Ruthless Sin (Iron & Blood MC #3)

Chapter 1 - Angel

I shouldn't be here.

Every instinct screams at me to leave, but the whiskey in my glass keeps me glued to this barstool. The new joint, Crossroads, sits on the wrong side of town – neutral territory that's slowly being consumed by Outlaw territory.

But I needed somewhere to blow off steam, somewhere Dad and his overprotective bullshit couldn't find me.

The amber liquid burns as I take another sip, my fingers absently tracing the rim of the glass. Being Hellfire's daughter comes with its perks, but tonight, all I can think about are the chains. Twenty-one years old, and he still treats me like I'm made of glass.

Sure, I earned my cut in the Iron & Blood MC, but what's the point when I'm sidelined for every major run?

The door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air that makes the hair on my arms stand up. My heart stops when I spot the leather cuts adorned with the Outlaws' patches. Two of them – both built like brick walls, covered in tattoos that crawl up their necks like poison ivy.

Fuck.

I keep my head down, grateful for the dim lighting and the baseball cap pulled low over my eyes. My hand instinctively slides into my jacket pocket, fingers wrapping around my brass knuckles. The familiar weight of them is comforting, but I know I'm outnumbered if they recognize me.

My phone sits on the bar, and I grab it, trying to keep my movements casual. Opening my messages, I find Ruthless's name and type quickly:

'Need you at Crossroads. Now.'

Three dots appear almost immediately. 'Why the hell are you there?'

I bite my lower lip hard enough to taste copper. Ruthless has been different since Dad pulled him aside a week ago. The heated looks we used to share across the clubhouse have turned cold, and the way he used to find excuses to be near me has been replaced by careful distance.

'Please,' I text back, my fingers trembling slightly. 'Two Outlaws just walked in.'

'Jesus Christ, Angel. Stay put. Don't draw attention. 15 minutes.'

The Outlaws settle at a table behind me, their rough laughter making my skin crawl. I force myself to breathe normally, to look natural as I take another sip of whiskey. The bartender catches my eye, and I shake my head when he gestures to my almost-empty glass.

I need to keep my head clear.

My phone buzzes again. 'Does your old man know where you are?'

I roll my eyes, anger flaring in my chest. 'No, and don't you dare tell him.'

'Fucking hell, Angel.'

That's all I get back. I can practically hear his growl of frustration, can picture him running his hand through short dark hair the way he does when he's worried. At forty-three, Ruthless has earned his name and reputation, but there's a gentleness in him that shows up when he looks at me – or used to, before Dad got in his head.

One of the Outlaws laughs particularly loudly, and I flinch. They're talking about some deal going down next week, but I force myself not to listen too carefully.

Still, my training kicks in, and I note details without meaning to: the younger one has a fresh cut above his eye, and the older one's voice has a distinct rasp.

Twelve minutes. That's all I need to stay invisible for. I can do this. I've been around bikers my whole life and learned to fight dirty before I learned to drive. But two against one isn't odds I like, especially not when they'd love nothing more than to use Hellfire's daughter as leverage.

The older Outlaw's chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, and I hear his heavy boots approaching the bar. My pulse thunders in my ears as he stops right next to me, close enough that I can smell leather and cigarettes.

"Another round," he calls to the bartender, then turns slightly toward me. "Haven't seen you here before, darling."

I grunt, tilting my face away. The brass knuckles are cold against my palm now, and I'm calculating angles, thinking about the fastest way to the door.

"Not very friendly, are you?" He leans closer, and I can feel his eyes trying to catch mine under the brim of my cap.

The rumble of a familiar bike cuts through the night outside, and my body relaxes slightly. The Outlaw notices, his attention drawn to the sound. I use the moment to slide off my stool, keeping my movements smooth and controlled.

"Thanks for the chat," I mutter, tossing cash on the bar and heading for the door.

I'm three steps away from freedom when I hear, "Wait a fucking minute." The rasp in his voice has turned sharp with recognition. "I know you! You're Hellfire's little girl."

The door opens before he can reach for me, and Ruthless fills the frame like an avenging angel in black leather. His eyes lock with mine for a split second – relief, anger, and something else I can't name flashing in them – before they turn to ice as he looks past me.

"Problem here?" His voice is quiet, dangerous.

I take advantage of the distraction to move swiftly to Ruthless's side, my heart hammering against my ribs. The younger Outlaw has risen from his table now, hand hovering near his waist where I'm sure there's a weapon.

"No problem," the older one says, but his eyes are calculating. "Just having a friendly chat with the lady here."

Ruthless's arm comes up, not quite touching me but creating a barrier between me and them. The gesture is subtle, protective, and despite our current situation, it makes my stomach flutter.

"Good," Ruthless growls. "Then you won't mind if we leave."

