Diesel (Ironborn MC #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Diesel

Someone's in my cottage.

I kill the Harley's engine fifty yards out and coast the last stretch of gravel, headlights off. She growls low, then goes silent. I reach for the knife at my hip before my boots hit the ground.

The kitchen window glows where I left it dark this morning. Locked tight. Only Helen knows where I hide the spare, and she knows I don’t like visitors. Helen must've let someone in. Club business, most likely.

Or trouble.

I circle wide, staying in the tree line. There’s no car in the drive. Whoever's inside got dropped off.

The cottage isn't much—one bedroom, one bath, a kitchen I've spent eight months gutting and rebuilding because working with my hands keeps me sane.

I traded Murphy a full restoration on his '69 Chevelle for the place.

Worth every hour under that hood. It's where I go when the clubhouse gets too crowded with all the shit I'm never going to have.

Vargan's hand on the back of Savvy's neck when they walk into a room. Crow checking every exit before Maya sits down. The way Ash and Nova communicate in looks instead of words when shit's about to go sideways.

That's not in the cards for me.

Loving someone is a liability. Especially when that someone is human. They're fragile. One wrong move and they break. And they take pieces of you with them.

I learned that lesson young, and I learned it permanent.

I reach the back door and press my ear to the wood.

Someone's humming in my kitchen.

I know that voice.

I sheathe the knife and shove through the door hard enough to slam it against the wall.

Maya Johnson doesn't flinch. She's standing at my stove, stirring something that smells like garlic and butter and ulterior motives.

Crow's woman in my kitchen. Cooking.

"You're late," she says without turning. "I expected you twenty minutes ago."

"Funny thing about showing up uninvited. The other person doesn't know to be on time."

That makes her glance over her shoulder. Black hair pulled back, scrubs swapped for jeans and a sweater.

"Helen told me where to find the key."

"Helen had no right."

"Helen thinks you work too hard and eat like a feral raccoon." She turns back to the stove. "Her words, not mine. Sit down. Dinner's almost ready."

I don't sit.

I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. Maya doesn't make house calls. She doesn't drive out to the middle of nowhere on a Tuesday night to feed a grown orc who's been taking care of himself just fine for thirty-two years.

She wants something.

"I wanted to thank you," she says. "For fixing the autoclave at the clinic last week. And my car the month before. And the generator before that."

"Could've sent a card."

"I could have." She starts opening cabinets—first one's mugs, second one's nothing but protein powder—finds the plates on the third try. Pulls two down and dishes up pasta. "But I wanted to do something nice. Is that so hard to believe?"

"From you? Yeah."

She laughs, sets a plate on the table, and sits across from it and waits.

"Sit, Diesel. Eat. Then we'll talk about why I'm really here."

There it is.

I sit—not because she told me to, but because whatever she's selling, I'd rather hear it on a full stomach.

The pasta's damn good. Crow's all over the sauce—that perfect bloom of garlic that never burns. I eat while she watches.

"Spit it out," I say around a mouthful.

"Nova got a call this morning." Maya leans back. "Her old partner from Atlanta PD. Detective named Carver."

I stop chewing.

"Carver's been building a case against a man named Anthony Venetti for years," Maya continues.

"Atlanta crime boss. Murder-for-hire, racketeering, the works.

Almost a year ago, he finally got a witness.

A writer who interviewed the wrong inmate for research.

Guy started bragging about jobs he'd pulled—wanted to impress her.

Turns out those jobs trace straight back to Venetti. "

"Let me guess. She went to the cops."

Maya nods. “She did the right thing. Carver kept her off the radar for months, but six weeks ago her name hit discovery. He moved her to a safe house. Two nights ago, it got hit."

My hands tighten on the edge of the table.

"Night attack, coordinated. Someone knew exactly where to find her." Maya ticks off the details. "Two officers on protective detail went down. One took a bullet to the chest and didn't make it. The other, a detective working with Carver, took a round to the leg trying to cover her escape."

"She get hit?"

