Chapter 9
brICK
The girl is going to be a problem.
I knew it from the second Stone showed me her picture—all sharp cheekbones and wary eyes. She’s the kind of pretty that comes with complications.
I’m parked three houses down from a shithole on the west side of Stoneheart, watching that same girl walk into what I’m pretty sure is going to be a disaster.
She moved fast once she hit the ground outside that bathroom window—faster than I expected. Cutting through yards, doubling back, taking routes that say she’s done this before. I almost lost her twice, and I don’t lose people.
Who are you, Isabel? And what the hell is in that house?
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel of the club sedan. As much as I hate being in a cage—it’s far less conspicuous than the loud rumble of my bike.
The place looks abandoned. Peeling paint, sagging porch, lawn that hasn’t seen a mower since the Clinton administration. The kind of house where bad things happen and nobody asks questions.
Isabel circled around to the back, checked the windows, then slipped inside like a ghost.
That was twenty minutes ago.
I text it in then wait. And wait. And wait some more.
It’s growing dark when headlights sweep across the street.
A beat-up truck pulls into the driveway, engine rattling before it cuts off. The driver’s door swings open, and a big man stumbles out—mid-forties, ruddy face, the swollen nose of a serious drinker. He moves around to the passenger side and yanks open the door.
“Get out,” he barks. “And stop your sniveling.”
A small figure climbs down from the truck. A little girl, maybe five or six, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit to her chest. Even from here, I can see she’s been crying.
Jesus Christ.
The man grabs the girl’s arm—too rough, way too rough—and hauls her toward the house. “Inside. Now. And if I hear one more word about your sister, I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Sister. Isabel’s her sister.
Son of a bitch.
That’s why she was so desperate to get back. Not a boyfriend. Not drugs. Not some shady deal. A kid. A little sister trapped in this hellhole.
Well, I feel like a fucking dick.
They disappear inside. Lights flicker on.
A dog starts barking somewhere nearby. Loud. Insistent.
The front door bangs open again.
“Shut that fucking mutt up!” the man bellows toward the neighbors house. He stomps down the porch steps, weaving slightly, and heads across the yard toward the source of the noise.
I’m out of the car before I consciously decide to move.
I work my way through the shadows until I find the side door and ease it open, staying quiet. The house hits me with the stench of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and neglect. It’s the sour smell of a place where hope died a long time ago.
I’m far too familiar with the scent.
From somewhere upstairs, I hear voices that are soft and urgent.
“Izzy!” A child’s whisper, thick with tears. “Why did you leave for so long? I was scared.”
“Shh, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m here now. I’m going to get you out, okay? We’re leaving. Right now.”
“Is Daddy going to be mad?”
“Daddy’s not going to know. We’re going to be quiet, like mice. Like we practiced, remember? Can you do that for me?”
“Like mice,” the little girl repeats.
“Good girl. Now grab Mr. Flopsy and your purple shirt. We have to be fast.”
I move to the bottom of the stairs, pressing myself against the wall. Through the front window, I can see the stepfather still at the neighbors fence, gesturing angrily, his voice carrying across the yard.
Hurry up, Isabel. He’s not going to be distracted forever.
Drawers open and close upstairs. Soft footsteps. The rustle of clothes being shoved into a bag.
“What about my princess cup?” the little girl asks.
“We’ll get you a new one. I promise. But we have to go now, Lily.”
“Okay.”
The neighbors door slams and the dog stops barking.
Silence.
I can hear his cursing as he stomps back toward the house.
Fuck.
I duck back to the windows, hiding my massive form behind a curtain.
It’s not perfect, but it’ll do in a pinch.
“Izzy,” the little voice trembles. “Izzy, he’s coming back.”
“I know, baby. I know. Come on, we’ll go out the back—”
The front door crashes open.
“ISABEL!”
The roar shakes the walls. I hear the little girl scream, hear Isabel shushing her, hear footsteps pounding up the stairs.
“You think I’m fucking stupid?” His voice is closer now, climbing. “Think I don’t know you’ve been sneaking around? The Duncans saw you creeping through their yard!”
“Lily, hide. In the closet, like we practiced. Don’t come out no matter what.”
“But Izzy—”
“Do it!”
A door creaks, and I hear Isabel’s voice, steady despite the looming threat. “Leave her alone. I’m the one you want. Let me take her and we’ll go. You’ll never see either of us again.”
