Branded By Shadow (Damned Saints MC #10)

1. Chapter 1

Talia

The first thing I learn about spying on a criminal’s mountain villa is that cute boots are a terrible life choice.

The second thing I learn is that pine needles are loud.

Like, offensively loud.

Every step I take snaps, crunches, or skids beneath me, each tiny sound punching my heart higher in my throat. I freeze behind a pine tree, one hand pressed to the rough bark, the other wrapped around the can of pepper spray I bought at the gas station outside Swoon Peaks.

The cashier had looked at me, then at the pepper spray, then at my outfit and said, “Better than nothing.”

Super comforting.

Exactly the phrase a woman wants echoing in her head while crouching in the dark like a raccoon with poor decision-making skills.

The villa sits above me on the slope, huge and glowing through the trees, while the old service road waits somewhere below my back. Stone walls. Wide black windows. A rear terrace washed in warm golden light. Music pulses from inside, vibrating through the cold mountain air.

I came up from the old service road because the front gate had cameras, guards, and one of those big iron fences that screamed rich people with secrets.

Back here, the woods climb right up to the edge of the property.

A low stone retaining wall separates the tree line from the landscaped garden wrapping around the side of the house.

Beyond that wall are shrubs, flower beds, a narrow strip of gravel, and a row of tall windows. One smaller service window near the kitchen is cracked open, letting out heat, voices, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

That’s my target.

Not that I know what I’m doing, but it’s the only opening I can see, and I am currently running on fear, caffeine, and the fact that my missing stepsister needs me.

Brianna.

Her name tightens around my ribs.

I glance at my phone again even though I already know what it says.

No new messages.

The last text from her came three days ago.

Stop worrying, T. I’m fine.

She added a heart emoji.

Brianna only uses heart emojis when she wants me to stop asking questions.

I should have pushed harder. Should have driven to her apartment the second Landon started answering her phone. Should have listened to the sick little pinch in my stomach when she first walked into the Pie & Pickle with him.

Landon Gillbert. Fake smile. Expensive watch. Hand too tight on the back of her neck.

He works for Salazar Huntington, according to Manny from the diner, who hears things because people forget kitchen staff have ears. Salazar owns clubs, lounges, half the shady nightlife around Blissmont County, and apparently this mountain villa where girls are brought for private parties.

Girls like my stepsister.

A car door slams somewhere near the front of the house.

I duck lower behind the pine.

Men laugh. A woman squeals, too bright and too loud. Another car rolls up the drive, tires crunching over gravel. I can’t see the front entrance from here, only the spill of headlights cutting through gaps in the trees as cars climb the drive.

My phone buzzes with a low battery warning.

“Of course,” I whisper. “Perfect timing, you dramatic little rectangle.”

I shove it into my jacket pocket and stare at the retaining wall.

It comes up to my ribs.

Climbable, technically.

Friendly? Absolutely not.

I wait until the guard pacing the rear terrace turns away, then hurry across the last stretch of dirt and pine needles. My boots slide once, and I nearly face-plant into a bush, but I catch myself on the wall.

Tiny victory.

I grab the top stones and haul myself up.

This is where an athletic woman would swing over gracefully.

I am not that woman.

I am built for long mornings over a hot stove, kneading dough, flipping hash browns, carrying giant bags of flour because Pete at the diner says he’ll help and then mysteriously vanishes whenever lifting is required.

I am soft thighs, round hips, and a deep personal hatred of cardio.

So I get one leg over the wall, make a small dying sound, and end up straddling it like an anxious gargoyle.

“Okay,” I breathe. “We’re fine.”

The universe disagrees.

A flashlight sweeps across the woods behind me.

Voices drift closer.

I freeze.

“Thought I heard something,” a man says.

“It’s the trees,” another answers. “Or maybe a deer.”

Yes.

Exactly.

A curvy, terrified deer in discount boots.

The flashlight moves away.

I exhale, shift my weight, and promptly tumble over the wall.

I land in a hydrangea bush.

For one full second, all I know is leaves, dirt, and the deep spiritual humiliation of being defeated by landscaping.

