"Ignore it," I managed.
"I can't." He sounded wrecked. "That's the emergency line." He pulled back, and the loss of his touch was physically painful. He answered on the fourth ring.
"What?"
I couldn't hear the other end, but I watched his expression change. Soften into something careful, almost gentle. "How far out? ... No, stay where you are. I'll come to you. ... Yeah. Twenty minutes."
He hung up. Closed his eyes.
"What is it?"
"One of our guys. Got jumped on a run, barely made it out." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I have to go."
"Of course." I straightened, tried to ignore the ache in my body. "Go. I'll be here."
He crossed back to me, kissed me hard and fast. "We're finishing this," he promised against my lips. "Soon."
"I'm counting on it."
Whatever this was, there was no going back. The only question was whether forward led to salvation or ruin.
5
NIGHT RIDE
Three days at the clubhouse, and I was starting to forget what normal felt like.
My shifts at St. Mary's had been covered—Axel had made a call, and suddenly I had two weeks of "family emergency" leave I'd never requested. I should have been angry about the manipulation. Instead, I was grateful. The thought of walking into that parking garage, of standing in the same spot where Slash had threatened me, made my chest tight in ways I didn't want to examine.
So I stayed. Helped Maria in the kitchen. Spotted Tank in the gym. Let Jake drag me into endless games of pool that I lost spectacularly. And waited for Axel to come back from whatever emergency had pulled him away.
He'd been gone since that interrupted moment in his room. Phone calls, brief texts—handling it, be back soon, thinking about you—but no return. The club was dealing with something, that much was clear from the tension that rippled through the common room whenever Hawk emerged from Church. But no one would tell me what.
"Need to know basis," Irish had said with an apologetic shrug. "And you don't need to know. Yet."
Theyetfelt like a promise. Or maybe a threat.
On the third night, I was sitting on the clubhouse roof, watching the city lights flicker in the distance, when I heard the bikes.
Not one engine—several. The distinctive Harley rumble that I was learning to distinguish from lesser machines. I stood, crossed to the edge of the roof, and watched the convoy roll through the gates below.
Four bikes. Tank in front, Irish flanking. And in the center, unmistakable even from three stories up—Axel.
My heart did something complicated in my chest.
I found him in the garage, still straddling his Road King, helmet dangling from his fingers. The other riders had dispersed, leaving him alone in the industrial space with its smell of oil and metal. He looked exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, shoulders carrying a weight I could see from across the room.
"Hey."
His head snapped up. For a moment, he just stared—like he'd forgotten I existed, like seeing me was a surprise and a relief all at once. Then something in his expression cracked open.
"Kai."
One syllable. My name. But the way he said it—rough, desperate,hungry—made my skin flush hot.
I crossed to him. He reached for me before I was close enough to touch, hands finding my hips, pulling me into the Vof his spread thighs. His forehead dropped to my chest, and I felt the shudder run through him. "Bad run?" I asked, fingers finding his hair.
"The worst." His voice was muffled against my shirt. "Lost a shipment. Almost lost Danny."
