As the bikesrolled onto the highway, Tool couldn’t stop thinking about Brandi putting herself in harm’s way. He’d told her she belonged to him—said it in the heat of their private moments—but never outside the four walls of her bedroom. That mistake was on him. Once they were back in Lampsing, they were going to have the conversation they should’ve had weeks ago.
He’d always sworn he wouldn’t get caught up in the kind of heat a woman brought. No matter how sexy or bold they were. But never say never.
He’d told himself over and over that relationships weren’t for him. That staying detached would keep things simple.
Now? Seemed like avoiding one had only made things worse.
Leaning into the next curve, Tool glanced at the dark water beside the road, his thoughts drifting back to Brandi. She had to be scared, wondering what would happen when the club rolled in.
Music pumped through his earbuds, but it did little to drown out the noise in his head. A light rain had come and gone, slicking the highway just enough to make the curves treacherous. Looked like they’d be chasing that rain all the way to Sonoma.
Still, his mind kept circling back to that night in bed—when he’d tried to explain how he felt, why he couldn’t just say the words the way she needed to hear them. Everything had come out wrong. What was supposed to be honest ended up twisted, and they’d argued until he walked out.
The downshifting of bikes brought him back to the moment. Ahead, the lead riders were pulling into a gas station, lining up by the pumps. He followed, falling in with the others. Might as well top off while they had the chance.
Tool looked around, taking in the scene—bikes tucked under every bit of shelter they could find. The rain had barely passed; they must be right behind the storm now. His gaze swept the riders, sharp and calculating.
Late hour. Wet roads. Some of the riders appeared to be greener than they should’ve been for a run like this. All it took was one mistake.
It was a damn recipe for disaster.
They rolled out of the gas station in a tight staggered line, the rumble of their engines cutting through the misty air. Gypsy led at the front, his posture sharp, eyes locked ahead like a man who’d already played out every possible ending to the night. Tool followed a few bikes back, keeping his focus on the road and his thoughts on Brandi.
Sonoma Valley wasn’t far. Maybe twenty minutes, if the weather held and no one got stupid. Tool’s jaw clenched behind the helmet. He hated not being in front—not being the one who could decide when to hit the gas or when to hold—but this wasn’t his ride to lead. It was Gypsy’s show, and Tool respected the chain of command, even if his gut twisted with the need to move faster.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle, fine as dust, beading on his leathers and speckling his face shield. Fog curled low overthe vineyards lining the highway, softening everything but the tension winding tight in Tool’s chest.
Brandi was up ahead. So were the girls. Tucked away in some quiet-ass bed and breakfast that didn’t belong anywhere near the kind of trouble trailing this crew. She thought she was buying time, staying hidden. But Tool knew better. She was on borrowed time.
As they crested the final rise, Tool spotted the turnoff—Gypsy signaling with two fingers as he leaned into the curve. A weathered wooden sign hung from a black iron post, half-swallowed by wisteria:Sonoma House. Looked more like a painting than a place real people stayed.
They followed Gypsy up the blacktop drive, the tires muted by the damp earth. The B&B stood back from the road, all white trim and soft golden light, wrapped in ivy and too much quiet.
Tool killed the engine and pulled off his helmet, eyes scanning the porch, the windows, the tree line. Everything looked peaceful. Safe. He didn’t buy it.
He wasn’t the only one on edge. A few of the other brothers were fidgety, their eyes darting too fast, their hands twitchy from adrenaline and too much waiting. Tool didn’t say anything, but he clocked every single one of them.
Gypsy stepped off his bike first, boots hitting the ground with that solid, unshakable presence that came from being in the life long enough to know how to read a still night like a warning.
Tool followed suit, staying back but alert. They wouldn’t move until Gypsy gave the go. That was the rule.
But Tool’s eyes were already on the front door. Brandi was behind it. And this time, he wasn’t walking away—not without her knowing exactly who she belonged to.
Chapter Fifteen
Quinn’s eyessnapped open at the deep rumble of loud pipes. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she had dreamed it. Then the sound grew closer, filling the night, vibrating through the walls.
She scrambled from the bed, nearly tripping in her rush to the window. Throwing the curtain back, she sucked in a breath.
Down below, a line of motorcycles pulled into the small bed and breakfast parking lot. Chrome and leather gleamed under the dim glow of the lamps, the wet pavement reflecting the headlights like shards of broken glass.
The rain had slowed at some point, but the world was still slick, still heavy with the remnants of the storm. None of it mattered.He came.
Leaving Layla where she was, Quinn bolted from the room, her heart hammering. He had come like he promised—for her.
She barely registered the MC patch holders stationed inside; the ones meant to keep them safe. They tried to stop her, but she ignored them, moving past them with single-minded determination.
As she flew down the stairs, she fired off a mass text.
