I look at her.
Really look.
She doesn’t look like she’s covering. She looks terrified.
Of me.
Not of him. That realization slows my pulse by half a beat. I shove Reeves one more time and step back slightly, chest heaving.
“When was the last time you talked to her?” I ask.
His voice shakes now—not from guilt. From anger.
“She told me to leave her alone,” he states. “And I did.”
“You don’t strike me as a man who listens.”
He glares at me, pride wounded. “I didn’t touch her,” he repeats. “I might’ve been persistent. I might’ve misread some signals. But I’m not gonna force her into anything.”
Smoke shifts closer. “You sure about that?” he asks coolly.
Reeves looks between us, calculating. “I have patients. I have a practice. I have a life. If something happened to her, it wasn’t me.”
I study him hard.
Sweat at his hairline. Bruised ego.
Fear—but not the right kind. Not the fear of being caught.
The fear of being falsely accused. And I hate that I can tell the difference.
I shove him away from the SUV.
“If I find out you’re lying,” I tell him quietly, “there won’t be a house left to stand in.”
His woman gasps.
I don’t care. He stumbles, straightens his shirt, fury burning in his eyes now.
“You’re insane,” he spits. “You think threatening me is going to help her?”
I step closer again, slow this time. “No,” I state. “Finding her will.”
I turn and walk back toward my bike. Smoke falls in beside me.
“You believe him?” he asks low.
“I believe he’s an asshole,” I reply. “But I don’t think he’s smart enough for this.”
We ride.
Not to Danae’s house yet. To Saint's Outlaws clubhouse. Wrath called while I was still in Reeves’ driveway. Said they were rallied and waiting. My club and his.
The clubhouse sits on the edge of town—brick building, blacked-out windows, bikes lined up front like sentries. The air smells like gasoline and leather and something metallic.
When we pull in, I see familiar cuts.
Country Boy. Grinder. Dove. Stud. Raff. Four more Hellions standing in line behind them.
