The building gets closer. There are motorcycles parked outside. A lot of them. Men standing guard at the entrance. They straighten when they see the truck. One of them, massive, with a beard that reaches his chest and arms like tree trunks, approaches as Marcus parks.
"Reckless." The man's voice is a rumble. Deep enough to feel in my chest. "Rampage said you were coming. This the girl?"
"Yeah." Marcus kills the engine. Looks at me. "Stay close. These are Riders. They're on our side, but don't wander off."
Our side.
When did I get a side? When did I stop being alone in this? I grab my duffel and follow Marcus out of the truck. The night air is cold. I'm still wearing his t-shirt under my hoodie. It still smells like him.
The bearded man, Beast, according to the patch on his cut looks me over. Not leering. Assessing. Like he's cataloging threat level and vulnerabilities in one glance.
"You're the one Castellano wants."
"Yes." My voice is steadier than I expect.
"Riders don't take kindly to people hunting on our territory." He says it flat. Absolute. "You're under our protection now. That means anyone who comes for you comes through us first."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to process that a motorcycle club I didn't know existed twelve hours ago is nowstanding between me and a man with enough money and power to make people disappear.
"Thank you," I manage.
Beast just nods. Looks at Marcus. "Room's ready. Stocked it with supplies. You need anything else, radio down."
"Appreciated."
Marcus puts his hand on my back. Gentle. Guiding. I follow him toward the entrance, aware of Beast's eyes tracking our movement. Aware of the other Riders watching. Evaluating.
I believe him—Marcus, I mean. When he said the Riders would protect their territory. I saw those men tonight. The Savage Riders who showed up at the apartment. Hard faces and harder eyes. Men who looked like violence was a second language.
Men like Marcus.
The building is bigger inside than it looks from the outside. We walk down a hallway. Concrete floors, fluorescent lights, doors marked with numbers. I can hear voices somewhere deeper in. Music. The sound of impact.
"Is there a fight happening?" I ask.
"Training session, probably. Some of the fighters like to work at night." Marcus stops at a door marked with a simple "7". Unlocks it with a key Beast handed him. "This is us."
Us. That word keeps showing up. Like we're a unit now. Like I'm not alone anymore. The room is sparse but functional. A bed. A small bathroom. A mini-fridge. A table with two chairs. No windows like Marcus said.
A cage, my mind supplies. A very comfortable cage.
But safer than anywhere I've been in a week.
"Not much," Marcus says. "But it'll work until the Riders handle Castellano's men."
"It's perfect." I set my duffel down. Look at him. There's blood on his knuckles. "You're bleeding."
"Not my blood."
"Still." I gesture toward the bathroom. "You should wash up."
He looks at his hands like he forgot about them. Nods once. "Yeah. Probably."
He disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. Hear him moving around. When he comes back out, his hands are clean. The scars on his knuckles stand out more without the blood.
Evidence of every fight. Every hit. Every time he traded pain he couldn't feel for survival.
"You should sleep," he says. "It's late. You're exhausted."
