I nod and pull her into a tight hug. “Thank you. For everything. You’ve always been there. Always had my back. I don’t know what would’ve happened to us if you hadn’t stepped up when Mom and Dad died.”
“Oh, Bri,” she murmurs. “You’re my baby sister. I’ll always be there for you and Bella. Always. Even if I think dating a biker is… meh. Seriously, Bri. He’s an old man.”
“Oh my god,” I laugh, wiping my face. “Can you not? Blade is everything.”
She snorts. “Sure he is.”
And somehow, even with everything burning down around us, that makes it a little easier to breathe.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BLADE
The engine growlsto life beneath me, familiar and steady, the only thing that makes sense right now. The vibration runs up through the frame and into my bones, grounding me in a way nothing else can. Bri climbs on behind me, her arms sliding tight around my middle like she’s anchoring herself.
Or anchoring me. Probably both.
I pull out smooth and controlled, even though my pulse is hammering like I’m already in a fight. Every nerve in my body is lit up, buzzing, waiting for the hit I know is coming even if I don’t know when.
Her helmet bumps lightly against my back as we merge onto the road. I reach down, catch her left hand, and lift it, pressing my lips to her knuckles, right where her ring finger rests. It’s quick. Barely a second. But it matters. She squeezes me tighter in response, like she understands exactly what I’m saying without words.
I’m going to keep you safe.
I swear it silently, over and over, like a prayer I don’t fully believe in but keep saying anyway because stopping feels worse.
My mind won’t shut the hell up.
This wasn’t random. Perdition. The clubhouse. The timing. The placement. I know those pricks are behind it. I feel it in my bones, the same way I always do before shit goes sideways. We’ve been tailing them around town for weeks. Watching. Learning patterns. Logging plates. Counting faces. Trying to find the thread that leads back to whoever’s actually pulling the strings.
Warehouse on the south end. Late-night shipments. Men who don’t drink, don’t talk, don’t look like college kids playing gangster.
And Mason wanted patience.Hands off. Wait until we know who the main boss is. Do it clean. Do it once.I agreed. I understood the logic. One clean strike is better than chaos. But now they’ve crossed a line they don’t get to uncross. They went after our women. And whatever they do next will be worse. That’s how this works. Escalation is the point.
I tighten my grip on the handlebars as the road stretches ahead, dark and empty. Too empty. My instincts prickle, crawling up the back of my neck. I check my mirrors. Nothing. Still nothing. Bri presses closer, her cheek resting against my shoulder blade. She trusts me. Completely. No hesitation. No fear of me. That’s the part that nearly guts me.
Headlights flare suddenly behind us. I clock the SUV immediately. Dark. Big. No plates I can see. Riding too close, too aggressive for this stretch of road. My jaw locks. “Fuck,” I mutter.
I ease off the throttle, slow just enough to let them pass.
They don’t. They surge forward instead. Metal clips my back tire. The impact is violent and unforgiving. The bike jerks hard, and the world tilts sideways. I fight it, muscles screaming as I try to correct, to keep us upright, but physics doesn’t give a damn about intention. The bike goes down hard.
I twist instinctively, taking the brunt of it, my body slamming into asphalt as sparks scream around us. Pain detonates everywhere at once. Shoulder. Ribs. Leg. My helmet smacks the ground, and the world fractures.
Black. Just for a second. Then sound crashes back in. High-pitched ringing, sharp and disorienting, like someone shoved an ice pick straight through my skull. My helmet is cracked. I know that without touching it. My head throbs in a way that tells me I hit it hard. Hard enough to scare me.
But not hard enough to take me out. Thank fuck.
I suck in a breath and regret it immediately. Pain spears through my ribs, sharp and deep, like something’s grinding where it shouldn’t. Broken. Definitely broken. My leg is on fire too, bent wrong, screaming every time I try to move it.
Blood runs down my face, warm and sticky, dripping onto the pavement. None of that matters. I hear tires screech. The SUV. They’ve stopped. We don’t have long. “Bri,” I rasp.
I drag myself toward her, every inch a battle. Asphalt tears at my palms. My vision swims, dark spots blooming at the edges, but I force it to focus on her shape sprawled a few feet away.
I roll, clawing toward her, ignoring the screaming agony in my side. “Bri!” I shout. “Bri, look at me!”
I try to stand, but my body doesn’t give a shit about what I want. I get halfway up before my leg gives and I slam back down, breath tearing out of me. Something is wrong. More than one thing. I taste blood. She’s moving. That alone keeps me conscious.
I reach her and fumble at her helmet with shaking hands, fingers slick with blood and sweat. The straps fight me, but I get them loose and ease it off carefully, terrified I’ll hurt her more.
