"Then you're on your own. And you won't last a week." Vulture straightens, making it clear the conversation's over. "Think about it. But think fast. The longer you're exposed, the more danger you're in."
He leaves without another word, and I'm alone with Ice Pick again. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions. Ice Pick watches the door like he’s already thinking about perimeter checks and patrol rotations, like the part of him that keeps order doesn’t clock out just because I’m shaken.
"You don't have to do this," Ice Pick says finally. "There are other options. We could get you out of the city, set you up somewhere safe.".
"Running doesn't solve anything. The story's still there. The women are still missing."
"The women might already be dead."
The bluntness of his words hits like a fist. "You don't know that."
"I know how these things work. Trafficking rings don't keep victims around for long. They move them fast, break them down, sell them off." His voice is flat, emotionless, but there's something underneath it. Pain, maybe. Old wounds. "The best thing you can do for them is expose the operation and make sure it can't happen again."
"That's what I'm trying to do."
"Then let us help you. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and accept that you can't do this alone."
I want to argue, I want to insist that I've made it this far by myself, that I don't need protection from a motorcycle club. But the truth is staring me in the face, written in the bruises on my skin and the exhaustion in my bones.
I can't do this alone. Not anymore.
"Fine," I say, hating how defeated the word sounds. "I'll stay at your clubhouse, but I have conditions."
"Of course you do."
"I keep my files. I write the story my way. And when this is over, you let me publish everything."
"Even the parts about us?"
"I'll keep the Saints out of it. Unless you give me a reason not to."
He considers this, then nods. "Deal. But you follow my rules while you're under our protection. You don't go anywhere alone. You don't make contact with anyone without clearing it first. And you sure as hell don't do anything stupid like walking into enemy territory by yourself."
"That was one time."
"Once is all it takes to get killed." He holds out his hand. "Do we have an agreement?"
I look at his hand, scarred knuckles and calluses that tell a story of violence and survival. Taking it means trusting him, trusting his club. It means diving deeper into a world I've only observed from the outside.
But it also means staying alive long enough to finish what I started.
I shake his hand, feeling the strength in his grip. "We have an agreement."
"Good." He doesn't let go immediately, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Welcome to the Saints Outlaws, Ava Langley. Try not to get yourself killed on our watch."
I picture the clubhouse; not just men and cuts and guns, but the women I’ve seen around clubs like this: some there for fun, some there because it’s safer than the streets, some because they chose a biker and stayed. Club whores. Ol’ ladies. The line between them isn’t shame; it’s consent, loyalty, and whether you’re protected when the door locks.
"I'll do my best."
His mouth quirks into that almost-smile again. "Somehow I doubt that."
And despite everything, despite the danger and the fear and the uncertainty, I smile back.
This is either the smartest decision I've ever made, or the one that's going to get me killed.
Probably both.
Chapter 3