Then music pulses from inside the villa, and reality snaps back into place.

I crawl out of the bush and crouch low in the side garden. The cracked service window is ten feet away. The rear terrace is farther down, maybe fifteen or twenty feet past the corner, close enough that if someone steps outside, they could see me.

Fantastic.

Perfect.

Love that for me.

I brush leaves from my hair and creep toward the window. Gravel bites beneath my palms when I kneel under it. I tilt my head, barely breathing.

Voices spill out.

Male voices.

“Salazar wants them moved before dawn.”

My blood turns cold.

“Too much attention in Black Pines,” another man says. “He doesn’t want the girls here after tonight.”

Girls.

My stomach drops.

I press one hand over my mouth.

Brianna could be one of the girls.

The world blurs for a second. I see her at sixteen, sitting on my bed in my oversized sweatshirt, crying because some girl at school called her trash. I see myself brushing her hair back and promising I’d handle it.

I always handled it.

Our family was complicated before I even knew what complicated meant.

My mother left when I was little, and Dad raised me alone until he married Brianna’s mom.

She was a widow. Brianna was the bright-eyed girl who showed up with too-big feelings, too many empty spaces, and a talent for making me feel like I was the only person who could fill them.

Then our parents fell so hard into each other they forgot to look down and notice us.

By the time I turned eighteen, they were more gone than home, chasing trips and fresh starts and whatever made them feel young.

So I packed Brianna’s lunches. Bought her makeup. Gave her my clothes when she cried that nothing of hers looked right. Paid her phone bill when she swore she’d pay me back and somehow made me feel cruel for asking.

I raised her more than anyone else did. And I am not leaving without answers.

Something clicks somewhere near the rear terrace.

I jerk away from the window, stumble backward, and hit something solid.

A hand clamps over my mouth.

An arm bands around my waist and yanks me back against a body so hard and warm my panic explodes.

I thrash.

The arm tightens.

“Quiet,” a low voice growls against my ear.

My heart nearly stops.

The voice is deep. Rough. Calm in a way that makes my fear even worse.

I stomp down on his boot.

Nothing.

I elbow his stomach.

Also nothing.

The man is apparently made of concrete and bad intentions.

So I bite his palm.

He grunts.

Not in pain, exactly.

More like a man mildly inconvenienced by wildlife.

“Little hellcat,” he mutters.

He drags me backward into a deep shadow between the villa wall and a tall hedge. His hand leaves my mouth, but his arm stays locked around me.

“If you scream,” he says, “they find you.”

“If you’re here to kill me,” I whisper, my voice shaking despite my best effort, “I’m going to make it very inconvenient.”

A beat passes.

His chest shifts against my back.

Was that a laugh?

It better not be. I deserve respect while being potentially murdered.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he says.

“That sounds exactly like what someone here to hurt me would say.”

“Fair.”

He turns me carefully, keeping me hidden in the shadows.

And I forget how words work.

He is huge.

Tall, broad, all black leather and hard muscle.

His dark hair is threaded with silver at the temples.

Stubble shadows his jaw. His face looks carved by weather, war, and a serious lack of patience.

But it’s his eyes that steal my breath. Dark gray.

Sharp. Watchful. The kind of eyes that don’t just look at a person.

They assess, measure, and decide whether the world needs to bleed for touching them.

A leather cut stretches over his shoulders.

The patch on his chest reads Damned Saints MC.

My stomach flips.

Everyone knows the Damned Saints. They ride through Lovestone Ridge and Swoon Peaks like thunder with moral issues. Rough men. Dangerous men. But they fix problems people are too afraid to report.

Locals trust them.

Criminals don’t.

Right now, I am deeply invested in being a local.

His eyes lock on mine, dark and steady.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“What are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“Cool. Same.”

His gaze drops over me, taking in my dirty jacket, scratched hands, and boots.

“You’re sneaking around Salazar Huntington’s villa in boots loud enough to wake the dead.”

“They were on sale.”

His jaw flexes.

I think he might be trying not to smile.

Rude.

“Name,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Your name.”

I hesitate. “I’m Talia.”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Less irritated. More careful.

