Tiffany doesn't just step out; she descends like a goddess of vengeance. She is still wearing my oversized flannel, the fabric clinging to her skin where she is still damp from my mouth. Her dark hair is a chaotic curtain, and she smells of my sandalwood and the musky scent of her arousal.
She walks past the armored grill of the truck, her thighs likely still trembling from the way I’d just dismantled her, but her chin is up. She stands right at my shoulder, a living mark of my possession.
"I'm right here, Ramon," she calls out, her voice cutting through the idling roar of the Harleys. "But I'm not the girl you broke.I'm the woman who claims the monster standing beside me. And he's going to make you pay for every bruise."
Ramon’s face contorts, his eyes raking over her, seeing the swollen state of her lips and the way she stands—the stance of a woman who has been thoroughly claimed. The sick, possessive gleam in his eyes turns into a frantic, jealous rage. He looks at her bruised tits under my shirt and his hand tightens on the detonator.
"Tiffany!" I snarl, reaching for her, but she steps just out of range.
"You want me?" she yells at him. "Come and get me."
Ramon’s eyes light up with a sick, possessive gleam. "There she is. My wayward little girl. Come here, Tiffany. Come give Daddy a hug, and maybe I won't blow your friends into orbit."
She looks at me then. Terror fills her eyes, but beneath the fear burns a fierce trust. She gives me a microscopic nod. A distraction. She offers herself up to give me an opening.
Ramon looks at her. His men look at her. For one second, the focus shifts from the killers to the prize. That was all I needed.
My world narrows down to a single point. The distance between me and the man who had hurt her. The wind speed. The angle. I don't draw the Glock. I don't have to.
Logan’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder for a split second—the silent permission of a President and a brother. To my left, Austin and Shane step forward, drawing the fire of the mercenaries with a wall of lead, while Tristan and Chase move with surgical precision to flank the sedan.
I move as the tip of a spear six Gunnars deep.
I launch myself forward as Shane raises the shotgun and unleashes a boom that shatters the storefront windows of the neighboring building. The two mercenaries on the street duck, returning fire, bullets sparking off the pavement and the armored grill of my truck.
But I am not there anymore.
I sprint, a juggernaut of muscle and rage, closing the gap. Ramon fumbles with the detonator, his eyes widening as he realizes that seeing his wife has cost him his tactical advantage. He tries to press the button. I don't let him.
I don't just tackle him; I hunt him. The moment his focus shifts to the curve of Tiffany's hips, I launch. I hit him with two hundred and fifty pounds of scarred muscle and pure, unadulterated hate.
We slam onto the hood of his black Mercedes sedan, the metal screaming and glass shattering under the impact. The detonator flies from his hand, skittering into the gutter, but I don't care. I want to feel his life go out under my hands.
We roll onto the asphalt, and the sound of my boots hitting the pavement is the last thing he hears before I am on top of him. I don't punch him—I dismantle him. My knee drives into his sternum with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. He wheezes, the smell of his expensive cologne mixing with the sharp, copper tang of the blood leaking from his nose.
He tries to claw at my face, but I catch his wrist, the bone snapping like dry kindling in my grip. He screams, a thin, pathetic sound that doesn't even scratch the surface of the rage burning in my gut. I pin his throat with my forearm, cutting offhis air until his face turns a bruised purple, his eyes bulging as he looks into the face of his executioner.
I grab him by the lapels of his expensive suit and slam him back against the pavement.
"You touched her," I snarl, spit flying from my mouth. "You put your hands on her."
"Do it!" he wheezes, blood bubbling on his lips, laughing up at me. "Kill me in front of the whole town. Show them what animals you are."
I lean in close, the scent of his expensive, cowardly cologne clashing with the iron tang of the blood leaking from his nose. I don't drive the blade home. Not here. Not in front of the bakery where Tiffany spent her mornings kneading dough. This town is hers. It is soft, quiet, and cozy. I won't stain her pavement with his filth.
"You're not dying here, Ramon," I growl, the sound vibrating from the darkest pit of my chest. "The good people of Pine Valley don't need to see the trash being taken out. But the mountains? The mountains have a way of swallowing secrets."
I look up at Tiffany. She stands ten feet away, her eyes wide, but the fear is gone. She sees the monster in me, and for the first time, she isn't flinching. She gives me a single, slow nod—the silent permission of a Queen to her executioner.
I whistle, a sharp, piercing sound. Austin and Shane move in instantly, grabbing Ramon by the armpits and dragging his broken body toward the back of a blacked-out van. The townspeople, watching from the safety of the barricades, see a rescue. They see the 'scary bikers' helping the police. They don'tsee the zip-ties or the way Austin’s hand hovers over the man’s mouth to stifle his whimpers.
Ramon is gone. Erased from her world. Now, I just have to erase the memory of him from her skin.
9
TIFFANY
The flashing lights of the police cruisers and the mountain rescue trucks strobe against the wet asphalt of Main Street, painting the world in chaotic bursts of red and blue. Everything around me feels distant, muffled, viewed through a pane of thick, bulletproof glass.
