I heard it before I saw it—the low, throaty rumble of a truck engine I knew in my bones. Dolores. My beat-up, rust-bucket Dolores, sounding smoother and meaner than she ever had. Headlights swept the arroyo from the far end, cutting through the night like a promise.
The hunters shouted. Guns came up.
Dolores didn’t slow. She came barreling straight down the wash like a green avenging angel, Mason’s arm out the driver’s window, pistol steady in his grip. The first shots from the hunters pinged off her new reinforced fenders. Mason answered with two of his own—precise, controlled. One hunter dropped with a yell.
The rest of the club roared in behind him—bikes and trucks, chrome and leather and pure fury. Regan’s voice carried on the wind, sharp and commanding. Tank’s truck slewed sideways, blocking the black SUV’s escape. More gunfire cracked across the desert, short and vicious. I stayed down, ears ringing, until the only sound left was the idling engines and someone shouting that it was clear.
Boots crunched toward my hiding spot. I gripped the knife tighter, every muscle locked.
“Sienna!” Mason’s voice—raw, desperate, closer than I’d ever heard it. “Baby, where are you? It’s over. Come out.”
I stood on shaking legs, stepped out from behind the boulders, and the world tilted. He was already running, closing the distance in long strides, dust swirling around his boots. When he reached me he didn’t stop—just hauled me against his chest so hard my feet left the ground for a second. One big hand cupped the back of my head, the other wrapped around my waist like he could shield me from the entire desert.
“You’re bleeding,” he growled into my hair, voice cracking. “Jesus Christ, Sienna.”
I clung to his shirt, face buried in the warm, familiar scent of motor oil and leather and him. “I saw them kill someone. They know I saw. I dropped the vials. They have my truck. They?—”
“Shh. Later.” His arms tightened. “Right now you’re breathing. That’s all I need.”
Behind him I caught glimpses of the club—Tank directing prospects to secure the scene, Regan already on her phone calling in favors, River checking the downed hunters. But Mason didn’t let go. Not for a second.
He finally pulled back just enough to look at me, thumbs brushing dirt and tears from my cheeks. His eyes were wild, the same storm I’d seen the night he kissed me on the sidewalk.
The line shack Regan had mentioned was only a mile farther up the ridge. Mason steered me toward Dolores without letting go, one arm locked around my shoulders like he was afraid the desert would try to take me again.
We weren’t safe yet. Not by a long shot.
But for the first time since I’d dropped those binoculars on the ridge, I wasn’t facing the dark alone.
And Mason’s hand on my waist felt like the only promise in the whole damn desert I could believe in.
The line shack smelled like dust, old wood, and gun oil. A single battery lantern hissed on the rickety table, throwing hard shadows across the faces of the brothers who’d made it here first. Tank, River, Edge, and a handful of patched members stood in a loose circle while prospects guarded the perimeter. Sienna sat on the edge of a sagging cot, my jacket draped over her shoulders, a half-empty bottle of water trembling in her hands. Blood and dirt streaked one cheek. She looked pale as hell, scared, fragile in a way that made my chest tighten like a winch cable. Innocent. And now she was neck-deep in club business and state-level dirty shit she never asked for.
I couldn’t stop touching her—hand on her knee, thumb stroking the side of her neck—anything to remind myself she was still breathing and here.
River broke the silence first, voice low and flat. “We got three bodies cooling in the arroyo. One of ‘em’s got an Oakley security patch under the cut. The other two are cartel muscle. We bury ‘em deep tonight, but the blowback’s already coming. Dirty cops, dirty judges, the whole fucking machine those Oakleys own—they’re gonna spin this. Say we rolled up on a legit meet and started the shooting. They’ll pin the dumping operation on us, the murders, the whole goddamn thing.”
Tank rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking to Sienna. “She saw it all. The suit, the hit, everything. She’s the only civilian witness.”
River’s gaze hardened on her, not unkind, just club. “She ain’t patched. She ain’t an old lady. Right now she’s a loose end. And in court, a wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband.”
The words landed like a live round.
I felt Sienna stiffen under my palm. Her head snapped up. “Wait—what?”
River didn’t flinch. “Looks like we’re doing another wedding. Vegas. Quick, quiet, legal. No blood test wait, no questions. You two say I do in front of a chapel Elvis, file the paperwork, and suddenly she’s protected. Can’t be compelled. And if they try to come at the club, they’re coming at a brother’s wife. That buys us time.”
Edge let out a low whistle. “Regan and I did the same damn thing in Vegas. Turned out pretty fucking epic, if I’m being honest. Even if River lost his shit and pulled a gun on me in the penthouse suite.” He grinned, but his eyes stayed serious. “What do you say, Sienna? You ready to become a Royal Bastard’s old lady before sunrise?”
The shack went dead quiet except for the desert wind rattling the tin roof.
My gut twisted hard. Marriage. The word alone made my skin crawl. I’d watched Rylee walk out on me with that goddamn ring still sitting in my closet like a curse. Weddings were fairy-tale bullshit for people who hadn’t had their forever sold out from under them. I wasn’t built for it. Never had been. The thought of standing up there again, saying vows, signing papers that could blow up in my face—fuck that.
But then I really looked at Sienna.
She was pale, eyes wide and glassy with leftover terror, lips pressed tight like she was holding back a scream. Fragile in a way she’d never let anyone see before tonight. Innocent as hell, even after everything she’d survived. And now she was tangled up in our world—club blood, cartel bullets, Oakley money that could bury her six feet under before breakfast. She hadn’t asked for any of this. She’d just been doing her job, trying to keep the water clean, and the desert had tried to eat her alive for it.
Something stirred low in my chest. Not just the same raw want that had been burning since the sidewalk kiss. This was deeper. Darker. The need to keep her safe. To put my name on her so no one—not the Oakleys, not the cartel, not the dirty badges—could touch her without going through me first. My patch. My ring. My old lady. Mine to protect.
