Chapter 3
Talia
As soon as the door shuts behind Shadow, I lock it.
Deadbolt. Chain. Chair under the handle.
All of it.
Then I stand there, staring at my masterpiece of motel-room security like cheap furniture and panic are suddenly a survival strategy.
Great.
Fantastic.
This is my life now.
Room twelve smells like old carpet, bleach, and bad decisions. The lamp on the nightstand throws yellow light across one bed with a brown comforter, one tiny table, two mismatched chairs, and a television bolted to the wall like someone once tried to save it from itself.
The curtains are closed, but they’re thin enough that red neon leaks around the edges. Every few seconds, the VACANCY sign outside flickers, and the room blinks red.
Like a warning.
Like a heartbeat.
Like the universe has decided subtlety is overrated.
I press both palms against my thighs and force myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Normal people breathe all the time. I can absolutely do this.
Except normal people did not spend the last hour spying on a villa, getting grabbed in a garden, being shot at, and riding down a mountain on the back of a motorcycle with a man called Shadow.
A man whose real name is Jayce.
Jayce.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
We are not thinking about the way his name sounded in his own mouth. Low. Rough. Like something private he didn’t give away often.
We are also not thinking about his hands.
Or his shoulders.
Or the way he looked at me like I was something fragile and dangerous at the same time.
I’m in a motel room with a stranger.
A biker stranger.
A violent, terrifying, weirdly calm biker stranger who shoved me on his motorcycle and told me Landon was already hunting me.
My stomach turns.
Landon.
His voice on the terrace comes back so sharply I feel cold all over again.
The sister’s asking questions.
The diner girl.
I wrap my arms around myself.
A sound scrapes outside.
I jerk so hard my hip bumps the table.
Silence.
Then footsteps pass the room, slow and heavy.
My heart slams against my ribs.
I back away from the door until my calves hit the bed. The mattress squeaks under the tiniest pressure, loud enough to make me glare down at it.
“Traitor,” I whisper.
The footsteps keep going.
A car door opens somewhere outside. Closes. A man coughs. Ice drops into a bucket with a violent rattle that nearly sends my soul out through my nose.
I press a hand to my chest.
“Okay,” I breathe. “Okay. We are not dying because of frozen water.”
My phone.
The thought hits like a lifeline.
I yank it from my jacket pocket, ready to call, text, do something that makes me feel less like a sitting duck in boots.
The screen stays black.
I press the button.
Nothing.
I press it again.
Still nothing.
Dead.
Of course it’s dead.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Wonderful. Love the commitment to ruining me.”
I search the nightstand drawer. There’s a Bible, two takeout menus, an old pen, and a frayed charging cord already plugged into the lamp.
I plug my phone in and crouch there until the dead battery symbol appears.
It might as well be laughing at me.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the black screen.
No Brianna.
No Dad.
No anyone.
Just me, a locked door, and the knowledge that if Shadow doesn’t come back, I have exactly one can of pepper spray and a very passionate will to live.
A knock hits the door.
I leap to my feet.
“Who is it?” My voice comes out too high.
A pause.
Then, from the other side, low and dry, “Man you bit.”
My shoulders drop.
Then I hate that they drop.
I move the chair, unhook the chain, and crack the door open with the pepper spray aimed through the gap.
Shadow looks down at the can.
Then at me.
“You planning to season me?”
“I’m keeping options open.”
His mouth twitches. He lifts his hands, both full of snacks and water bottles. “Food.”
I open the door wider. “That is a horrifying amount of vending machine cuisine.”
“You hungry or picky?”
“Both, actually.”
He steps inside, and the room gets smaller.
It’s immediate. Ridiculous. Scientifically unfair.
He is too big for this room. Too broad for the doorway, too dark for the light, too alive for the stale air. He sets the snacks on the table like he’s unloading supplies before a siege.
Chips. Crackers. Peanut butter cups. Granola bars. Two bottles of water. A packet of cookies shaped like animals.
After I let him in, I drift back toward the tiny table because it feels safer than the bed and less ridiculous than hiding behind the chair again.
I pick up the cookies. “Are these for me or did you panic?”
“They had protein.”
I stare at the tiny bear on the package.
“This is a cookie.”
“Eat.”
“You have a very limited range of conversation.”
“It works.”
“Does it?”
“You opened the door.”
“That was for the snacks.”
His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second.
My pulse trips like an idiot.
I tear open the cookies just to have something to do with my hands. “For the record, if this is dinner, I’m leaving a bad review.”
