“You’re not,” Country Boy says. “You’re breathing. That’s step one.”
I hate that he’s right. I step away from the table and move toward the bar, bracing my hands on the wood.
The image of her car sitting alone on that road won’t leave me.
She would’ve been tired. Coming off shift. Not paying attention. Trusting the world to be what it’s always been. And someone used that.
Used her goodness. Used her love for her grandfather. My jaw tightens so hard it aches. “She’s out there,” I say quietly.
Wrath nods once. “Then we hunt.”
The room hums with agreement. Engines rumble outside as more bikes roll in.
The cavalry.
And I stand there in the middle of it all, feeling like I’m trapped in my own skin.
Because I’ve faced fights before. I’ve bled. I’ve watched men fall.
But I’ve never felt this kind of fear. This kind that claws at you and won’t let go.
I’m not scared for me. I’m terrified for her.
And if someone thinks they can take Danae and disappear into the woods—they’re about to learn what happens when you corner a man who has nothing left to lose.
Because right now?
When I go out, I’m not riding for freedom. I’m riding for blood.
Sixteen
Danae
Muttering happens near me, I manage to make out some words. “Hellions flew in. She’s got ties. They’re at a meet with the Saint’s.” Then a nod. “Move her to spot two.” I’m guided back to the van with my eyes covered once again. The van smells like old sweat and bleach and something sweet rotting under the floorboards.
Every bump in the road punches through my spine. My wrists burn where the zip ties bite, and I keep flexing my fingers like I can coax the blood back into them by sheer will. The blindfold is stays on—tight enough to press my lashes into my skin—so the world is nothing but dark and motion and the low thump of bass from the front seat.
I count turns.
One.
Two.
A long straight stretch. Then gravel.
The sound changes, turns hollow and crunchy, like we’ve left civilization behind on purpose. I press my lips together and breathe through my nose, slow, controlled. In. Out. In. Out. If I let the panic run, it’ll take my brain with it.
And I need my brain. The van slows again. Idles. The driver’s foot shifts. I can hear it in the engine. A gate maybe. A chain. Then the van lurches forward and the gravel gets louder under the tires. We’re going deeper.
The bass stops.
The silence that replaces it is worse.
The van rolls to a stop and the engine dies. For a second, there’s nothing but my breathing and the thin whistle of wind through some crack in the door.
Then the sliding door yanks open.
Cold air rushes in, damp and sharp. A hand clamps around my upper arm and hauls me toward the opening.
