Chapter 17 Scarlette #3
Moab brushed a strand of hair from my face, then helped me to my feet. I stood, taller than I’d ever felt, the fabric of the jeans stiff but strong against my thighs.
Edda clapped me on the back. “Let’s get you out of here, Scarlette,” she said. “You’ve seen enough of the old world for one day.”
Vin and Shivs limped over, both bandaged but upright, Shivs wearing a smile with only half his teeth. The Bastards formed up around us, the sound of engines already starting up again, the promise of movement and speed humming in the air.
I looked at Moab, at the pack, at the world that waited just beyond the trees.
Vin handed Moab a set of keys, metal glinting in the palm. Moab nodded, clapped Vin on the shoulder, and started toward me, the swagger in his step less a performance than a law of physics. I shivered, not from cold, but from the way his gaze locked on me and didn’t let go.
He stopped a few feet away and jerked his chin at the row of bikes lined up in the dawn. “Time to ride,” he said.
I looked at the machines, the shiny metal and black leather, the brutal logic of their design. Each bike looked like a puzzle only a god could solve. There were pipes and wheels and a thousand moving parts, all humming and alive. I shook my head, unable to find the words.
Moab grinned, wolfish. “Nothing to it.” He held out a hand, palm open.
I hesitated, glancing at Edda and the others, but no one was watching. They were busy with their own rituals: lighting cigarettes, counting ammunition, exchanging bruised laughs. The world had closed in to just this moment—me, Moab, the space between us.
I put my hand in his. He squeezed once, strong enough to remind me of everything we’d survived, then pulled me close, so close I could smell the sweat and blood and the aftershock of battle still clinging to his skin.
The motorcycle waited, squat and hungry, its seat slick with dew and the residue of the fight. Moab swung a leg over, then patted the seat behind him. “Climb on,” he said.
I did, carefully, the denim stiff against my thighs, the jacket bunching awkwardly at the shoulders.
I wrapped my arms around his waist, fingers lacing over the buckle of his belt, which someone had given him with his other clothes.
The heat of him was immediate, a pulse through the leather, and I felt a wave of something new—terror, yes, but also the wild thrill of surrender.
“Hold tight,” he said, and I did.
He kicked the bike to life, the engine’s roar so loud it drowned out every other sound.
My entire body vibrated, bones and teeth and skull, even my tongue shuddering in my mouth.
The smell was sharp and oily, nothing like the woodsmoke and pitch I’d grown up with.
It was chemical, modern, alive in a way that didn’t need nature’s permission.
The other Bastards mounted up in a loose formation, the pack falling into line with a choreography so smooth it felt rehearsed.
Edda led, her white hair streaming behind her as she throttled forward.
Vin and Shivs took the middle, flanked by two younger riders, one of whom had pink hair and a grin so wide it split his face in half.
Moab waited, letting the others pull ahead, then gunned the throttle.
The force of it nearly ripped me off the seat.
My arms cinched tight around his waist, face mashed into the curve of his back.
The trees whipped by, a blur of brown and green, the air cold and sharp in my lungs.
Every bump in the path bounced us skyward, every dip shot a bolt of terror through my spine.
But it was glorious. I had never moved so fast, not even as a wolf.
The world bent around us, the horizon pulling us forward, every turn a new risk, a new dare.
The wind tore at my hair, snapped it into my face, and stung my eyes with tears.
My thighs clenched tight, not just to hold on, but because the vibration of the engine was its own kind of ecstasy.
We broke from the trees onto a ribbon of black road, smooth as glass.
The bike straightened, and Moab leaned into the speed, the machine purring now, less a beast and more a partner.
The Bastards fanned out across the pavement, engines singing together, the sound a promise and a threat to anything in their way.
The road ahead curved up and away, vanishing into a fog that glowed silver in the new day. I pressed my cheek to Moab’s back and let myself believe that we could outrun anything—even fate.
He glanced over his shoulder, just long enough to catch my eye. “You good?” he yelled.
I wanted to laugh, to scream, to bite him, but all I could do was nod, hair streaming wild around my face.
He slowed enough to let us drift alongside Edda. She looked over, her face calm, the lines around her eyes deeper but softer in the light. She gave me a nod, a look that said, you’re with us now, and nothing can touch you here.
The pack rode on, the world unraveling behind us. Every mile was a promise kept, every heartbeat a victory over the men who’d tried to burn us, to bind us, to erase us.
As the sun broke through the fog, the world ahead looked endless.
I wrapped my arms tighter around Moab and leaned into the wind, ready to run with the wolves forever.