A bark of ugly laughter. “Let you take her? She’s mine. My blood. You think I’m gonna let some ungrateful little bitch steal what belongs to me?”
“She doesn’t belong to anyone. She’s a child—”
The crack of flesh on flesh. A cry of pain.
White-hot fury floods my veins.
I’m moving, pounding across the room toward the stairs.
“You always thought you were better than me,” he snarls. Another blow lands. “Too good for this family. Running off to that hospital, making me look like a fool—”
“I fell down the stairs.” Isabel’s voice is thick, wet. “That’s what you told everyone, isn’t it? That’s what you always tell everyone—”
Another crack. She cries out.
My jaw locks so tight I feel my teeth creak. My vision narrows to a single red point. Every muscle in my body is screaming for violence—the kind of violence I’ve spent years burying, years pretending I outgrew.
I’m going to kill the fucker.
I hit the top of the stairs.
He’s standing over her, massive and mean, fist raised for another blow. Isabel is on the floor, arms protecting her head, blood streaming from her nose. The closet door is cracked open an inch—a small, terrified eye peering through.
My chest cracks open, bleeding from a wound that’s decades deep.
I know what it’s like to be small and helpless, watching violence unfold and praying you stay invisible. Know what it feels like to hold your breath so long your lungs burn, to make yourself as small as possible, to pray that this time—this time—it won’t be your turn.
And I know Isabel too. Know what it costs to put yourself between a monster and someone you love. Know the particular kind of courage it takes to stand up when you know you’re going to lose.
The rage that floods through me is cold. Controlled. The kind of anger that doesn’t burn hot and fast—it freezes everything down to a single, crystal-clear purpose.
He’s never going to touch either of them again.
“Hey, fuck head.”
He spins. His eyes go wide when he sees me—all six-four of me filling the hallway.
“Who the fuck—”
I don’t let him finish.
ISABEL
The blows stop.
There’s a crash. A grunt. Something heavy hits the wall.
I lift my head, vision blurry, and see—
A man. He’s huge. Bigger than my stepfather, Jared. Bigger than anyone I’ve ever seen. He has wild red hair and a beard like some kind of Game of Thrones character, with shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light.
He pins Jared against the wall by his throat, lifting him until his feet kick uselessly.
Jared’s face is turning purple. His eyes bulge. His hands claw uselessly at the stranger’s grip.
Good.
The thought should horrify me. It doesn’t. I watch him struggle and I feel nothing but cold, vicious satisfaction. After everything he’s done—to me, to Lily, to our mother before she died—he deserves every second of this.
I’ve never seen our hero before in my life. But I think I might marry him.
“Get your sister.” The man tells me, his voice calm. Terrifyingly so. “I own the black sedan down the street. Keys are in it. Go and take her there.”
I can’t move.
“Now.”
The command cuts through my shock. I scramble up, everything screaming in protest, and stumble to the closet.
“Lily. Baby. We have to go.”
She launches into my arms. I hold her despite the fire in my shoulder, the blood on my face.
“Don’t look,” I tell her, pressing her face to my neck. “Eyes closed. Hold on.”
I carry her past the stranger and my stepfather —past the choking sounds I can’t bring myself to care about. Down the stairs. Through the living room. Out the front door.
The night air hits me like salvation.
The sedan is where he’s said. I get Lily into the backseat, climb in beside her, holding her while she sobs.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “We’re safe now.”
I don’t know if it’s true. I don’t know who that man is or why he’s saved us or what comes next.
But Lily is in my arms, and we’re out of that house, and for now, that’s enough.
brICK
I wait until I hear the front door close.
Then I give this fucker my full attention.
I let go of his throat. He drops to the floor, gasping, scrambling backward until he hits the wall.
“Please—” he starts.
I don’t let him finish.
My fist connects with his face—once, twice, three times. His nose breaks on the second hit, blood spraying across my knuckles. He tries to curl up, protect himself, but I grab him by the shirt and haul him up, slam him against the wall again.
“That’s for her face,” I say.
I drive my knee into his gut. He doubles over, retching.
“That’s for every hit you just landed.”
I let him fall. Then I kick him—hard—in the side. Once. Twice. Again. Every bruise I saw on Isabel’s face, I give back double.
He’s sobbing now. Begging. Curled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood and piss, hands raised like they can stop me.
They can’t.
I crouch down, grab a fistful of his hair, and force him to look at me.
