I can't walk away.
Even if it kills me.
I forward the threatening text to Ice Pick's number, then lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep feels impossible, but exhaustion pulls at me anyway, dragging me down into darkness.
The last thing I think before I drift off is that I've just put my life in the hands of a man I don't know, whose club operates in the same gray areas as the people I'm investigating.
And somehow, I feel safer than I have in weeks.
I wake to the smell of coffee and the sound of voices. One voice is female; low and practical, the kind that doesn’t flirt or giggle.She is someone who sounds like she’s managing a crisis the way other people manage groceries. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache, and when I try to sit up, every muscle protests. The events of last night come rushing back, and I groan, pressing my palm against my forehead where the bandage pulls at my skin.
"She's awake," someone says.
I force my eyes open and immediately regret it when bright morning sunlight stabs into my brain. Two figures stand near the kitchenette. Ice Pick, looking like he hasn't slept at all, and another man I don't recognize. This one's leaner, with sharp features and eyes that assess me with cold calculation.
"Who's that?" I ask, my voice rough with sleep.
“Falcon, he’s Vice President of the Saints Outlaws.”
Falcon’s stare doesn’t change, but the air does. It’s like I’ve just learned the real shape of the power in the room.
Ice Pick hands me a cup of coffee. "We need to talk."
I take the coffee gratefully and pull myself into a sitting position, ignoring the way my body screams in protest. Falcon crosses his arms.
"You've caused quite a bit of trouble," Falcon says without preamble.
"I tend to do that."
"The Reapers put a bounty on your head. Twenty grand to whoever brings you in alive. Thirty if you come with whatever evidence you've collected."
My stomach drops. "That's a lot of money."
"It is. Which means every lowlife and bounty hunter in the city is going to be looking for you." He moves closer, his presence commanding despite not being as physically imposing as Ice Pick. "So here's the situation. You've got information about the Reapers' trafficking operation. We want that information." There’s something careful in the way he says it, like he’s not justthinking about money or territory. Like this is personal for the Saints Outlaws. Like someone in their world is already trying to stitch victims back together.
"Why?" I ask, suspicion flaring. "What's your angle?"
"Our angle is that we don't traffic humans. We run guns, we deal in other gray areas, but we draw the line at slavery." His voice is hard, unyielding. "The Reapers are moving product through our territory without permission. That's a problem."
"So you want to use me to take them down."
"We want to help each other." Falcon exchanges a glance with Ice Pick. "You need protection. We need intel. It seems like a fair trade."
I look between them, weighing my options. Do I trust a motorcycle club with questionable morals and a reputation for violence, or try to survive on my own with a bounty on my head and the Reapers hunting me?
It's not really a choice.
"What do you need from me?" I ask.
"Everything you've got. Files, recordings, contacts. Whatever you've collected on the Reapers and their operation." Vulture’s eyes bore into mine. "And you'll stay at our compound, where we can protect you while we work this."
"Your compound?"
"The clubhouse. It's secure, and you'll be under twenty-four-hour protection." He nods toward Ice Pick. "He'll be your primary guard. You don't go anywhere without him." His tone doesn’t carry a threat. It carries a rule, like there are lines inside that compound even a criminal club won’t cross. Like women are protected. Like kids are sacred.
I look at Ice Pick, who's watching me with an unreadable expression. The idea of being stuck with him constantly should annoy me. Instead, there's a flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear.
"And if I say no?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
