"Hold on tighter!" King shouts over the wind and engine noise.
I obey without thinking, pressing myself more firmly against his back as we take a sharp turn onto what appears to be an industrial road. Warehouses and auto shops line both sides, most of them with boarded-up windows and faded signs.
We're heading toward the edge of town, to an area that looks like it was once a bustling industrial park but is now mostly abandoned. The buildings become more spread out, separated by empty lots and chain-link fences topped with razor wire.
Our little convoy finally slows as we approach what looks like an old auto repair shop. The faded sign above the garage doors reads "Pete's Auto Body," but the massive iron gates surrounding the property tell a different story. This is a fortress disguised as a business, complete with security cameras mounted at strategic points and what I strongly suspect is razor wire hidden among the decorative ironwork.
The gates swing open as we approach, and King leads us into a large courtyard where several other motorcycles are already parked in neat rows. He pulls to a stop in what appears to be a reserved spot near the entrance to the main building.
When the engine cuts off, the sudden silence is jarring. I can hear my own heartbeat, my breathing, the muffled sounds of activity from inside the building. But mostly I'm aware of King's presence. His back still pressed against my front, my arms still wrapped around his waist, our bodies connected in a way that feels dangerously close to intimate.
"You okay?" he asks without turning around.
"Define 'okay,'" I reply, loosening my grip but not quite ready to break contact.
I feel rather than hear his chuckle, a low rumble that vibrates through his back and into my chest. "Still breathing, no broken bones, not actively panicking."
"Then I guess I'm okay. For now."
I finally release him and slide off the bike, legs wobbling slightly from the unfamiliar experience. King dismounts with the grace of someone who's done this thousands of times, then turns to face me.
In the harsh sunlight of the courtyard, the damage from the fight is more visible. The cut above his eye has stopped bleeding but looks angry and swollen. His split lip is crusted with dried blood, and there's a bruise forming along his jawline that will be spectacular by tomorrow.
"I need to clean those cuts," I say, nurse mode kicking in despite everything. "And that eye needs stitches."
King gives me a look that's equal parts amused and impressed. "Most people would be freaking out right about now. You just witnessed a street fight, fled from the cops, and arrived at the headquarters of a motorcycle club that most folks in this town cross the street to avoid. And you're worried about my cuts?"
Put like that, it does sound a little ridiculous. But focusing on his injuries gives me something concrete to do, a problem I know how to solve in the middle of a situation that's spinning wildly out of control.
"I'm a nurse," I remind him. "Worrying about cuts is literally my job."
"Fair enough." He gestures toward the main building. "Welcome to the Savage Riders MC clubhouse. First aid kit's inside."
I follow him across the courtyard. Torch, Beast, and Rage are watching us with varying degrees of curiosity and suspicion.They flank us like bodyguards as we approach the entrance, a heavy metal door with no visible handle or lock.
King places his palm on what looks like a scanner embedded in the wall, and the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss that belongs in a sci-fi movie, not an auto body shop in the middle of nowhere.
"That's... not standard equipment for a repair shop," I observe.
"We like our privacy," King says mildly, ushering me inside.
The interior is nothing like I expected. Instead of a grimy garage filled with tools and motor oil, we step into what looks like an upscale lounge. Dark hardwood floors gleam beneath strategically placed lighting. A massive bar runs along one wall, stocked with more top-shelf liquor than most nightclubs. Comfortable leather furniture is arranged in conversation groups around the spacious room, and a pool table dominates one corner.
But it's the wall of monitors that catches my attention. At least a dozen screens display camera feeds from various locations. The gates we just came through, different angles of the courtyard, what appears to be the perimeter of the property, and several views of Blackwater Falls itself, including Main Street and the police station.
"You're monitoring the town," I say, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
"We're monitoring potential threats," King corrects me. "There's a difference."
Before I can respond, the door at the far end of the room opens and a man steps through. He's younger than King but carries himself with similar authority. Dark hair, full beard, and eyesthat miss nothing. He wears the same leather vest as the others, but with a patch that says "VP" where King's says "President."
"What the fuck, King?" The newcomer stops short when he sees me, his expression darkening. "You brought a civilian to the clubhouse? After an Eagle attack?"
"Tank, this is Luna Hartwell." King's voice carries a warning note that even I can detect. "Emma's granddaughter. Luna, this is Tank, my VP."
Tank's hostility doesn't diminish, but it recalibrates slightly at the mention of my grandmother. "Emma's granddaughter or not, she doesn't belong here. Especially not now."
"She was with me when the Eagles attacked," King says evenly. "She needs to understand what she's walked into."