"Graze wound on her shoulder, cuts from broken glass, bruises." Maya pauses. "She barely made it out, Diesel. Ran into the woods and hid until backup found her."

"And now she needs somewhere else to go."

"Carver's had her stashed at some motel outside Atlanta since the attack, trying to figure out what to do.

He called Nova this morning when he ran out of options.

" Maya's jaw tightens. "Their safe house location was locked down.

No one should have found them. So either someone talked, or someone inside gave them up.

Either way, he can't trust the system anymore. "

She meets my eyes. "So he went outside the system to Nova. Nova brought it to Ash, Ash brought it to Vargan, and here I am."

I set down my fork. "That's not how this works."

"Diesel—"

"Nova to Ash, fine. Ash to Vargan, fine.

But then Vargan takes it to the war room.

We sit down, we talk it through, and Hammer weighs in.

That's how the club works." I lean back.

"Instead, I get Crow's woman cooking a bribe meal in my kitchen, which means Vargan and Hammer decided to skip the vote and run this sideways because they knew I'd say no. "

Maya doesn't deny it.

I push back from the table. "There's a trial in—what, just over a week? She needs to be in Atlanta for that."

"Eight days. And yes. But until then, she needs somewhere no one would think to look."

"And you thought of me."

"The club thought of you."

"Then the club can find someone else." I stand. "Get Ash to do it. Or Crow. Or literally anyone else."

"Ash is the sheriff. He disappears for a week, and people notice.

Crow would terrify her—she's been traumatized enough without waking up to him every morning.

" Maya stands too, her composure cracking.

"Knox isn't patched. Vargan can't walk away from his responsibilities.

You're the only one who can vanish without anyone asking questions. "

"And why's that? Because I'm the one nobody would miss?"

The words land heavily between us.

Maya holds my gaze for a beat before continuing. "Knox covers your garage. If anyone asks, Hammer called you to New York for club business." She steps closer. "Eight days. That's all. She testifies, Venetti goes away, and she's out of your life."

"I don't do babysitting. I don't do protection detail. And I sure as hell don't do locked in a cottage with a stranger."

"She's not a stranger. She's a witness." Maya's jaw sets. "A witness who did the right thing and has been running for her life ever since."

"And you pulled the short straw? Or did you volunteer?"

"Volunteered. Your brothers would've led with orders, and you would've told them to fuck off." She steps closer. "I lead with pasta and guilt. Much more effective. Plus, I’m the only non-member they can trust with this."

She's right. I would have told them to fuck off, and I still might.

"If this is a choice," I say slowly, "my answer is no."

Headlights sweep across the window. An engine cuts off. Maya's shoulders drop half an inch—relief. She'd been stalling.

"It's not a choice. She's already here."

A car door slams shut.

Maya crosses the room to the front door.

"You planned this whole thing. Played me from the second I walked in."

"I planned to appeal to your compassionate side." She opens the door before Nova can knock. "Which I know is buried in there somewhere."

Nova steps in first. Dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and her sharp eyes clock every exit before she even looks at me.

"I know Maya ambushed you," she says, not sounding sorry at all.

"But we couldn't chance you saying no. Carver will come for her right before the trial.

She just needs somewhere off-grid until then.

No one's coming to look in rural Georgia for a witness who's supposed to be in police protection. " She pauses, waiting for the pushback.

"The people after her—how connected are we talking?"

"Connected enough to have eyes inside the system somewhere." Nova's expression is grim. "But not enough to reach out here. This road isn't on GPS. The property's still listed under the original owner—no ties to the club on paper. As far as anyone knows, this cottage doesn't exist."

"And if they find her anyway?"

"They won't. We've got resources tracking Venetti's people—if they make a move, we'll know before they get close. And you? You're technical, you're isolated, and you know how to lock down a location. That's why it's you."

Behind her, a shadow steps into the light.

Hair the color of dark earth, pulled back from her face.

Pale skin with purple smudges under her eyes.

Bruises along her arms—dark purple and fresh.

