"I'm making it my business." I look at Ava, catch the fire in her eyes even while she's pinned. "You alright?"
"I had it under control," she snaps.
Despite the situation, my mouth quirks. Yeah, she's definitely trouble.
"Let her go," I say, turning my attention back to the muscle. "Walk away. We all forget this happened."
"We've got orders…"
"I don't give a fuck about your orders." My voice drops into that dangerous register that makes men think twice. "You've got three seconds to let her go and get the fuck out of here. After that, I'm not responsible for what happens."
They exchange glances. The math isn't hard. Three of them, one of me, but I'm wearing Saint’s colors, and that changes everything. Saint’s Outlaws don’t freelance. Anyone who tangles with one of us tangles with all of us. We've got a reputation in this city. The kind that makes people weigh their paychecks against their survival instincts.
The guy holding Ava releases her with a shove. She stumbles but catches herself against her car.
"This isn't over," the lead guy says, backing toward the SUV.
"Yeah, it is." I don't move until they're in their vehicle and the sound of their engine fades into the distance.
Then I turn to Ava.
She's gathering her things from the ground: a notepad, pens, a digital recorder, and what looks like a USB drive. She shoves everything back into her bag with shaking hands, though she's trying to hide it.
"You're welcome," I say when she doesn't look at me.
"I didn't ask for your help." She straightens, finally meeting my eyes. Up close, she's prettier than her photo, but it's the steel in her gaze that catches me off guard. Most people don't look at me like that. Most people look away.
"You were about to get your face rearranged. Seemed like you could use the assist."
"I've dealt with worse." She slings her bag across her body, chin lifted in defiance.
"I'm sure you have. But those guys? They weren't playing. Next time, they might not settle for threats."
Her jaw tightens. "Who are you?"
"Someone who knows you've been asking dangerous questions." I step closer, using my size deliberately. Not to scare her, but to make a point. "Ava Langley. Investigative journalist. Currently writing a story about the Reapers MC and their connection to missing women."
Her eyes narrow. "You've been following me."
"Only for the last hour. But I know enough." I cross my arms, holding her stare. "You need to drop this story."
"Not happening."
"Then you're going to end up dead."
"I've been threatened before, and yet I’m still here." She moves toward her car door, but I step into her path.
"This isn't a threat. It's a fact. The people you're investigating don't just threaten. They make problems disappear. Permanently."
"Then I'd better work fast." She tries to sidestep me, but I mirror her movement.
"You're not listening…"
"No, you're not listening." She jabs a finger into my chest, and I'm so surprised by the audacity that I don't stop her. "Those men were following me because I'm getting close to something. Women are disappearing. Young women. And no one's doing anything about it because the men responsible have money, power, and connections. So excuse me if I'm not going to let some biker with a savior complex tell me to walk away."
I think of Tess’s bar. Of kids asleep in rooms they trust are safe. Of lines we don’t cross, and monsters who don’t give a damn about lines at all.
"Savior complex?" I catch her wrist before she can poke me again, my hand wrapping around it easily. Her pulse hammers against my fingers. "Sweetheart, if I wanted to save you, I wouldn't be telling you to drop the story. I'd be helping you write it."
