By the time they do, I'm already somewhere else.
This is what I'm good at. This is what I was made for.
An Eagle charges at me from the left, and I sidestep smoothly, letting his momentum carry him past me before I put a round through his temple. Another comes from the right with a knife, and I catch his wrist, twist until something breaks, then drive my own blade up under his chin.
The violence doesn't touch me. It never does. I'm just a shadow moving through the carnage, taking lives with the same detachment I'd use to take out the trash.
King is fighting his way toward the back of the clubhouse, looking for Vulture. Tank is ripping through Eagles like they're made of paper. Beast is laughing as he swings a fucking pool cue like a baseball bat, crushing skulls with every swing.
My brothers have all found their happiness. Found their women. Found reasons to fight beyond just the violence. I'm happy for them. Really, I am. But I know that's not in the cards for me.
Love is a fairy tale sold to people who don't know any better. I watched my parents claim to love each other while they beat each other bloody. Watched my mom take a wine bottle to my dad's head, then cry and apologize and fuck him on the kitchen floor an hour later.
That's what love is. Obsession and violence and toxicity dressed up in pretty words.
No fucking thank you.
I clear the main room and move down a hallway, checking doors as I go. Storage closet. Bathroom. Office. Everything's empty until I reach the last door at the end of the hall.
It's locked.
I shoot the lock off and kick the door open, weapon raised and ready for another fight.
Instead, I find six women huddled in the corner of what looks like a converted storage room. They're all wearing short skirts and tight tops that make it clear what the Eagles expected them to do. Their eyes are wide with terror as they stare at me, at the gun in my hand and the blood splattered across my shirt.
"Savage Riders MC," I say, my voice rough from disuse. "We're here to get you out."
None of them move. Can't really blame them. I probably look like death incarnate right now, cold eyes and fresh blood.
Then one of them steps forward.
She's got long dark hair that's tangled and messy, like she's been running her hands through it for days. Brown eyes that should be warm but instead look like they've seen too much. Curves that her too-small outfit can't quite contain, though she's tugging at the hem of her skirt like she's trying to disappear into the fabric.
She doesn't look grateful. She looks pissed.
"Sure you are," she says, and her voice drips with sarcasm. "Let me guess, you're the good guys? Here to save the day and expect us to fall at your feet in gratitude?"
I blink. Of all the reactions I expected, that wasn't one of them.
"I'm here to get you out alive," I say flatly. "What you do after that is your business."
Her eyes narrow. "Right. Because motorcycle clubs are just known for their altruism and respect for women."
"Rachel, shut up," one of the other women hisses. "He's trying to help."
"Is he?" Rachel—apparently that's her name—crosses her arms over her chest. "Or is he just claiming territory from the Iron Eagles? Maybe we're part of the prize."
"Lady, I don't have time for your trust issues," I bite out. "There's a war happening out there, and this room won't stay safe for long. You can come with me and live or stay here and take your chances with whatever Eagles are left standing. Your call."
She stares at me for a brief moment, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. She's trying to figure out if I'm lying, if this is some kind of trick. Trying to decide if jumping from one fire into another is worth the risk.
I don't blame her for being suspicious. The world has clearly taught her that men can't be trusted.
She's not wrong.
"Fine," she finally says. "But if you try anything—"
"I won't," I cut her off. "I'm not interested."
