Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
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The atmosphere at the shop feels like someone turned the tension dial all the way up and snapped the knob clean off. Tools clank louder than normal. Conversations die quick. Everyone’s eyes flick toward the windows whenever a truck passes by like they expect enemies to rappel from the clouds.
I’m supposed to be organizing invoices on Mason’s desk, but I keep glancing up because my anxiety is doing backflips. The Reapers usually joke around or give each other shit while they work. Today, nobody’s smiling. Not even a smirk. Not even Riot’s sarcastic eye roll.
Rev slams a hood shut with way more force than necessary. Switch mutters something like a curse and checks the security camera monitor again. Mason throws down a rag and mutters, pacing like a dad waiting for his daughter’s prom date to show up and prove he’s a disappointment.
My stomach twists because if they’re nervous, I should be terrified.
Blade is worse than all of them combined.
He moves around the shop silent and predatory, scanning every single thing like he’s counting threats.
The muscles in his shoulders bunch under his shirt each time the front bay door rattles.
His eyes keep cutting to me like he’s worried I’ll somehow disappear or explode or spontaneously combust if he looks away longer than ten seconds.
When he catches me watching him, he marches straight over and takes hold of my hip, guiding me behind one of the bikes like we need privacy. His grip is firm and warm and entirely impossible to ignore.
“You’re gonna listen real careful, babygirl,” he says, voice low enough to vibrate right through my bones.
Oh. So we’re jumping directly into the serious vibes. Cool cool cool.
“What do you need?” I ask, trying not to sound like my heart is trying to race away on little cartoon legs.
He dips his head closer. His breath brushes my lips. “I got a mandatory meeting at the clubhouse tonight. The second it’s done, I’m coming to get you.”
“Okay, but why do you look like you want to punch the air into submission?” I ask, my voice thin and shaky even though I try to joke.
His jaw ticks once. Twice. He drags his gaze across the shop again before coming back to me. “You’re going home after your shift. You’re locking the doors. You’re keeping the windows shut. You do not open that door unless I’m standing right outside calling your name.”
I blink hard because what.
“Blade, what is going on?” My voice comes out small. I hate that. I hate sounding scared. But the fear rushes up anyway.
“There’s shit going on in town we didn’t see coming,” he says quietly, fingertips brushing the back of my neck like he’s trying to soothe me without really softening. “Drug movement. Big players. Armed. Organized. We tracked some college punks straight to men who know exactly what they’re doing.”
I feel my throat tighten. “Like cartel level?”
“Like worse,” he mutters.
Awesome. Amazing. I love crime. Definitely my favorite pastime.
He notices the panic in my eyes and steps closer until his chest is pressed to mine. He crowds out the world and makes everything else fade into this little pocket of heat and protection that smells like leather and pine.
“You need to hear me on this,” he says, voice razor sharp. “We are about to stir a hornets nest. They’ll panic. They’ll look for weaknesses.”
“And you think I’m one of those,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry.
His hand slides to cup my cheek, thumb stroking slow and soft like he’s memorizing me. “I don’t have weaknesses… except you.”
That hits me like he reached straight into my chest and squeezed.
“They can’t hurt me,” he continues, eyes locked on mine. “The only way they could even try is by hurting you. That’s why you are staying with me. No debate.”
My heart jumps into my throat. “Staying with you,” I repeat, trying to make sure I’m fully tracking this. “Like overnight?”
Blade’s jaw flexes. “More than overnight.”
My brain short circuits a little. “How long?”
“As long as it takes. Until the dust settles and they realize this club and everyone connected to it are off limits.”
He leans his forehead against mine, breathing like he’s two seconds from spiraling into violence.
“When you get home, you pack a bag,” he orders. “Clothes. Toiletries. Anything you need for a while. I want you ready when I show up.”
“A while,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His voice softens but gets rougher too. “You stick to me. I’m glued to you. Nobody touches what’s mine.”
His. Mine. Oh boy. My insides do cartwheels. Terrified but also really loving this feral possessive energy.
Blade must sense the meltdown happening in my chest because he lifts my chin and makes me look at him fully.
“You trust me?” he asks.
