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I haven’t said it again. The words sit behind my teeth like a loaded chamber, round and heavy and waiting for the trigger pull I can’t quite force. But Walker doesn’t ask for words. He speaks in actions, in the way his hand finds mine at seventy miles per hour and laces our fingers together against his thigh. In the way he shields me with his body when we sleep in cheap motels, his arm locked around my waist like I might disappear if he lets go.

In the way he killed a man in Arizona who reached for me a little too fast and didn’t even break stride. He didn’t ask if I was okay afterward. He already knew I could handle myself. He just cleaned his knife, handed me a bottle of water, and said, “You’re bleeding, cosita.”

I hadn’t even noticed the gravel rash on my palm. He noticed. He always notices.

We’re somewhere outside Flagstaff when my phone buzzes for the third time today. I pull it from my jacket pocket, the screen bright against the afternoon glare, and sigh.

Raven. Again. I decline the call and tuck the phone away, but Walker’s voice rumbles through the comms in our helmets.

“Raven?”

“Raven.”

“She’s persistent.”

“She’s Raven.” I pause. “Harper’s called twice this week, too.”

His bike shifts slightly as he adjusts his grip on the bars. “They want you to come in.”

“I know.”

“Las Vegas isn’t far.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches between us, filled only by engine noise and wind. He doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Walker. He plants a seed and lets it grow on its own timeline. It’s infuriating and perfect and one of the many reasons I’m in so much trouble.

The truth is, I’ve been avoiding it. Not the chapter. Not the girls. The reality of walking back into club life, even temporarily, and what that means. Out here on the road, I’m just Poppy. Not Samuel Anderson’s daughter. Not the Forsaken Saints’ weapon. Not the woman who was sent to kill the man she’s now riding behind. Just Poppy.

But calls keep coming, and the guilt keeps building.

Raven’s voice on the last voicemail still echoes in my head. “Pop, I swear to God, if you don’t show your face soon, I’m going to hunt you down myself. Crimson’s up and moving. He’s been asking about you. We miss you. Just come home. Even for a weekend.”

Crimson. My chest tightens at the thought of him. The last time I saw him, he was unconscious in a hospital bed, tubes and wires holding him to this world by threads. The fact that he’s up, that he’s moving, that he’s asking about me, is a pull I can’t ignore anymore.

And I’ve been trying to ignore it.

For three months, I’ve been selfish in a way I never allowed myself to be. Every day on the road with Walker has been stolen time, borrowed happiness, and I’ve hoarded every second like a dragon sitting on gold I didn’t earn.

“Judge,” I say, and my voice sounds different even to my own ears.

“Yep.”

“We need to go to Vegas.”

A beat of silence. “I know.”

“You knew?”

“I’ve known since the second call from Raven. You’ve been tense for a week.”

I huff out a laugh. “You’re annoyingly observant.”

“I’m observant. You’re annoying.” I can hear the smirk in his voice, and I want to bite his ear through the helmet. “Las Vegas chapter. We can be there by nightfall.”

“You don’t mind?”

The silence this time is different. Heavier. When he speaks again, his voice is low and sure. “You need to see your people, cosita. They’re our family, even if they are annoying and pushy.”