Chapter 8
Knox
The wrench slips in my grip and I catch it before it hits the engine block. My mind isn't on the rebuild in front of me—it's across town at the diner, where Sarah works the lunch shift. Her scent still clings to my skin from this morning, when I woke her with my mouth between her thighs and made her come twice before letting her get dressed.
My phone buzzes. Diesel's name flashes on the screen.
"Talk."
"Knox." His voice comes out wrong, too tight, all the usual bounce stripped clean. "Gas station on the edge of town. White BMW. Connecticut plates."
The wrench clatters to the workbench. I'm moving before Diesel finishes his next sentence.
"It's Peter Mitchell. He's asking about a woman matching Sarah's description."
Cold fury floods my veins. The beast in my chest snaps its chains and surges free.
"Don't engage. Keep eyes on him."
I end the call and hit Finn's number. My VP answers on the second ring.
"Get Sarah from the diner. Bring her to the clubhouse. Now." The words scrape out more growl than speech. "Her ex is in Nightfall Cove."
Finn doesn't ask questions. "On it."
The ride from the garage to the clubhouse takes three minutes. I make it in two, pushing the bike hard enough that my tires scream on the turns. I pace the main room, waiting, while Rex tracks Peter's movements on his laptop.
But I don't see Sarah.
My hands curl into fists. Then Finn's bike rumbles into the lot and I hear her voice—asking what's happening, concern threading through the words—and my lungs unlock so fast the relief nearly drops me to my knees.
She walks through the door with Finn a step behind her, confusion written across her face until she sees me. Her eyes widen. She reads what's happening in my expression, in the way I hold myself like a man balanced on the edge of violence, she crosses the room to meet me halfway.
"Knox?"
I pull her against my chest before I can stop myself. I breathe her in and catch the salt of fear underneath the warmth. Not fear of me. Never of me. Fear of the past that followed her three thousand miles and found her anyway.
"He's here." I press my mouth to her hair and breathe her in. "Your ex. He's in Nightfall Cove."
She goes rigid in my arms.
"How—"
"Diesel spotted him at the gas station. Asking about you." I pull back enough to look at her face, to make sure she sees the promise in my eyes. "He won't touch you. Do you understand? He won't get within a hundred feet of you."
Her hand finds my chest, pressing flat over my heart like she needs to feel it beating. "Knox. What are you going to do?"
Before I can answer, Diesel's voice crackles through Rex's radio.
"Knox. He's at the gate. Demanding entry."
The compound's main gate stands twelve feet high, reinforced steel that could stop a truck. Peter Mitchell stands on the other side of it like he has every right to be there, like his money and his name carry weight in a place where neither holds any power.
Diesel keeps position by the gatehouse with one hand resting on the baseball bat propped against the wall. Two prospects flank him—young orcs with more muscle than sense who look ready to tear this human apart the moment I give the word.
I walk through the clubhouse door and down the gravel drive, taking my time. Let him wait. Let him see what's coming for him.
Peter Mitchell turns out to be smaller than I expected. Average height, soft around the middle despite the expensive tailoring of his jacket. Dark hair, a face that probably charmed boardroomsand country clubs for years. His hands are manicured. He looks exactly like a man who hurts women because he can, because money and connections have shielded him from every consequence he ever earned.
