"Steel," he says, his tone softer now. "Be careful with the girl. If you care about her like you say, remember that our world breaks civilians. Especially the good ones."
His words follow me out into the hallway, echoing what I already know but don't want to face. Holly is good. Pure in a way that has nothing to do with virginity and everything to do with her heart. And men like me, men who live and die by violence and loyalty to an outlaw code, we destroy that kind of goodness eventually.
But as I head toward the kitchen, toward Holly, I make a silent vow. Not this time. Not her. Whatever it takes, I won't let our world break Holly Mercer. Even if that means letting her go when this is all over.
The smell of coffee guides me to the kitchen, where I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to observe unnoticed. Holly sitsat the table with Luna, a half-eaten plate of food in front of her, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Even in borrowed clothes, with dark circles under her eyes and worry etched on her features, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
And last night, she was mine. The memory of her beneath me, around me, coming apart at my touch, sends heat through my body. But it's not just lust that tightens my chest as I watch her. It's something deeper, far more dangerous. Something that feels disturbingly like the beginning of love.
I clear my throat, and both women look up. Luna offers a knowing smile, while Holly's expression cycles rapidly through surprise, wariness, and something that might be hope.
"Steel," Luna acknowledges, rising smoothly from her seat. "Perfect timing. I was just leaving."
Holly's eyes widen slightly. "You were?"
"Yes," Luna says, gathering her coffee mug. "I need to check on King."
As she passes me in the doorway, she murmurs, "Be honest with her. About everything." Then she's gone, leaving me alone with the woman who's somehow become the center of my thoughts in less than a day.
I step into the kitchen, "How are you feeling?" I ask, immediately wanting to kick myself for such a banal question.
"Physically or emotionally?" she counters.
"Both," I reply, taking the seat across from her.
She sighs, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug. "Physically, I'm sore in places I didn't know could be sore. Emotionally, I'm somewhere between mortified, worried sick about James, and confused about... us."
Her blunt honesty catches me off guard. I expected evasion, maybe anger at my absence this morning. Not this forthright assessment.
"I'm sorry about this morning," I offer. "Luna came, and then I had to hide in the bathroom. By the time I got out, you were gone, and I spent the whole morning with Tank."
"It's okay," she says, though her tone suggests it's not entirely okay. "Luna explained how things work here. Club business comes first."
There's no accusation in her voice, just a statement of fact, but it stings nonetheless. Because she's right. Club business does come first. It's the code I've lived by ever since I joined. It's the code that's kept us alive through wars with rival clubs, through the bloodbath when Vulture attacked our clubhouse and we killed nearly all his men.
But sitting across from Holly now, seeing the vulnerability behind her composed exterior, I'm not sure I want to live by that code anymore. Not if it means putting her second.
"King's sending us to a safe house," I tell her, changing the subject before I say something I can't take back. "You, me, and your brother. Tonight."
She absorbs this news with remarkable calm. "Because of the Iron Eagles?"
"Yes. Their president, Vulture, has a personal vendetta against our club."
I don't tell her the full story—how King killed Vulture's brother Talon in self-defense five years ago, setting off a blood feud that's already claimed dozens of lives on both sides. How we thought we'd ended it when we decimated the Eagles duringtheir attack on our clubhouse, only for Vulture to escape, wounded but alive and more vengeful than ever.
"Last night's attack was targeted," I continue. "They knew I'd be at your apartment."
"And they'll try again," she concludes.
I nod. "The safe house is off the grid, about an hour from here. Remote, defensible. We'll stay there while the club deals with Vulture."
"Deals with him?" she asks, her eyes searching mine. "You mean kill him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
She doesn't flinch, doesn't recoil in horror at my casual confirmation of planned murder. Instead, she simply nods, accepting this reality with a composure that's both impressive and concerning.
"And James??"