She's wearing clothes that don't fit, men's sweatpants rolled at the waist, and an oversized t-shirt that slips off one shoulder.

Under the collar, I catch the edge of white gauze.

She's clutching a light duffel bag with white-knuckled fingers.

"All she has is what she ran in. I put together clothes and essentials—duffel's got everything she needs."

I grunt.

Eden Cross keeps her back to the wall. Her eyes track to the exits first—kitchen door, front door, windows. Then to me. Green eyes darting to every exit, every shadow, never landing anywhere for long.

She's still standing. Bruised, exhausted, terrified—but standing. Chin up. Back straight.

Fucking beautiful.

I kill the thought before it grows teeth.

She's traumatized. She's temporary. She's not mine to want.

My shoulders tighten, bracing for what comes next—the step back, the hand drifting toward the door, the quick glance to see if anyone's close enough to hear her scream.

It doesn't come. Instead, her gaze lingers on my tusks, both rows of them, built for a predator, not a protector. Then the sheer size of me. There is no fear. She's not measuring the threat.

She's measuring the protection.

"You're Diesel." Her voice is scraped raw. "Nova said you'd help me."

"Nova says a lot of things."

"She said you could be a real asshole." The corner of her mouth twitches, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "But you won't let anything get close to me."

Every protective instinct I've spent years burying roars to life.

I could tell her she's wrong. I could tell her what happened to the last person who thought that.

Maya's watching with that expression she gets when she's already won. Nova gives me a short nod.

And then there's Eden.

Frayed to the bone. Her entire life into a duffel bag, standing in a stranger's home like her body wants to fall, but her will won’t let it quit.

Goddammit.

"Eight days," I say. "You don't leave this cottage—not if you hear gunshots, not if the walls come down around you, not for any reason. You don't contact anyone from your old life. When I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions, no hesitation."

She nods.

"Bedroom's down the hall. I'll take the couch."

Maya winces. "I didn't really think that part through."

"You didn't think any of this through." I look at Eden again. "We'll make do."

"The shoulder wound needs care," Maya says. "Daily cleaning, fresh bandages. I'll leave supplies and a burner so you can reach us. If it shows any sign of infection—redness, heat, discharge—call me immediately."

"I know how to dress a wound."

"I know you do." Maya's voice softens. "That's why I'm trusting you with her."

Nova turns to me and lowers her voice. "If something goes wrong, we'll know. Ash has eyes on the road. Crow's monitoring the usual channels." She pauses. "But nothing's going to go wrong. That's why she's here."

Eden stands there, arms wrapped around herself.

"You eat?" I ask. "Maya made enough to feed half the club. Might still be warm."

She shakes her head.

"Kitchen's stocked. Help yourself when you're ready." A small jerk of her chin, but she doesn't move.

"I'm sorry." Her voice cracks on it. "For all of this. For disrupting your life. I know you didn't ask for—"

My beast protests, a low growl I barely manage to swallow. "Don't." The word comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Don't apologize for needing protection."

She stares at me, recalculating, adjusting whatever she expected me to be.

"Bathroom's that door. Towels under the sink, lock works from the inside." I keep my voice even. "I'll be on the porch while you get settled. Get some sleep. We'll figure out the rest in the morning."

She hesitates. She wants to argue—the set of her jaw says she's the type who would under normal circumstances.

These aren't normal circumstances.

One more dip of her head, then she disappears down the hall, and the bedroom door clicks shut behind her.

Maya turns to me. "I know this isn't easy for you. Having a human this close." She holds my gaze. "But you're saving her life. And you really are the only one who can."

"Thank me when she’s still alive in eight days.” I grab my jacket off the hook and push past them onto the porch.

Behind me, Nova murmurs something to Maya—low voices, the rustle of movement—then footsteps on gravel, an engine turning over, headlights sweeping across the tree line as they pull away.

Inside, the bathroom light clicks on.

Her shadow moves past the window.

The last human I let get close to me burned for it.

Eight days.

I give it three days before history repeats.