Page 39 of Freedom’s Inferno

“Good.” She rose, closing the kit with a soft snap. “I’m going to shower. Do you know how to dress yourself?”

I stood, glancing down at my bare chest, then back to her. My lips twitched. “I’m not sure, are you offering to help?”

She looked like she was considering it. Her eyes raked over my frame with the kind of shameless curiosity that made the air feel too thin to breathe. Then her mouth curved into a grin.

“No,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “But try not to play with yourself when you imagine it. We don’t have time to waste.”

The words hit like a slap and a dare all at once. I laughed, low and rough, more breath than sound.

Cruel, vicious woman.

The door clicked shut behind her, and I was left standing there in the steam, dick half-hard beneath the towel, wondering when exactly she’d started getting under my skin.

Lana stood in the driveway beside her Lexus, hair pulled back, a burgundy sweater clinging to her in the chill. Leggings, boots, and a spark of irritation in her eyes. She looked like she wanted to pick a fight, and I was ready for it.

I tugged my jacket tighter, the black leather creasing at the elbows, the white of my T-shirt catching the sun. My gloves pinched my bandaged hand, but I ignored the sting as I held it out toward her. “Give me your phone.”

Her brow arched. “Excuse me?”

“Your phone,” I repeated.

She hesitated, clearly weighing whether this was worth an argument, then exhaled through her nose and handed it over.

I pulled up the GPS, typing in my address with my thumb, the screen reflecting both our faces in the glare.

She was already frowning as I handed it back to her. “You could’ve just told me where we’re going. I can follow you.”

“I want you in front of me,” I said, sliding my helmet on.

Her lips parted around a sharp laugh. “You still don’t trust me.”

“This isn’t about trust,” I said, adjusting the straps of my backpack. My voice came out lower, steadier than the emotions roiling inside me. “Men protect from the rear.”

She huffed a small breath, eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Right. Very gallant of you.”

I didn’t bother with a response. Instead, I started the engine. The bike growled to life beneath me, vibrating through my sore thighs and up into my chest. The sound cut clean through the stillness of the street.

Lana rolled her eyes and got into the Lexus, shutting the door harder than she needed to. Her taillights flared red as she pulled out onto the road, and I followed a few beats later, easing out of the driveway, the rumble of the Honda following in her wake.

She drove fast, but not recklessly. Always aware of me in her mirrors, her posture perfect, her jaw set. The contrast between her polished sedan and my bike, chrome and grit, struck me as almost poetic. She thought I didn’t trust her, and maybe she was right, but watching her car glide down the road ahead of me, I couldn’t shake the thought that trust wasn’t the point anymore. Keeping her alive was, and if that meant shadowing her every move, then I would make peace with the view from behind.

October had hit its second week, and the New England foliage was something to behold. The season had always been a contradiction to me. Everything was dying, but the beauty was breathtaking. The trees along the two-lane highway blazed with color—copper, amber, crimson—leaves curling at their edges like they’d been set alight from the inside. The wind tore a few loose, scattering them across the asphalt in waves that shimmered in the morning light. It looked like we were driving through small, red embers.

I couldn’t remember the last time I noticed details like these. The way sunlight flickered through bare branches, and the clean taste of autumn air. Maybe the last few days choking on smoke had changed my perspective.

Lana’s car veered left, catching a glint of sun on the windshield that forced me to look away.

I eased off the throttle, giving her space. The engine of the bike purred under me, the vibration steady against my thighs, grounding. My burned hand ached where the gauze tugged against my skin, each throb syncing with the rhythm of the road. I tightened my grip anyway. Pain was a familiar companion. It kept me sharp.

A leaf struck my visor and clung there before the wind peeled it away, and for a fleeting instant, I envied how easily it let go. Then I caught the glint of movement in my mirror.

A pickup truck loomed behind me, big and loud, closing in too fast. At first, I thought it was an impatient driver, but when I glanced again, my stomach dropped.

I throttled forward, feeling the engine snarl under my thighs. The wind tore at my jacket, and for a second, I thought I’d shaken them. Then the truck matched my speed, tailing me too close. I risked another look over my shoulder, and through the windshield, I saw him. The heavy, thick-necked bastard from the gala. Costa’s dog.

His grin spread slowly, teeth bared like a threat. Next to him sat the smaller man, bald and bearded, watching me with predator stillness.

My pulse slammed into my throat. “Shit.”