“You’re annoying,” she grumbled on a hard exhale, but I could practically hear the smile in her voice as she scooted just a little closer, her legs wrapping around my hips. Then her hands carefully slid around me until they cinched around my waist.
I kicked up the stand and took off.
By the time we reached the woods, I understood why she’d been so desperate to get me somewhere private and get me inside her. Because riding with her wrapped around me was unexpectedly intimate and sexy.
But that was going to have to wait.
We’d been making some progress thanks to the new cameras and some pictures and snippets of conversation we’d caught.
Since I was no longer sleeping in my hotel room, we’d turned that into a command center. The place looked like the war room in a cop movie. Papers were pinned all over with names, profiles, and maps of the grounds and the clubhouse.
We’d been studying everything as we waited for Rook to bring us more information about some of the faces we’d caught on the cameras.
We were just kind of in a holding pattern, making sure we knew all the players.
After that, well, it was up to Slash.
Maybe he’d send more of the guys out to us.
Maybe he’d trust the four of us to handle it.
It seemed like we were maybe only three or four days away from that.
To be honest, I’d spent almost no time thinking about the final battle, though. I spent all my time thinking about what came after that. When the clubhouse was back in Dylan’s hands. When her girls were away getting treatment.
What happened then?
Would she still want me?
Would she change her mind about the future she’d told me about?
Would she go back to her old life instead?
Because it was easier. Because it felt safer. Because it was not as risky as admitting she wanted me. And a brand new life away from everything she had ever known.
“You’re quiet,” she remarked as we stood in a new spot to try to get a better view of the front door.
“Was just thinking—” I started.
But just then, the front door opened.
And out walked one of Roach’s guys.
I remembered this one from the files.
Wayne-something. He had perpetually filthy, stringy blond hair, wide-set eyes, and old white supremacy tattoos from prison. Where he’d gone away for (coming as no surprise to anyone) rape.
So there wasn’t exactly shock in my gut as I watched him half-dragging a skinny brunette out of the front door, his grip hard enough to bruise, yanking so hard that he made her shoulder lurch back at an awkward angle as she cried out.
Beside me, Dylan stiffened.
Her eyes were huge as she zeroed in on the woman.
“Diana,” she whispered.
Wayne reached back, slamming the front door, then letting out a sick laugh as the woman struggled against his hold.
“Dylan,” I said, my voice both soft and firm at the same time.
