Chapter 9
Caleb
“It’s time,” he says, voice low and grim.
I glance down at Nya. She's curled beside me, her hair a halo of brown curls against my pillow, lips parted slightly as she sleeps.
Peaceful. Gorgeous.
Barely a few hours ago, she was trembling beneath me, soft gasps in my ear, her hands clinging to me like I was something worth holding on to.
She is everything.
My fingers brush over her cheek, and I lean down to kiss her. Soft, slow, like I want it to last until I’m back.
Her eyes flutter open, sleep-hazed and beautiful. “Mmm... what time is it?” she murmurs.
“Too early.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve got business. You stay here.”
Her eyes sharpen slightly. “The kind that involves danger?”
I hesitate, then brush my thumb across her cheek. “The kind that keeps people safe. Young girls this time.”
Her lashes lower, but she doesn’t push. She knows better than to ask for details I can’t give.
I kiss her again, memorizing the warmth of her lips. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t leave.”
She blinks, then gives a mock salute. “Yes, sir,” she says, sass dripping from her sleepy voice.
It almost makes me smile. Almost.
But the smile doesn’t last long.
Because we’re heading to the north pass. An ambush on a cartel convoy that our intel says is transporting girls.
We’ve stopped shipments like this before. Every time, it costs something. A piece of your soul. Your sleep. Your sanity.
But if it saves even one life, it’s worth it.
The ride is cold and sharp, the kind of October morning that cuts right through your layers. Six of us roll deep into the hills, headlights off, night vision in place. The mountain air is thin, heavy with tension.
Every bump in the road rattles my leg. The old injury throbs, nerves spiking with each shift of the clutch. I push through. Pain is just another thing you learn to ride with.
We set the spike strip and take cover behind the boulders flanking the road. Then we wait.
Two black SUVs. One box truck.
Right on time.
Viper launches the flare.
It rips through the dark sky like a firework from hell, casting blood-red light across the pass.
The lead SUV hits the spikes and screeches sideways. Doors fly open. Men pour out, guns drawn. Chaos erupts.
I fire twice. One drops. Another lunges at me, and I take him down with my blade. Clean, fast, brutal. My brothers are ghosts in the shadows, moving with practiced efficiency. Controlled fury.
Havoc yells, “Truck! Get the damn truck!”
We rip open the rear doors.
Inside: six girls. Teens. Maybe younger. Terrified. Wide-eyed.
My stomach turns. One of them’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering. Another clutches the hand of a smaller one. No more than nine.
Rage floods me. It roars in my blood. I want to go back in time and make sure none of these bastards even made it to the border.
But there’s no time for that.
We get the girls out. Havoc called the sheriff anonymously before we left. Sirens wail in the distance, cutting through the dawn. We disappear into the dark before they arrive.
By the time we make it back to the clubhouse, the sky’s starting to lighten. My body aches. My hands are still shaking. My jeans are stiff with blood. Some mine, most not.
All I want is her.
I head upstairs and push open my door.
Nya’s still asleep.
Curled beneath the blanket, one leg kicked out, hair tangled across the pillow. Her face is soft, her lips slightly parted, cheeks pink from sleep. She looks like everything I never believed I’d have.
Relief hits so hard I nearly stumble.
I kneel beside the bed, brushing her hair back, and press a kiss to her brow.
She stirs. Blinks up at me.
“Hey,” she whispers, voice hoarse with sleep. “You’re okay.”
“For now,” I rasp.
She sits up, cupping my face in both hands, eyes scanning me for injuries.
There’s blood on my hands. I pull back so I don’t stain her skin, but she doesn’t flinch.
“You saved them?” she asks softly.
“We saved some,” I say. “Not all.” My voice cracks on the words. “There are always more.”
Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me down until my forehead rests against her shoulder. I let her hold me. A twenty-year veteran of violence, and I melt in the arms of a girl who makes flowers arrangements and crochets stuffed animals for sick kids.
If the club saw me now, they'd laugh. Or they’d envy me.
But I don’t care.
Her fingers move in gentle circles on my back. “You did good,” she murmurs. “You did enough.”
She says it like she means it. Like it’s the only truth that matters.
Maybe one day I’ll believe it, too.
The sun’s barely up when I step into the shower. The water runs red at my feet. Blood. Dirt. Guilt.
By the time I emerge, she’s waiting for me.
Clean clothes folded on the dresser. Coffee. A bagel, toasted. She's curled in the chair by the window, watching me limp toward her.
“Your leg,” she says, her brow furrowed.
“Old injury,” I grunt, brushing it off.
Her lips press into a line. “I’ve seen it. First time you undressed.” She rises, walks to me, kneels at my feet. “But not like this.”
Her fingers trail over the scar tissue on my thigh. Gentle. Lovingly even.
“Does it hurt now?” she whispers.
“Less when you touch it,” I admit.
Something soft blooms in her eyes, warm and fierce all at once.
She leans in and presses a kiss to the scar.
Pain and pleasure blur until I can’t tell them apart.
“Nya,” I groan, voice ragged. “You keep that up, I’ll take you again. Right here. On the floor.”
She lifts her eyes, lashes low and teasing. “Maybe I want that.”
I reach for her.
But she pulls back, smoothing her skirt like she hasn’t just lit me on fire.
“But I think you should sleep first,” she says gently. “Come here.”
“I don’t want to take you after I’ve been out, killing people all night.”
Her expression hardens, jaw set. “You think blood makes you dirty.”
I don’t answer. She already knows.
“Well, it doesn’t. Not in this case,” she says fiercely. “It makes you a protector. My sister uses people like chess pieces, cuts them with her words, and still walks around like she’s a saint. I’d rather be stained with your kind of blood than her kind of cruelty.”
Her words slam into me like a punch to the gut.
I reach for her again, but she’s already standing.
“Eat the bagel,” she says, pointing to the plate. “And if you don’t sleep, I swear to God I’ll knock you out with lavender oil. I have some in my bag.”
Her bossiness would annoy me if it didn’t turn me on.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, voice low.
She smiles at me. A little smug. A little proud.
And a lot mine.