Ice Pick moves like a man who's done this before, taking turns without hesitation, sticking to shadows where the streetlights don't reach. He isn’t just escaping; he’s calculating. Routes and where we might be caught in the open. The kind of thinking that comes from being the guy responsible for keeping a whole club alive. I follow, my lungs burning, my legs protesting, but I don't slow down. I can't slow down.
We round a corner and nearly collide with his bike. He's on it in seconds, the engine roaring to life with a sound that's both beautiful and terrifying because it announces exactly where we are.
"Get on," he orders, and I don't argue.
I swing my leg over and wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath his leather cut. He's built likea man who's spent years fighting, every inch of him hard and unforgiving. It’s the kind of body that's made for violence.
And right now, I'm grateful for every bit of it.
He guns the engine, and we tear out of the alley just as the first Reaper bike rounds the corner behind us. Two more follow, headlights cutting through the darkness like predatory eyes.
"Hold on tight," Ice Pick shouts over the wind.
I press myself against his back, my arms locked around him as he weaves through traffic with a recklessness that should terrify me. Maybe it does, maybe I'm too pumped full of adrenaline to care. The Reapers are right behind us, close enough that I can see the fury on their faces.
Ice Pick takes a hard right, leaning the bike so low my knee nearly scrapes the asphalt. I tighten my grip, burying my face against his shoulder, breathing in leather and smoke and something darker, more primal. He smells like danger, and right now, danger is the only thing keeping me alive.
We race through the industrial district, past warehouses and abandoned factories, the Reapers still on our tail. Ice Pick doesn't slow down, doesn't hesitate. He takes another turn, this one into a narrow alley barely wide enough for the bike.
The Reapers try to follow, but the lead bike clips the wall, sparks flying, and goes down in a screech of metal and cursing. The other two have to swerve to avoid him, giving us precious seconds.
Ice Pick uses every one of them.
We burst out of the alley onto a main road, and he opens the throttle wide. The bike surges forward, and I lose track of where we are, everything blurring into streaks of light and shadow. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth, and my hands are numb from gripping him so tightly.
Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, he slows. The Reapers are gone, lost somewhere in themaze of streets behind us. He takes a series of turns, doubling back, checking mirrors, making sure we're not being followed.
When he's satisfied, he pulls into a parking garage attached to what looks like an old apartment building. The engine cuts, and the sudden silence is deafening.
I don't move, I can't move. My arms are still locked around him, my body pressed against his back, and I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
"Ava." His voice is gentler than I expected. "We're safe. You can let go now."
I try. My arms don't cooperate. They're locked in place, muscles refusing to obey my brain's commands. Shock, probably. Or just the bone-deep exhaustion of surviving something I shouldn't have.
Ice Pick shifts, turning on the bike until he can see my face. His hand comes up, cupping my jaw with surprising gentleness for someone who just beat three men into submission.
"Look at me," he says.
I do. His eyes are dark in the dim light of the garage, but there's something in them I don't expect. Concern, maybe even anger, but not at me.
"You're okay," he says firmly. "You're alive. They didn't win."
The words break something loose inside me, and I suck in a shaky breath. Then another. My arms finally unlock, and I pull back, immediately missing the solid warmth of his body.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice rough. "For coming after me."
"Don't thank me yet. We're not out of this." He swings off the bike and offers me his hand. "Come on. We need to get you cleaned up and figure out what the hell you were thinking going into that warehouse alone."
The criticism in his tone snaps me back to reality. I ignore his hand and climb off the bike myself, even though my legs feel like jelly. "I was doing my job."
"Your job nearly got you killed."
"My job is worth the risk."
"Is it?" He steps closer, using his size to make a point. I refuse to back down. "Is exposing the Reapers worth dying for? Because that's where this is heading if you keep being reckless."
"I'm not being reckless. I'm being thorough."
