Havoc whistles low. “Ballsy.”
“I’m not his daughter,” I blurt. “My mother had an affair.”
Something shifts in their faces. Understanding, quick and ugly. Like the missing piece clicks into place.
Havoc’s eyes drop to the sketchbook clutched to my chest like a shield. “You draw?”
I blink. “What?”
He nods at it. “Sage said we were getting an art teacher for the kids at the community center. From Black Pines. That you?”
My mouth falls open. “You… you run the orphan’s center?”
Havoc snorts. “No. But we show up.” His expression goes wry. “Sage teaches them to bake. Nya brings toys and flowers. We do charity rides. Keeps the town from forgetting we’re still human.”
I just stare.
Because in my world, men like this don’t do gentle.
They don’t volunteer.
They don’t protect kids.
A man steps in from the side, quiet in a way that makes the room seem louder around him. He looks at me once, sharp and knowing.
Diesel murmurs, “Ghost.”
Ghost doesn’t waste time. “Text Malice. Meeting is outside Swoon Peaks. Bar called the Rusty Nail.” His eyes hold mine. “Make it believable.”
My fingers are numb, but I do it. I type. I send.
Havoc claps his hands once, the sound snapping the room into motion. “Alright. False lead goes out to the Wolves.” He points. “Viper, take three guys to the bar outside Swoon Peaks tomorrow morning. Play cards. Take vans. Weather’s turning ugly tonight.”
Then Ghost: “Check their compound. See if their ranks thin.”
His gaze lands on Diesel. “Diesel. You and Grace stay put. I want you two alive if shit hits the fan.”
Nobody hesitates. Nobody questions. They move like a machine, clean and practiced.
Not chaos.
Not fear.
Organization.
Protection.
It makes my head swim. I feel small and huge at the same time.
Diesel squeezes my hand. “Let’s get back to the cabin,” he murmurs. “It’s going to rain all night.”
We ride up the mountain in silence. The sky opens halfway home, rain lashing sideways. We’re soaked by the time we reach the cabin. My boots squish as I step inside.
Diesel’s hair is plastered to his forehead. Water drips down his tattoos. He shucks off his wet shirt and tosses it aside like he doesn’t notice what it does to the air.
My mouth goes dry anyway.
Muscle. Ink. Scars cutting across his ribs. Evidence of a life that hit hard.
