“What if she did it to get Emma out of the house?”
Everything inside me freezes. Diesel continues slowly, “All the guys are here tonight.”
Riot’s face tightens, and Ghost glances toward the door. “No one’s watching Emma’s place.”
My stomach drops like a stone. My phone suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds in my hand. Three missed calls from Emma. And I just ignored every single one.
“Fuck.”
Twenty-Five
Emma
The drive home feels like it’s dragging on forever. I’m shaking, but not crying—just this weird, jittery energy coursing through me. My fingers are gripping the steering wheel of my little Beetle so tightly that my knuckles hurt. The engine hums beneath me as I cruise down the dark, quiet road toward my house, but my mind is still stuck back at the clubhouse.
I can’t stop replaying everything that just happened. Hawk’s confused look when I slapped him, his eyebrows knitting together in shock. The way his mouth opened, like he was about to say something important—but I didn’t even give him a chance.
“God damn it,” I mutter under my breath, slamming my foot down harder on the gas. My chest feels tight, like there’s a weight sitting right on top of it.
When I pull into my driveway, I hit the button to open the garage door. It rattles upward slowly, and as soon as I’m inside, I smash the button to close it again. The door groans shut behind me, sealing me in and wrapping me in silence.
I turn off the engine and just sit there for a moment, taking in the quiet. I stare straight ahead, trying to gather my thoughts. But then that anger bubbles back up, and I can’t hold it in anymore.
“Fuck!” I shout, my palms slamming against the steering wheel. The horn blares loudly in the enclosed garage, making me jump. My forehead falls onto the wheel, and I scream again, “FUCK!” The sound echoes off the concrete walls, and my chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.
I press my fingers into my temples, squeezing my eyes shut. Tonight was supposed to be good—perfect, even. Hawk had been in a great mood, laughing with the guys while I felt totally at ease. Everything had felt so light and fun. And then that woman walked out of his office looking like she’d just had a wild night.
My stomach twists again at the memory.
Maybe I overreacted, a quiet voice whispers in the back of my mind. Maybe I should’ve listened. Maybe—
But then that smug look on her face flashes back, her words ringing in my head: “You weren’t the only girl he fucked today.” My jaw tightens, and I groan, dragging my hands down my face. I don’t even know what to think anymore.
Honestly, what right do I have to be mad? Hawk and I never had the talk, never labeled anything, never said we were exclusive. So technically, he didn’t cheat. That thought makes my chest ache in a way I really don’t want to think about right now.
I push the car door open and step out, the cool air hitting me as I walk into the garage. It smells faintly of motor oil and dust. I close the door behind me and head inside, the house quiet and still, just how I left it earlier. A small sigh escapes my lips.
“Okay,” I murmur to myself, attempting to regain some control. “Water. Shower. Bed. Reset tomorrow.” I flick the kitchen light on, and then freeze.
Sitting right in the middle of my kitchen table is a box. My heart sinks as irritation spikes again. I know exactly who it’s from—Hawk. I cross the room slowly, folding my arms over my chest.
“Oh, that’s just great,” I mutter. How am I supposed to stay mad at him when he keeps doing sweet things like this? He’s always sending me little gifts—wine, cookies, that ridiculously expensive candle he said reminded him of me. I can’t help but smile a little despite myself. “Asshole,” I whisper.
I look over the box, noticing it’s one of those insulated shipping containers, thick and sealed tight. My stomach twists slightly with curiosity. Maybe it’s dessert? Maybe he grabbed something from the party kitchen before I left?
“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing a knife from the block on the counter. The blade slices through the tape easily, but something about the package feels off—heavy, almost. I push that unease aside and lift the lid.
The moment I do, I wish I hadn’t. My breath catches in my throat as I stare into the box, my mind racing to process what I see. It’s filled with blood—thick, dark, and wet. For a second, I can’t even comprehend what’s in front of me. My stomach lurches, and I feel sick.
“Oh my—” I can’t finish the thought. My eyes catch a note taped to the inside of the lid. My hands tremble as I peel it off, and three chilling words stare back at me:you’re mine now.
My heart pounds in my chest, panic flooding my veins. No. No, no, no. I need to call Hawk. I scramble for my phone, hands shaking as I hit call.
The ringing fills the quiet house, each tone amplifying my growing dread. Decline. My stomach drops. “Come on,” I whisper, trying again. Declined. A third time. Declined.
Panic surges through me, and I plead, “Please…” I call again, but the silence that follows feels like a heavy weight pressing down on me. Just when I think I might scream, I hear a creak behind me. My heart stops.
Slowly, I turn around, and my blood goes ice cold. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway—the same guy from the parking lot weeks ago, the biker who had cornered me outside the bar, the one who had looked at me like I was prey.
