Chapter 6
Chaos
“Where the fuck is she?”
The leather couch where I left Rowan is empty. A cold wave of dread crashes over me, followed by white-hot fury.
Why the fuck did she leave? Where did she go? But I already know. She went home—Elmwood Street. Above the laundromat.
"Get a crew to her apartment," I bark at Fury. "Now."
I tear through the emptying warehouse. Everyone knows better than to get in my way when I'm like this.
She's gone. Alone. Unprotected.
And those cartel fucks might already be lying in wait for her.
I swing my leg over my Harley and fire up the engine.
She fucking left. Just walked out.
I gun it through the near-empty streets, running every red light.
My heart hammers against my ribs with each block I cover.
It's a feeling I'm not familiar with—this bone-deep, primal panic.
I've faced down rival clubs, cops, even did a stint in prison when I was younger, but nothing has ever terrified me like the thought of something happening to this woman—a woman I barely know.
The moment I pulled her from that dumpster, some fundamental piece of who I am rearranged itself around her. I didn't understand it then. I'm not sure I understand it now. All I know is I need to get to her before they do.
Elmwood appears ahead, and I throttle down, scanning the run-down buildings until I spot the decaying brick laundromat.
When I pull up outside, I kill the engine and scan the street. Nothing stands out. No suspicious vehicles. No lurking shadows.
The building itself is a shithole—crumbling brick, broken security door, graffiti climbing up the walls like urban ivy. The kind of place where no one asks questions. Where screams go ignored.
I take the stairs two at a time, my hand resting on the knife at my hip. The stairwell reeks of piss and weed. This is where my little dumpster girl lives? Rage rises up again—not at her, but at the circumstances that forced her here.
Her door is locked. I press my ear against it, straining to hear any movement inside. Nothing. I could knock. Should knock, probably. But if someone's in there with her, that would just alert them.
It takes me less than thirty seconds to pick the lock. The door swings open silently, and I slip inside, closing and re-locking it behind me without a sound.
The studio apartment is tiny, barely bigger than a walk-in closet. But besides the peeling paint and water stains on the ceiling, it's spotlessly clean. Everything is neatly arranged—books on a makeshift shelf, a small table with a single chair, a Murphy bed that's currently folded into the wall.
Faint sounds come from behind a closed door that must be the bathroom. She's home. I experience momentary relief before I remember why I'm here.
On the table sits a stack of textbooks. I pick one up. Advanced Pharmacology and Medication Therapy. Beside it, a notebook filled with meticulous handwriting—formulas, medication interactions, detailed diagrams. She’s trying to better herself. I admire that.
The sound of a toilet flushing pulls my attention just as I hear the unmistakable sound of someone testing the apartment's front door handle. Testing it quietly, carefully. Not someone who belongs here.
In three silent strides, I cross to the bathroom, slip inside, close the door behind me, and find myself chest-to-face with a very startled, very naked Rowan.
Her mouth opens to scream, but I move fast, covering her mouth—not with my hand, which would be the logical choice, but with my own mouth.
The kiss is electric, a jolt of pure fucking lightning that starts at my lips and shoots straight through my entire body, centering on my dick.
Her lips are soft, plush, and they part in surprise beneath mine.
I groan, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. My hands slide down to her waist, and Christ, her skin is like silk.
I could've used my palm to silence her. But I couldn't resist. Not with those full lips that have been haunting me since the moment I saw her. Not with her standing in front of me, all pale skin and rounded curves that my hands itch to explore.
She's all woman—lush breasts, soft belly, flared hips—and the feel of her silky skin is more intoxicating than any drug I've ever sampled. And I've sampled plenty.
The kiss deepens, my tongue tracing the seam of her mouth, demanding entry.
She hesitates only a moment before yielding.
A small whimper escapes her as I claim her more thoroughly.
My hands slide down to cup her ass, lifting her slightly, pressing her firmly against my hard cock.
