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“Fucking creep,” he growls, low and lethal. “You let me worry about him. He isn’t touching you. Ever.”

Before I can even stammer out a reply, he yanks me in, his arms closing around me like a steel trap. Everything else fades. All I can feel is Diesel, so big and solid and angry on my behalf that I can barely breathe.

“You hear me, sweetness?” His voice is rough against my hair, lips right by my ear. “He’s not getting past me. Anyone who tries is going to wish they were never fucking born.”

I believe him. I’ve never felt so safe or so spun out at the same time. My brain is still trying to process the gross, ugly words on my phone, but Diesel’s grip anchors my pulse. He smells like leather, sweat, and the promise of safety.

He looks me dead in the eye. “I got you. You’re safe here, Serenity. With me. Nobody touches what’s mine.”

Diesel holds me tight, and nothing else matters. My stomach picks that exact moment to make a sound like a dying animal. No joke. It’s loud enough to echo across the garage and probably wake the dead.

Diesel snorts right into my hair, and suddenly, the steel grip he’s got on me feels less like protection and more like possession. I’m not complaining. Not one little bit.

“Hungry?” The word comes out low, and there’s this wicked twist of amusement in his voice.

I manage to pry my face out of his chest long enough to glare at him and nod my head. “I could eat my left leg right now.”

He just grins, all cocky alpha male and tattooed charm. No mercy. “Let’s get you fed. I know the perfect place.” He wraps his arm casually around my waist, steering me right past Benny and Bones.

The drive is short, taking us toward a strip of older buildings tucked away from the main casinos. We pull up in front of a place called The Rusty Spike. It’s a squat, brick building with a row of Harleys and a vintage Impala parked in the dusty lot. The sound of a jukebox and the low rumble of voices drift through the open door.

Inside, the bar is a haven of dark wood, red leather booths, and a scarred wooden floor. It’s a dive in the truest sense. As we walk in, several men at the bar nod in greeting. There is an ease here, a lack of pretension that makes my shoulders drop an inch.

“Diesel!” the bartender, a woman with silver hair pulled into a tight braid, calls out. “Usual?”

“Two of ’em, Marge,” Diesel says, gesturing for me to sit at a back booth before sliding in next to me. “And make sure the fries are extra crispy.”

Marge gives me a wink. “Coming right up, sugar.”

As she walks away, I look around, noticing framed photos of men astride bikes and behind the wheels of hot rods, the pool table in the back. “You spend a lot of time here?”

“It’s one of my favorite places,” Diesel explains, leaning back against the leather.

Our burgers arrive. I’m halfway through mine before I even come up for air. Diesel is still on his first few bites when I catch him—mid-chew, completely still—watching a guy in a Stetson settle onto a barstool. The guy orders a beer. Diesel goes back to his burger. A minute later, the door swings open again, and his eyes are already there before it finishes moving.

“You’re doing it again,” I say, gesturing with a fry. “Scanning the perimeter.”

He sets his burger down, expression serious. “I’m not taking any chances with you.”

That’s a mood killer. The reason I’m here—the fear, the photographs—comes rushing back. I look down at my plate, my appetite suddenly gone.

“Hey.” Diesel’s voice is soft. He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine, causing goosebumps to break out along my spine. He doesn’t squeeze; he just stays there, a steady, grounding force. “I didn’t say that to scare you. I said it because I want you to know I’m not going to let my guard down. Not ever. You’re safe here. I promise you that.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I just hate that he has this much power over my life.”

“He doesn’t have the power anymore,” Diesel says firmly. “We took it back the second we crossed the Nevada line. Right now, he’s just an annoying little gnat who’s about to get his ass squashed.”

I manage a small smile. “You’re very good at this, you know. The whole ‘stoic guardian’ thing. Do you practice in the mirror?”

Diesel lets out a genuine laugh. “Every morning. Right after I do my hair and before I pick which T-shirt I’m going to wear. It’s a rigorous process.”

The tension breaks, and we spend the rest of the meal talking about everything and nothing. As we walk out of the restaurant, the sky is a deep, bruised purple. Diesel drives back to the shop and parks next to his motorcycle.

“Change of plans,” he says. He digs in the back of the SUV and tosses me a spare helmet. “The SUV is for emergencies. The bike is for living. You ever been on a Harley, Sunshine?”

“The closest I’ve been is watching Sons of Anarchy with Alana while eating popcorn.”

“Well,” he says, swinging a leg over the seat and starting the engine. The roar is visceral, a thrumming vibration I can feel in my teeth. “Time for a real education. Get on. Hold tight.”