“That little girl was hiding in a fucking closet.” My voice is cold as ice. “Shaking. Terrified. Because of you.”
I slam his head against the floor. Not hard enough to kill. Just hard enough to ring his bell for a week. Or three.
“They’re mine now.” I let that sink in. “They belong to me and the Stoneheart MC. You don’t touch them. You don’t look for them. You don’t even think about them.”
“They’re my family—” he slurs through broken teeth.
“No.” I stand up. “They’re not. Not anymore.”
I kick him one more time in the groin. I want him to feel it every time he pisses for the next month.
He curls in on himself, screaming. I glare down at the pathetic, broken mess on the floor and spit in his face.
“If you come looking for them, I’ll finish what I started.”
I walk out without looking back.
ISABEL
The driver’s door opens and the stranger slides in—giving me my first real look at him. My initial impression was correct, he’s massive. Six-four at least, with shoulders that barely fit behind the wheel.
His knuckles are split and bleeding.
He starts the engine and pulls away without a word.
I don’t know his name. Don’t know why he’s been there. Don’t know anything except that he’s walked into that house and done what I’ve tried to do for six years.
We drive in silence. Lily has cried herself out, her face pressed against my chest.
Then she stirs.
“Izzy?” Her voice is tiny. “Where’s Mr. Flopsy?”
My heart cracks.
The go-bag. I’ve had it—upstairs, before everything went wrong. Lily’s clothes, the money I’ve saved, her toy rabbit. I must have dropped it when he—
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I lost—”
Something lands on the seat beside me.
It’s Lily’s backpack, the worn purple canvas bulging—filled far fuller than I originally packed it.
“Dig in, kid,” the stranger says.
Lily sits up and unzips the bag, gasping.
“Mr. Flopsy!” She pulls out the worn rabbit, clutching it like a lifeline. “Izzy, he got Mr. Flopsy! And my purple shirt! And my crayons! Look! My princess cup!”
I stare at the bag. The slowly lift my gaze to the rearview mirror, where dark eyes meet mine.
He’d not only rescued us, he’d been thoughtful enough to grab a six-year-old’s stuffed rabbit.
My eyes burn.
I can’t speak. Can’t find words for what I’m feeling.
So I just look at him in the mirror and mouth two words.
“Thank you.”
He jerks his chin up. Once in acknowledgment. Then he turns his eyes back to the road.
We don’t speak for the rest of the drive. Don’t need to.
Lily falls asleep against my shoulder, Mr. Flopsy clutched in her arms. I watch the streetlights pass, one after another, carrying us away from everything I’ve known.
I don’t know where we’re going. Don’t know what comes next.
I touch Mr. Flopsy’s ear, my mind going blank as he drives through the streets of Stoneheart.
The Stoneheart MC clubhouse appears in the distance. Lights blazing, people spilling out the front door.
The stranger pulls into the lot and kills the engine.
Fuck, he’s a biker.
I don’t know what to do with this information.
“Ready?” he asks.
First word he’s spoken since dig in, kid.
I look at the crowd—strangers, all of them, waiting for us. Look at Lily, still sleeping. Look at my own reflection in the window—bruised, bloody, broken.
These are the people who came for us when no one else did.
“No,” I admit.
“But you’ll do it anyway?”
I gesture at Lily. “I have to. For her, right?”
He nods like that’s the right answer. I stay put as he gets out and opens my door, offers his hand.
I take it.
His grip is warm and steady, and when he helps me out of the car, he doesn’t let go until I find my footing.
Then a woman is rushing toward us—small, blonde, wearing enough sequins to blind someone.
Ginger.
She’s already tried to mother me since I’ve been here, so I brace, expecting her to run to me. Instead, she throws herself at the stranger.
“Bradley! Oh my god, your hands! Is that blood? Whose blood is that?”
Bradley.
So that’s his name.
“I’m fine, Ging,” he says, but his eyes flick to me. Making sure I’m still standing.
I am. Barely.
Another woman appears—older, with kind eyes and capable hands. “Let’s get you inside, honey.”
I pull back, turning to bend down and gather my sleeping sister into my arms.
Lily stirs as I pick her up “Izzy? Where are we?”
I look at the clubhouse. At the people gathering around us. At the stranger named Bradley, who’s packed a rabbit for a little girl he’s never met, but who he knew would need it.
“Somewhere safe.”