Against the evidence of exactly how much I want to fuck her.
I want to devour her whole. Want to lay her out and taste every inch of her pale skin. The intensity of it staggers me, this overwhelming need.
But I hear the front door open.
I tear my mouth from hers, pressing my finger to her lips in a silent command to stay quiet.
Her eyes are huge, dilated with fear and…
desire, maybe? Her chest rises and falls rapidly, pink nipples hardened to tight buds.
It takes a good deal of willpower to drag my gaze from her body and focus on the threat beyond the bathroom door.
I mouth a single word to her—stay.
Then I slip out of the bathroom, closing the door silently behind me.
Two men stand in the middle of the apartment, both dressed in dark clothes. Cartel goons here to clean up loose ends. One wears a shoulder holster with what looks like a Glock. The other carries a knife strapped at his hip.
Clearly they were expecting a small, frightened young woman.
Seeing me must blindside them since they momentarily freeze.
I use that split-second delay to my advantage, and lunge.
The first man goes down without a sound—a hand over his mouth, knife slicing cleanly across his throat.
Hot blood cascades over my hand as I lower him to the floor.
The second man turns just in time to see his partner fall. He reaches for his gun, but I'm on him before his fingers close around the grip. I grab his head between my hands and twist violently, the crack of his spine breaking echoing in the small space.
It's over in less than thirty seconds. Two bodies, cooling on the cheap linoleum floor. I wipe my knife on one man's shirt before re-sheathing it.
When I open the bathroom door, Rowan is re-dressed in her dirty, garbage-stained clothes. Her face is pale, eyes still wide. I don’t like seeing her like this—scared and vulnerable.
"It's not safe here, sweetheart." I keep my voice gentle, like I'm talking to a frightened animal.
She hesitates, her gaze flicking toward the bathroom door and what lies beyond.
She looks up at me, those hazel eyes swimming with tears. "Where else—”
“You’re coming with me." I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to focus on me and not whatever horror she's imagining out there. "It's the safest place for you. I’ll protect you."
Confusion flickers across her features. "But my things—"
"We'll send someone for whatever you need." I stroke my thumb across her tear-stained cheek. "Do you trust me, sweetheart?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with everything that's happened tonight. The kiss. The killings. The unspoken energy crackling between us like a live wire.
She swallows hard, then nods. “I think so. Um…yes."
Good. "Close your eyes."
"What?"
"Close your eyes," I repeat, gentler this time. "And don't open them until I tell you to."
Understanding dawns. She doesn't want to see the bodies. Smart girl.
She places her trembling hand in mine, then squeezes her eyes shut. Her hand is so small, so delicate compared to my scarred, bloodstained one.
I quickly guide her through the apartment and down the stairs. As we step out onto the street, Fury and Demon are just pulling up with Fiend and Zeus right behind. Relief shows in their expressions when they see Rowan.
"All clear?" Demon asks.
I gesture to the building with a flick of my chin. "Two disposals and cleanup."
Demon nods, then does a double-take when he realizes what I'm about to do.
I guide Rowan to my Harley, then feel her hesitate.
"I've never been on a motorcycle before," she whispers, her voice small.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. Just hold onto me."
I lift her effortlessly, setting her on the back of my bike before swinging my leg over in front of her. Behind me, I hear the responses of my brothers—a sharp intake of breath, a muffled cough, a gasp of surprise.
I know exactly what's going through their heads. In fifteen years as President of the Renegade Kings, I've never allowed a woman on the back of my bike. Not once. It's an unwritten rule—my Harley is mine and I ride alone.
Until now.
"Wrap your arms around me," I tell her, reaching back to guide them around my waist. "And hold on tight."
Her arms circle me hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as I rev the engine.
As I pull away from the curb, my brothers stare in shock at my statement—unspoken, yet blaringly loud.
Rowan is not just any woman. She's my woman.
Now I just need to convince her of that.