Cold as Stone (Stoneheart MC #3)

Prologue

KYA

Faster! Keep running!

The unexpected sleet cuts through the October air like tiny glass shards, each drop a frozen needle against my skin.

My pajamas—a faded pink shirt a size too small, and long leggings with a raggedy hole in one knee—cling to my body like wet tissue paper.

The thin cotton does nothing against the cold that seeps into my bones, but I don’t stop.

Can’t stop.

My lungs burn with each ragged breath, the frigid air slicing through my throat like broken glass.

Every inhale is a struggle, choppy and painful, but I force myself to keep going.

My stomach churns with terror, twisted into knots so tight I taste bile.

The panic claws at my insides, making my hands shake and my vision blur at the edges, but the fear of what’s behind me is stronger than the fear of what’s ahead.

The cracked sidewalk bites at my bare feet with each slapping step, and I taste copper in my mouth where I’ve bitten my tongue.

The street lights blur past in streaks of yellow, like fallen stars smeared across my vision.

Houses huddle behind their neat little fences, windows glowing amber and gold.

Here, on the richer side of town, families rest safely inside their perfect little homes.

It’s only a few miles from my own run-down trailer, and yet it’s a world away from the dank, dirty, and dangerous place I just fled.

The image of him—reeking breath, hand tightening around my wrist—flares in my mind like a flashbang. I shove it down, deeper.

Keep moving.

My pulse stutters wildly, hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Nausea churns in my gut, bile rising to coat my mouth with a bitter burn. The memory sends ice through my veins even as my skin burns with shame and terror. I shove it down, deeper.

Don’t think. Hurry!

I take a sharp left, nearly slipping as my foot hits a slick patch of leaves. The sleet’s coming harder now, icy needles lashing my face. But I see it. Emma’s house.

My feet carry me down the frozen sidewalk, past the park where we’d swing until our legs ached and talk about all the places we’d go together when we grew up.

That was before she left and everything changed.

Tears streak down my cheeks, blending with the sleet.

Fuck. I’m still here, trapped, counting down the days until my eighteenth birthday when I can finally escape this hell. Nine months, two weeks and three days.

The porch light’s on, music thumping inside, laughter spilling out into the storm like it’s just another Friday night. Motorcycles line the driveway—big, chrome beasts that gleam even in the dim streetlight. Harley-Davidsons mostly, with a few others I don’t recognize.

This isn’t the house I remember. Emma’s house was quiet, filled with the smell of her mom’s lavender candles and the sound of classical music drifting from the piano in the front room. This house thrums with masculine energy, all leather and motor oil and something darker that makes my pulse skip.

But I don’t have anywhere else to go.

The ancient oak that Emma and I climbed a thousand times is gone.

Just a stump now, surrounded by sawdust that’s turned to mud in the rain.

We used to shimmy up its thick trunk to Emma’s second-story window, spending countless nights whispering secrets and planning our futures.

She was going to be a prima ballerina. I was going to do anything that made me enough money to get out of this hick town.

We were going to be best friends forever.

I was so stupid.

Now I stand at the front door like a stranger, my hand shaking as I touch the knob. The porch light flickers, casting dancing shadows across the worn wooden planks.

It’s a party. I’ll just slip in and hide in the crush. If I can get to Emma’s room, I’ll be safe. It’s just for the night. One night. No one will even know I’ve been here.

The music pounds through the door, and I can hear voices—deep, rough laughter that makes something in my stomach flutter with nerves.

These aren’t the high school or college boys who hang around the diner where I work.

These are men. Real men, with callused hands and scars and stories I probably don’t want to know.

But it’s too late to run now. I’m soaked through and shivering so hard my teeth sound like castanets. If I don’t get warm soon, I’ll collapse right here on the porch.

I go to turn the knob, but the door is already opening. Warm air rushes out to greet me, carrying the scents of beer and cigarettes and something else—leather and motor oil and soap.

I stumble, nearly face-planting into a wall of muscle.

A wall of Harley “Lee” Armstrong. Emma’s older brother.

The original bad boy blueprint.

I nursed the biggest crush on him. The can’t-breathe, can’t-speak, write-his-name-in-the-margins-of-your-math-book kind.

