"Just try and touch him," Axel said, soft as silk and twice as deadly, "and I'll paint this garage with your blood."
Slash wheezed something unintelligible.
"Kai." Axel didn't look away. "Get on your bike. Start it."
For once, I didn't argue. The Kawasaki roared to life between my thighs, the engine's vibration grounding me.
"This isn't over, Reaper." Slash forced the words out through his compressed windpipe. "Viper wants the witness."
"Then Viper comes through me." Axel released him, stepping back with predator grace. "All of Phoenix. He's under our protection now."
"He's not one of yours?—"
"He is now." The finality in those words sent heat through me that had nothing to do with anger. "Spread the word."
Slash gathered his men—the one I'd dropped was limping badly, clutching his side. They piled into the van and peeled out, engine screaming.
Axel turned to me. Something fierce burned in his grey eyes, protective and possessive and completely at odds with the controlled soldier I'd seen three nights ago.
"We need to talk. Follow me."
"I have to?—"
"They know where you live." He swung onto his Harley, the bike dipping under his weight before settling. "They know where you work. Trust me."
He paused, and something in his expression shifted. Softened.
"Please."
That word decided it. Axel didn't seem like a man who saidpleaseoften.
What followed was a fever dream.
We tore through city streets like traffic laws were suggestions for lesser mortals. Axel's Harley wove through morning commuters with reckless precision, splitting lanes by inches, dodging mirrors by millimeters. His massive frame moved with the bike like they were one creature, leaning into turns with predatory grace.
And I matched him. Move for move, risk for risk.
My Kawasaki screamed beneath me as I pushed her harder than I had in years. When Axel cut right at an intersection, I went left—took the parallel street, ran two yellow lights, and emerged ahead of him on the other side. Showing off. Proving something I couldn't name.
He caught up at the next red light, pulled alongside. His eyes found mine through our visors, and even with the tinted plastic between us, I felt the heat of his gaze. The approval. The hunger.
He nodded once. Then the light changed, and we were flying again.
By the time we reached the industrial district, my blood was singing. That feeling I'd had watching him fight—invincibility, recklessness,alive—had returned tenfold. On my Kawasaki, with Axel beside me, I felt like we could outrun anything.
The clubhouse looked like nothing special from outside. Warehouse. Corrugated metal. But security cameras tracked our approach, and the heavy steel door opened before we'd even dismounted.
Axel's smile as he pulled off his helmet was wicked. Appreciative. His eyes tracked down my body once—quick but unmistakable—before meeting my gaze again.
"You ride like you've got something to prove."
"Maybe I do."
His smile widened. "Yeah. Maybe you do."
Inside, the clubhouse opened into controlled chaos.
Pool tables dominated one corner. A long bar ran the length of the far wall, bottles gleaming in the low light. Couches clustered around a massive flat screen. The smell hit me first—leather, motor oil, whiskey, and something cooking that made my stomach growl despite everything.
