Chapter One
Mara leaned forward, squinting through the downpour.The wipers struggled, whining against glass already streaked with grime.Her hands started to cramp from gripping the wheel too tight.The heater had long given out, and every breath fogged the cracked dashboard.
Her car, a beat-up Chevy she’d hot-wired behind a bar two towns back, rattled every time she took a curve.The engine made a low, sick sound that didn’t inspire confidence.
At least it was still moving.That was more than she could say for herself.
Her reflection ghosted faintly in the windshield.Her eyes were ringed in exhaustion, her cheek smeared with grease.Mara was twenty-three and running on caffeine and spite.
She’d been on the road for nearly two days, pausing only for gas and cheap coffee.Sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford.Not when every mile she put between herself and her father’s club meant one more chance to stay alive.
The gas light blinked on again, a warning she didn’t want to think about.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, voice hoarse.“Join the club.”
The empty road didn’t answer.It hadn’t for hours.
She should’ve felt free.Mara could feel the wind in her hair, and there were no orders barked in her ear, and no one watching her every move.That had been the dream, once.Freedom.But freedom didn’t look like this.Freedom was cold, wet, hungry, and terrified.
Her stomach twisted as she thought of what she’d left behind.
The Blood Vultures MC had raised her.No,hehad raised her.Rex Dalton.Her father, her nightmare.President of one of the meanest outlaw MCs on this side of the state.
He’d built his empire on blood, threats, and iron-clad debts, the kind that always came due.When the time came to settle his latest one, he hadn’t looked to his brothers, his allies, or his guns.
He’d looked to her.The words still echoed in her head, sharp as broken glass.
“The Serpents want collateral.She’ll do.”
Collateral.As if she were a piece of property.A bargaining chip.Flesh for trade.
She’d been walking past the office that night, beer bottles clinking in the next room, laughter spilling over the music.Her father’s voice had cut through it all, low, angry, and final.She hadn’t waited to hear the rest.
Mara had packed a bag, taken the cash she’d hidden in her boot, grabbed the fake ID she’d bought from one of the hang-arounds months ago, and ran before sunrise.
The first few hours had been pure adrenaline.Her heart had pounded as the city lights disappeared behind her.Every sign on the highway had looked like a promise.
However, adrenaline ran out fast.Now there was only exhaustion and the sick certainty that it wasn’t over.Men like her father didn’t lose easily.He’d send someone after her.Someone mean enough to drag her back by the hair if he had to.
She could almost hear him saying it.You think you can outrun me, girl?
Mara pressed harder on the gas, as if speed could drown out the voice in her head.The Chevy coughed.The needle on the gas gauge dropped past empty.
“Don’t,” she whispered, slapping the steering wheel.“Not yet, please!”
The car sputtered and died.The headlights dimmed, the engine’s low growl fading into silence.
For a second, all she heard was the rain.
“Damn it.”She slammed her palms against the wheel, then let her head fall forward, eyes squeezed shut.
The inside of the car smelled like wet leather and old smoke.Her throat burned from holding back the tears clawing their way up.Crying wouldn’t help.Crying hadn’t saved her before.
She forced herself upright, breathing slowly until her pulse eased enough to think.There’d been a sign a few miles back.Something about a motel.
The kind of place truckers used when they couldn’t make the next town.Maybe she could crash there for a few hours, figure out her next move.Her father would check the main routes first.She’d stick to the backroads, the forgotten places.
Mara grabbed her backpack from the passenger seat.Everything she owned was inside.It contained three shirts, one change of jeans, a cheap burner phone she hadn’t turned on yet, and a pocketknife sharp enough to matter if things went bad.The cash, or what little was left, she had wrapped in a sock at the bottom.
