“How…” My voice shakes. “How the fuck did you find me?”
He grins, but it’s twisted, and there’s something wrong in his eyes. “You remember me,” he says, and his voice drips with anger. “Good.”
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. “You embarrassed me,” he snarls, stepping closer. My instincts scream at me to run, but there’s nowhere to go.
“You made me look like a fucking joke,” he continues, his rage palpable. My hand brushes against the counter, desperately searching for something I can use.
“I got cut from the club because of you,” he spits, and my breath quickens.
“Please, just leave—” I beg, my voice trembling.
But before I can finish, he lunges at me. A gasp escapes my lips as he slams into me, pain exploding through my ribs as he drives me into the counter. My head snaps back, stars dancing in my vision.
“Stop!” I scream, but it’s drowned out by the chaos.
His fist crashes into my cheek, and my vision flashes white. I stumble backward, but he grabs my arm, yanking me forward again. Another punch lands, this one splitting my lip open. Warm blood fills my mouth, and I taste iron.
Instinctively, I swing wildly at him, my nails clawing across his face. He snarls, slamming his elbow into my stomach, and all the air whooshes out of my lungs. I collapse to my knees, gasping for breath, but he hauls me up by my hair, dragging me across the kitchen.
“Think you’re better than me?” he snarls, tossing me across the room. My body slams into the kitchen table, wood cracking beneath the impact. The table flips violently, and the box crashes to the floor, spilling blood everywhere.
The knife skids across the tile, and I see it. I scramble toward it, but his boot slams into my ribs. Pain explodes through my side, and I scream as my body rolls across the floor. He grabs my ankle, dragging me back.
My nails scrape uselessly against the tile as he wraps his hands around my throat, pushing me down onto the floor. I can’t breathe, panic rising in my chest. I claw at his hands, kicking and thrashing, but he’s too strong.
My vision starts to blur, dark spots creeping in as blood runs down my face. I can barely breathe, my lungs screaming for air. My arms flail across the floor, searching for anything to help me.
My fingers brush something cold and metallic. The knife. Adrenaline surges through me, and I grab it with every ounce of strength left. I drive it upward, straight into his throat.
The blade sinks deep, and hot blood sprays across my hands. His eyes widen in shock, and a horrible choking sound gurgles from his throat. He stumbles backward, hands clawing at the knife, blood pouring between his fingers as he staggers and then collapses—hard.
This time, he doesn’t get back up.
The kitchen falls silent, the only sound my ragged breathing filling the void. I shake violently as I stare at the man lying dead on my floor, blood pooling around him, around me, and around the overturned box. I can’t seem to make my fingers let go of the knife.
I try to move, but pain explodes through my ribs, and my vision swims. I don’t know how long I sit there—seconds, minutes, an eternity. But eventually, my shaking fingers reach for my phone again. There’s only one person I can think of, only one place I feel safe.
Hawk.
Twenty-Six
Hawk
The engine of my bike roars as we tear down the empty road toward Emma’s house, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night. Wind whips past my face, but I barely feel it. My chest is tight, a heavy knot forming as each second stretches out, making my stomach sink lower with every heartbeat.
Three missed calls. Three. And I declined every single one. The weight of that decision presses down on me like a lead blanket. If something happened to her…
My grip on the handlebars tightens, knuckles turning white. My jaw locks so hard it aches. I push the throttle harder, urging the bike to go faster, as if I can outrun the anxiety clawing at me from the inside.
Behind me, Ghost, Riot, and Diesel are right on my tail, their engines roaring through the quiet neighborhood. I can feel their urgency, but all I can think about is Emma. As her house comes into view, something feels off. The garage light is on. The house lights are on. But the front door—
My stomach drops. The front door is slightly ajar.
“Fuck,” I growl, adrenaline surging through me. I don’t even bother parking properly; I skid the bike sideways across the driveway and jump off before the engine fully dies.
The guys are already moving, each of us instinctively pulling out our guns. None of us know what we’re about to walk into, but the weight of uncertainty hangs heavily in the air.
My boots pound across the porch, every step echoing in my mind. I don’t knock. I don’t check the handle. I kick the fucking door in. It splinters with a loud crack as it slams open.
