Maybe just anger.
I find myself wanting to protect the man who has already protected me.
I type with shaking fingers.
He’s taking me to the clubhouse tomorrow. He has an important meeting outside Lovestone Ridge. I heard bits about shipments. I’ll find out more.
It’s a lie.
I hit send before I can rethink it.
My heart stutters. This could blow up in my face.
But maybe it will do what I need it to.
Lure Wolves away from the girls they keep caged.
Give the Saints a window to save them. I hope they intend to save them and I’m not just fooling myself.
The wind shifts. A soft patter starts against the window, then builds, steady and insistent.The door opens again. Diesel stepsin, rain misting his shoulders, water darkening his shirt at the seams.
I’m still holding my phone.
There’s no hiding it now.
“I gave them a false lead,” I whisper. “They think there’s a meeting tomorrow.” My breath shakes. “You’ll need a place. They’ll send people. But it’ll thin out the compound. If… if your club was thinking about doing anything… You can save the girls trapped there.”
Diesel crosses the room in two long strides, then stops a few feet away, giving me space on purpose. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t praise me. He just looks at my face like he’s reading the truth through my skin.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks quietly. “Because if you set them up, you can’t go back. There’s no second chance. They’ll know it was you.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “I don’t want to go back. I’m tired of being a pawn. I’m tired of them hurting girls and getting away with it.” I swallow hard. “I want to do something. Even if it kills me.”
His nod is slow. Final. “Then we move fast.”
His hand lifts like he might touch my face, like the urge comes before the decision. He stops himself. Drops his hand.
“There’s somewhere we need to go.”
We ride to the Damned Saints’ clubhouse on his bike, afternoon clouded over, the sky gray and heavy. The rain stopped for now.
My hands grip his waist. The steady rhythm of his breathing calms mine.
The clubhouse sits on the edge of town, a converted factory with brick walls and high windows. Heavy steel doors bear the Damned Saints emblem, a skull-halo symbolic tone.
Leather. Smoke. Whiskey.
The scent hits as soon as we step inside.
Men lounge on worn couches around a fire pit, laughing and teasing like they’ve survived the same hell and decided to make it home. Music hums low from a jukebox. Rough, loud, and somehow… welcoming.
A big man stands behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey,dark hair threaded with gray, short beard. His eyes sharpen when he sees me with Diesel.
Diesel leans close and murmurs, “Havoc.”
Havoc’s gaze pins me, assessing without leering. “This her?”
Diesel nods. “Grace Henley. Malice’s daughter. She gave John a false lead on a meeting. We have a window.”
