Pale. Almost silver.
They meet mine, and something in my chest dips hard, like my body recognized him before I did. My breath catches. My skin goes hot. My pulse jumps up into my throat, loud enough I swear he can hear it.
He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Not in a polished way. In a real way. Like he belongs out here, built for the dark road and the cold air and the kind of trouble you don’t survive by being soft. There’s a harsh beauty to him that makes my stomach twist, makes my mouth go dry.
This is not part of the plan.
I’m supposed to be afraid, and I am, but the fear tangles with something else, something humiliating and bright. Heat unfurls low in my belly, sudden and hungry. My hands twitch with the urge to reach for a pencil, to catch the angle of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way his presence fills space without him even trying.
I didn’t rehearse forthis.
I hate the reaction and crave it at the same time.
I swallow.
He takes off his helmet, shaking out dark hair. His gaze sweeps the engine, pauses for a heartbeat, and moves on.
His eyes drop to my hands, the grease under my nails, the way I’m planted with my weight on my back foot, ready to bolt.
“Evening,” he says, voice low and rough.
There’s no threat in it. No violence. It’s just a man who sounds like gravel and smoke, greeting a stranger on the side of the road.
I force a nervous smile that feels like it might crack. “Hi. Uh… my car died. It just… died. I don’t know why. I’ve been sitting here for an hour. I didn’t know what else to do.”
My words tumble out fast, breathless. I hate that my voice sounds like I’m flirting.
I can’t be flirting.
I’mjustsurviving.
He nods and steps closer, peering under the hood. His hand moves with practiced ease, touching metal, checking wires. Competent. Calm. Like this is a normal problem, not a trap baited with a girl.
Then he straightens and looks at me again, and I feel it, the way he catalogs the details I wish I could hide. The missing connector. The tension in my shoulders. The way my eyes keep darting to the tree line, measuring the darkness.
“Could be the alternator,” he murmurs, as if he’s thinking out loud.
I don’t think I can lie to him. He seems too observant, too steady. Like he’d notice a crack in glass from across the room.
You’re too panicked, Grace,I scold myself.You’re going to get yourself killed.
He checks one more thing, listens like he can hear a car’s secrets, then closes the hood with a soft click.
“It’s getting late,” he says. “Best not to be out here alone.” He pauses, just long enough for the name to matter. “I’m Diesel.”
The name hits me like a fist.
Diesel.
The Wolves told me about him. Brief notes about most of the Saints, enough to recognize targets, enough to know about weaknesses. His real name is Nash Decker, but they call him Diesel because he can fix anything that runs.
Damn, I’m unlucky.
He’s also the last person I should be trying to sell an engine lie to.
My chest tightens.
Stay still, Grace. You started it. You finish it. Even if he catches the lie, he might be more merciful than your so-called family.