The tension in the bar is thick enough to choke on. Other patrons have gone quiet, sensing the storm brewing. The bartender has disappeared into the back – smart man.

"Actually," the younger Outlaw steps forward, a nasty grin spreading across his face, "we would mind. It's not every day we get to meet royalty. Hellfire's princess should stay for a drink."

I feel Ruthless's body tense beside me, ready to explode into violence. My fingers flex around the brass knuckles in my pocket.

"Thanks for the offer," I say, keeping my voice steady, "but I'll pass."

The older one takes another step toward us, and I see Ruthless's hand twitch toward his cut. If this turns into a fight, it won't be quiet, and every Outlaw in a ten-mile radius will be here within minutes.

"Back off," Ruthless warns, his voice dropping to that deadly quiet tone that usually precedes bloodshed. "You really want to start a war over a drink?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke. I know what they're thinking – is it worth it? Two of them against one Iron & Blood member, but that one member is Ruthless. His reputation precedes him, and I've seen firsthand why he earned that name.

"War?" The older Outlaw's laugh is all razor edges. "Your club hit our weapon stash last week. Way I see it, the war's already started. And what better payback than taking the president's daughter?"

Everything happens in a blur. The older one lunges at Ruthless while the younger one tries to grab me. But I'm not some helpless princess – I'm Iron & Blood, born and bred.

I duck under the younger one's reaching arms, brass knuckles already on my right hand. His ribs are wide open, and I drive my fist into them with every ounce of strength I have. The satisfying crunch of bone is followed by his pained grunt. The impact sends shockwaves up my arm, but adrenaline dulls the pain.

Behind me, I hear the meaty thud of Ruthless's fist connecting with the older Outlaw's face. Glass shatters somewhere, and a chair goes flying. The sounds of combat are familiar – I've grown up around fights – but being in the middle of one is different. This isn't practice. This is real.

The younger one recovers faster than I expected, backhanding me hard enough to make my vision blur. The taste of copper fills my mouth, but I use the momentum to spin, bringing my knee up into his groin. He doubles over, and I slam my brass-covered knuckles into his temple. He goes down hard, but I know he won't stay down long.

"Angel, down!" Ruthless's voice cuts through the chaos, and I drop right away.

A bottle whistles through the air where my head was a second ago, smashing against the wall and raining glass down on my shoulders.

I roll to my feet in time to see Ruthless grappling with the older Outlaw. Blood streams from the Outlaw's nose, but he's managed to pull a knife. The blade catches the dim light as he slashes at Ruthless's face, coming dangerously close to his eye.

My hand moves to my boot, fingers wrapping around the handle of my own knife. I pull it out, but my palm is sweaty, and my grip feels unsure. I've trained with it countless times and gone through all the motions, but I've never actually used it on someone. The thought of pushing steel into flesh makes my stomach turn despite the anger coursing through my veins.

But when I see the Outlaw's blade nick Ruthless's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood, something in me shifts. These men wouldn't hesitate to hurt us – to kill us. My father's voice echoes in my head: "In this life, baby girl, sometimes it's them or us."

"Fuck this," I mutter, adjusting my grip on the knife in my left hand, brass knuckles still adorning my right.

I move forward, trying to project more confidence than I feel. The older Outlaw's eyes widen slightly when he sees me advancing, and that moment of distraction is all Ruthless needs.

His fist connects with the Outlaw's throat, sending him stumbling backward, gasping for air. The knife clatters to the floor, and Ruthless kicks it away before delivering a brutal punch that sends the man crashing into a table. The sound of splintering wood fills the air.

I'm both relieved and ashamed that I didn't have to use my knife, but there's no time to dwell on it. The younger Outlaw is starting to stir, groaning as he pushes himself up on his elbows.

"We need to move," Ruthless says, grabbing my arm. His touch is firm but gentle, and I can feel him trembling slightly with leftover adrenaline. "More will be coming."

As if on cue, we hear motorcycles in the distance, growing louder. The rumble sounds like an approaching storm.

"My bike's out front," I say, already moving toward the rear exit, knife still clutched in my shaking hand.

"Like hell. You're riding with me." His grip on my arm tightens. "We need to stay together. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

I want to argue – I hate feeling helpless or controlled – but now isn't the time. The younger Outlaw is fully conscious now, and the older one is trying to get up. Through the windows, I can see headlights approaching, multiple bikes by the sound of it.

We burst through the back door into the cool night air. Ruthless's black Road King sits like a sentinel in the shadows, and we're on it in seconds. I barely have time to shove my knife back in my boot before wrapping my arms around his waist. He kicks the bike to life, the engine's roar drowning out the sound of shouting from inside the bar.

We tear out of the parking lot just as three more Outlaws roll in from the other direction. I press my face against Ruthless's back, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can feel it. The wind whips at my hair, and I can taste blood from my split lip, but we're alive. We made it.

For now.