“Eat first. Review later.”
I bite the head off a cookie bear.
Shadow watches like this is somehow meaningful.
“What?” I ask around the cookie.
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing look.”
“You’re bleeding again.”
I look down at my palm. One of the cuts has reopened, a thin red line against skin scraped raw from gravel and bad choices.
“It’s fine.”
He reaches for me.
I step back.
His eyes narrow.
“I said it’s fine.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“No, you just started doing that thing where you silently decide you’re in charge.”
“In this room, with men hunting you, I am.”
I laugh once. “Absolutely not.”
His voice lowers. “Let me see your hand.”
I should argue.
I want to argue.
Instead, I hold it out, because apparently almost being killed has made my body very interested in betrayal.
He takes my wrist carefully. That’s the worst part. Not the strength. The care. His thumb rests near my pulse, and I know he can feel it jumping.
He looks at the cut, then grabs one of the clean motel towels from the bathroom, wets a corner, and comes back.
“No alcohol?” I ask.
“Want me to burn it?”
“No.”
“Then don’t complain.”
“I can complain and accept medical assistance. Women are complex.”
He huffs under his breath, almost a laugh.
Victory.
He wipes the fresh blood from my palm. It stings, but I bite the inside of my cheek and refuse to flinch. His head is bent over my hand, dark hair touched with silver, lashes casting shadows under the ugly lamp.
I notice things I should not notice.
The scar near his knuckle.
The vein along his wrist.
The way he smells like leather and cold air and something that makes the room feel less temporary.
“How many brothers are in your club?” I ask, because silence is dangerous.
“Enough.”
“Very informative.”
His gaze flicks up.
I lift my brows. “What? Am I under biker protection or joining a cult? I feel like I deserve basic orientation.”
His hand stills.
The air shifts.
Then I remember what he told me. Orphanage. Cult. Labor. Obedience.
My stomach drops.
“Oh God. I’m sorry. That was stupid. I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
But his voice is flatter now.
I swallow. “I talk too much when I’m nervous.”
“I noticed.”
“I also talk too much when I’m not nervous, so this is less of a symptom and more of a lifestyle.”
That gets the corner of his mouth to move again.
Barely.
But it moves.
He lets go of my hand and reaches for his earpiece when it crackles.
“Talk, Ghost,” Shadow says.
A deep voice comes through. “Havoc’s updated. Viper’s checking routes out of Black Pines. Sin’s digging into shell names on the villa. Ace is on standby if this turns into an extraction.”
I go still.
Names. Men. Movement.
All because of me?
Shadow’s gaze cuts to mine, warning me to stay quiet.
I do, but barely.
“What about Salazar?” Shadow asks.
“Agitated,” Ghost says. “He’s got men asking around Swoon Peaks for the diner girl.”
My mouth goes dry.
Shadow’s face changes.
Not much.
Enough.
“The diner?” he asks.
“Pie & Pickle. Her apartment too, according to a contact near Landon’s crew. They checked both and came up empty. For now.”
Her.
Me.
The room tilts a little.
I grab the edge of the table.
Shadow steps closer before I even sway. His hand lands at my lower back, steady and warm.
I should move away.
I don’t.
“Tell Havoc she’s under Saints protection,” Shadow says.
My head jerks up.
Ghost goes quiet in his ear.
Shadow doesn’t look away from me. “You heard me.”
“I heard something about protection, yes. I did not hear myself agreeing to become a group project for leather-wearing strangers.”
His eyes harden. “You became involved when Landon said your name on that terrace.”
“I was already involved. Brianna is my sister.”
“And now Salazar’s men are looking for you.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
That hits harder than it should.
Because nobody says that to me.
Nobody.
Ghost makes a sound through the earpiece, quieter this time. Not a laugh. Something else.
Shadow taps the mic. “Not helping.”
“Wasn’t trying,” Ghost says. Then, colder, “Keep her there. We’ll move when Havoc says.”
The line cuts.
I stare at Shadow. “Saints protection. What does that mean?”
“It means nobody touches you unless they want all of us.”
The words should scare me.
They do.
They also do something else, low in my chest, something warm and stupid and dangerous.
I look away first.
“Does that come with a pamphlet?”
“No.”
“Return policy?”
“No.”
“Customer service number?”
“Just me.”
My cheeks warm, and I hate them.
I hate the way my body reacts to two simple words, like they’re a promise instead of a warning. I hate the little dip in my stomach, the flutter under my ribs, the stupid, traitorous part of me that hears just me and thinks safe.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand behind me.