I do. I really do. Even when he terrifies me. Even when this whole situation feels like the opening scene of a murder documentary.
“I trust you,” I say, and I mean it.
His shoulders drop just a hair, relief smoothing over his fierce expression.
“Good girl.” The praise wraps around my spine like something sinful and sweet. “Finish up work. Go home. Pack. Lock everything. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Okay,” I breathe, nodding fast because if I think too long I might cry or puke or kiss him senseless.
His fingers slide up into my hair and he leans in like he wants to kiss me but stops at the last second. His lips brush my temple instead. Reverent. Gentle. “I’m not letting anything happen to you,” he whispers. “Not ever.”
He steps back, composure snapping tight again. Then he turns and starts barking orders at Rev and Switch, switching straight back into lethal biker mode. They move instantly, like soldiers following a general they’d die for.
I stand there, trying to remember how to breathe.
This isn’t just some bar fight. Or a jealous moment. Or posturing. This is war prep. And Blade is ready to burn down the world before he lets harm touch me.
As soon as my shift wraps, I don’t linger.
I don’t run my mouth or wander around pretending I’m not living inside a crime thriller.
I grab my purse, shove the office keys into my pocket, and head straight for the lot because following Blade’s rules suddenly feels like following the laws of physics.
If I break them, the universe will flip me inside out.
The guys are already rolling their bikes out, engines rumbling low like growls waiting to explode.
Riot tosses his helmet on with a scowl. Rev pulls up his bandana like he’s gearing for a brawl.
Switch tightens his grip on his handlebars and cracks his neck like he wishes someone would give him a reason.
They all look ready. Ready for whatever comes next. Ready to throw hands. Ready to go to war.
Blade is standing beside his bike and scanning the street like he’s calculating sniper angles. His eyes cut to me the second I step outside. His whole posture shifts, coiled and primed and locked onto me like nothing else exists.
I walk straight up to him, trying not to show how shaky I feel. He grabs me by the waist and pulls me in without asking. Like I belong there. Like my body was custom built to fit right up against his.
“Ready to go?” he asks, voice rougher now that the others are watching.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
Blade studies my face like he’s memorizing every millimeter before shit gets real.
Then he cups my jaw with one hand, tilts my head up, and crushes his mouth to mine.
It’s not soft. It’s not polite. It’s possessive, hungry, and fierce.
Every fear and threat and protective instinct rolled into one moment that makes my legs threaten mutiny.
His other hand slides into my hair, keeping me right there in his space while his tongue steals the breath from my lungs.
By the time he pulls back, my lips tingle and my brain is soup.
He leans in close enough that his stubble tickles my cheek.
“Remember what I said. You go straight home. You pack a bag. And you lock those doors.”
I nod because words are temporarily canceled.
“All of them,” he adds, eyes locked on mine so I know he’s dead serious.
“I will,” I promise.
His thumb sweeps over my bottom lip, looking way too tempted to kiss me again. But there is business to handle and bad guys to hunt, so he drops his hand and steps back.
The loss of his body heat feels like a sudden winter.
Blade swings his leg over his bike, boots hitting metal like a warning shot.
Riot growls something about wanting to crack skulls.
Blade revs the engine once, loud enough to shake the pavement.
His eyes hold mine while the bike vibrates beneath him, like he’s willing me to feel safe even while he rides into hell. “Go,” he tells me.
I move fast, practically diving into my car before my nerves can talk me into freaking out.
I slam the door and hit the lock button immediately because fear turns me into a one-woman security system.
One by one, the Reapers fire up their bikes and peel out of the lot, engines roaring like a thunderstorm you definitely don’t want to mess with.
Blade mounts up last, taking his position as Tail Gunner, the final guardian in the line of leather and steel.
I watch them disappear in my rearview mirror, their taillights swallowed by the dark. My grip on the steering wheel tightens as I take a steadying breath and point myself home. Whatever nightmare is brewing in this town, I know one thing for sure. I’m not facing it alone.
By the time I get back to my apartment building, my nerves are totally fried.
I park in my usual spot near the stairwell and take a second to breathe, even though breathing feels like trying to drink through a clogged straw.
My fingers fumble the keys because apparently anxiety turns me into a baby deer learning motor skills.