“I’m with the Saints,” he says. “Got a tip about a sale here tonight.”

The word sale makes bile rise in my throat.

I grip the front of his cut before I can stop myself.

“My stepsister,” I whisper. “Brianna Hardy. She’s missing. Her boyfriend works for Salazar. Someone said she was seen here last weekend.”

He goes still.

Dangerously still.

“How old?”

“Twenty-one.”

“How long missing?”

“Three days. Maybe more. She texted, but it didn’t sound like her, and her boyfriend, Landon, keeps saying she’s busy, and I know how insane this looks, okay? I know I should have called someone. Should have had some backup.”

“You have.”

I blink. “What?”

His gaze stays on mine.

“You have me.”

Something about that lands too deep.

I do not like it.

I am not here to have feelings about a biker named whatever his name is while my sister is trapped inside a nightmare house.

“What do people call you?” I whisper.

“Shadow.”

Of course they do.

“That’s not a name. That’s a weather condition.”

His brows pull together.

“You always mouth off when you’re scared?”

“Yes. Also when I’m hungry, tired, nervous, or dealing with men who grab me in gardens.”

“You were about to get caught.”

“You still grabbed me.”

“Saved you.”

“Jury’s out.”

This time, the corner of his mouth moves.

Barely.

It should not feel like a victory.

It does.

The rear door opens.

Music spills into the garden.

Shadow moves instantly, pressing me back into the narrow dark beside the hedge. His body covers mine from view. My palms land on his chest.

Hard.

Warm.

Alive.

Two men step onto the terrace.

One lights a cigarette.

The tiny flare shows his face.

Landon.

I suck in a sharp breath.

Shadow’s hand slides over my mouth before the sound escapes.

I point with trembling fingers. His eyes follow.

Something lethal passes over his face.

Landon exhales smoke and laughs. “The sister’s asking questions.”

My skin goes cold.

“The diner girl?” the other man asks.

“Yeah. Talia.”

My name sounds dirty in his mouth.

“She’s not a problem,” Landon says. “I’ll handle her after tonight.”

The other man shrugs. “Salazar wants no mistakes. Fix this.”

My knees weaken.

Shadow’s arm wraps around my waist, holding me steady. I hate that I need it. I hate more that it feels good.

The men go back inside.

The door shuts.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then I shove at Shadow’s chest.

“I have to get her.”

“We will.”

“No. Now.”

“No.”

Anger flashes hot enough to cut through the fear.

“She’s my sister.”

“And if you run in there, they’ll have both of you.”

I know he’s right.

I hate him for it anyway.

My eyes burn, and I look away before he can see.

“I can’t leave her.”

“You’re not.” His voice lowers. “You’re staying alive long enough to get her out.”

Somewhere behind us, a shout cuts through the garden.

A sharp crack splits the night.

Stone explodes from the wall beside us.

I stare at the chips falling to the gravel.

Gunshot.

Shadow curses, grabs my hand, and pulls me into a run.

The garden blurs. Branches whip my face as we hit the trees. Men shout behind us. Another shot cracks through the dark.

I run as fast as I can, but panic turns my legs useless. My boots skid on loose dirt. My breath tears in and out of my chest.

Shadow catches me before I go down.

“Keep moving,” he snaps.

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

Another shot cracks behind us.

He hauls me closer, his grip firm around my hand, his body cutting through the trees like he belongs to the dark and the dark knows better than to get in his way.

We burst from the woods onto the old service road I’d used to sneak in.

A black motorcycle waits in the shadows like some kind of metal beast.

He swings on and shoves a helmet into my hands.

“Put it on.”

“I’ve never ridden one.”

“Tonight’s full of firsts.”

“That is not comforting.”

“Talia.”

My name in his voice stops me.

He looks calm. Hard. Certain.

“I’ve got you.”

Three words.

Simple.

Impossible.

I put on the helmet.

He pulls my arms around his waist.

“Hold tight.”

The engine roars beneath us.

Then we shoot forward into the dark, gunfire fading behind us, my cheek pressed to his back and my hands locked around a man called Shadow.

Brianna is still missing, and all I’ve done is prove how badly I failed her.