ash’s parents were waitin’ on the steps, porchlight cutting through the gray. His daddy stood tall even in his years, that quiet kind of strength that some men seemed born with. His momma held a shawl tight around her shoulders, eyes wide and worried.
The van pulled to a stop in front of them, and before the engine even cut, the passenger door flew open. Miriam jumped out, still in the same smoke-streaked clothes she’d been rescued in, hair plastered to her face, eyes blazing.
“Get them inside,” she ordered, her voice rough but sure. Even after what she’d been through, she moved like a woman in charge. “All of them.”
I swung off my bike, pushed the side door open, and there she was—Lark. Head tipped back, skin pale as ash, lips parted on shallow breaths. I slid my arms under her, felt the dead weight of exhaustion, the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her hair stuck damp to my sleeve, her skin cold as river water.
Miriam turned, her gaze catching on the girl in my arms. “Take her upstairs,” she said, softer now. “First room on the right.”
“I think she took in too much smoke,” I said. “Almost didn’t make it.”
“She will,” Miriam said, voice low but certain. “Lark’s stronger than she looks.”
Inside, the house smelled like coffee and bread, warm, human, safe. Women and kids filled the front room, huddled in blankets, whisperin’ in voices too small to hold what they’d seen. Ash stood with Thunder near the doorway, already talkin’ security, his parents movin’ through the crowd with quiet efficiency.
Upstairs, I laid Lark on the bed, Miriam right behind me. She handed me a blanket, and I pulled it over Lark’s shoulders. She stirred but still hadn’t opened her eyes.
My arm burned under the bandage Gearhead had slapped on, but I ignored it. Couldn’t seem to look away from her hands—burned, scarred in a way that told a story no one should have to live.
Miriam came beside me, a mug of black coffee in her hand. She passed it over without a word. Her fingers brushed mine, cool, grounding, unshakable.