But I never told anyone.

Not even Emma. Especially not Emma.

Lee had that lazy, untouchable energy that made you wonder if he even knew how attractive he was—or if he just didn’t care. He’d always been tall, lean, and ridiculously good-looking. Half the girls in our grade had dated him, and the other half had wished we were able to.

He had this way of looking through people, not cruel, just… unreachable. But every now and then, you’d catch his attention and it would be on you—completely. I lived for those moments, when he’d flash his sideways smirk, lazy and amused, seemingly impressed that you could engage his attention.

He could have easily been an ass, but for some reason that wasn’t who Lee was.

He was the kind of guy who always slid me the last piece of pizza, seemingly knowing I was starving but too polite to take it.

He’d been Emma’s champion, carrying her backpack when it was too heavy, and warning her about guys who weren’t good enough for his little sis.

He had this way of being quietly protective without making a big deal about it. Like the time Danny Morrison was giving me grief about being trailer trash. Lee just… appeared. He hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, all six-foot-two of controlled danger. Danny hadn’t bothered me again.

But when he got mad—really mad—it was like watching a summer storm. Not wild or explosive. Just focused. Controlled. Terrifying in the way distant thunder is, because you know the storm is coming, and you know it’s going to be biblical.

But that boy? He’s long gone.

My gaze drifts up, noting that he’s filled out, his shoulders now broad enough to block the porch light.

His dark hair is shorter, military-neat but long enough on top that it falls across his forehead.

A few days’ worth of stubble shadows his jaw, and there’s a hardness in his eyes that was never there before.

But it’s the leather cut stretched across his chest that stops me cold. Stoneheart MC arcs across his shoulders in bold white letters. Prospect is patched beneath it, marking him as someone working to earn membership in the club.

Damn and double damn.

Lee’s eyes go wide as they take me in. My soaked clothes cling to every curve of my too-abundant body. My bare feet burn with cold, and I’m painfully aware that I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand.

“Shit.” His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher around the edges. “Kya?”

The sound of my name on his lips hits me like a physical blow. I haven’t heard it said with anything approaching tenderness in so long that I almost start crying right there on his doorstep.

Instead, I turn away. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—this was stupid. I’ll just—”

His hand closes around my arm before I can take a step, firm but gentle. His skin is warm against mine, and I can feel the calluses on his palm, the strength in his fingers.

“Whoa. Stop.” He tugs me back around to face him, his brow furrowed with concern. “What the hell happened to you?”

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. My jaw won’t work right, my teeth chattering too hard to form words. All I can do is stand there and shake like a leaf in a hurricane while he studies my face with those penetrating green eyes.

“Christ,” he mutters, and then his hand is on my back, guiding me through the door. “You’re frozen solid. Come on.”

The warmth inside hits me like a wall, and I gasp at the sudden change in temperature.

The house is full of noise and bodies—men in leather cuts clustered around the kitchen island, a few women in tight jeans and barely-there tops draped over various pieces of furniture.

Someone’s playing pool, the crack of balls echoing over the music.

They all turn to look when Lee guides me inside, and I want to disappear. I’m acutely aware of how I must look like a drowned racoon. Next to these put-together women with their perfect hair and confident smiles, I feel like exactly what I am, a scared little girl.

But Lee doesn’t seem to notice their stares. He keeps his hand on my back, steering me toward the stairs.

“Lee?” one of the men calls out—a guy with graying temples and a patch I can’t quite make out on his cut. He’s older than most of the men in the room, more weathered, but his eyes are kind when they land on me. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, Duck. Just taking care of something.” Lee’s voice is carefully neutral, but there’s an edge to it that makes the other man nod and turn back to his conversation.

The stairs creak under our combined weight as Lee guides me up, his hand never leaving my back.

The hallway at the top is dimmer, lit only by a small lamp on a side table.

Family photos line the walls showing Emma at various dance recitals, Lee in his military dress uniform, the whole family at some long-ago Christmas.

He pushes open the bathroom door and flips on the heat lights.

“Shower. Now.” His tone brooks no argument. “Hot as you can stand it. I’ll grab you some clothes.”

I nod mutely, still too cold and shocked to protest. He starts to leave, then pauses in the doorway.