Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
DIESEL
The desert air hits me like a physical wall as soon as we cross the Nevada state line, but it isn't until we pull into my neighborhood that the tension in my shoulders begins to loosen, just a fraction.
This is my territory. My house. Here, the rules are mine, and I don't let anything through the front door that I can't handle.
I glance sideways at Serenity, who has been unusually quiet for the last hour of the drive, her head resting against the cool glass of the window.
She looks exhausted, the kind of soul-deep weariness that comes from spending weeks looking over your shoulder, waiting for the floor to drop out from under you.
I pull the SUV into the driveway, the tires crunching over the desert landscaping.
My house is a sharp, modern thing of glass, steel, and dark stone—a far cry from the cramped apartments and weathered bungalows near UCLA.
It's a testament to every late night at the garage, every grease-stained dollar I've saved, and the success of the Boneyard.
I see her eyes widen as she takes it in, her gaze traveling up the clean lines of the architecture and the way the sunset reflects off the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Diesel," she says, her voice small and filled with a surprise she doesn't bother to hide. "This is… you live here? Alone?"
"Most of the time," I say, killing the engine and letting the silence of the desert settle around us.
I grab my phone, seeing three missed texts from Bones and one from Alana, but I ignore them for the moment.
"It's safe. Gated community, security cameras on every corner of the property, and the neighbors don't ask questions. You’ll be safe here, Serenity. "
She looks at me, and for a second, the sassy, fire-breathing version of the girl I've known for years is gone, replaced by someone who looks relieved to be behind a locked gate.
She steps out of the car, her sneakers hitting the pavement with a soft thud.
I go to the back to grab her bags, my hands moving with a clinical efficiency I don't really feel. Inside, my skin is humming, hyper-aware of the fact that she’s standing in my driveway, her scent mixing with the dry desert heat.
"It's beautiful," she whispers as I lead her through the front door.
The interior is open, all polished concrete floors and minimalist furniture that I picked out because it felt solid and permanent.
I lead her toward the guest wing, away from my master suite, because if I put her any closer, I'm not sure I'll be able to focus on the 'protector' part of this arrangement.
The guest room is ready for her with crisp white linens, a view of the pool, and a heavy oak door that actually locks.
I set her bags down on the luggage rack and turn to find her standing in the center of the room, looking around like she's waiting for the catch.
I clear my throat, leaning against the doorframe to keep from closing the distance between us.
She looks so small in this room, so fragile despite the steel I know lives in her spine.
"Okay," I say, my voice dropping into that low, authoritative rumble I use when I need a prospect to listen. "The ground rules are pretty simple. Make yourself at home and let me know if you need anything. "
Serenity blinks, her eyebrows drawing together as the shock wears off and her natural sass begins to reassert itself. She crosses her arms over her chest, which only serves to emphasize the curves I've been trying to ignore since she turned twenty-one. "Thank you."
"You don’t have to thank me," I counter, refusing to let the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth distract me. "Let me know if you need anything. Unpack. I'm going to make a call, then I'll figure out dinner."
I walk back toward the living room, dialing a number I only use when I need a specific kind of expertise. It rings twice before a gravelly voice answers. "Walsh. You back in town?"
"Just got in," I say, looking through the glass toward the darkening desert. "Savage, I need a favor. Deep dive. I’ve got a name and a location. Kirk Voss, UCLA student. He's been stalking Serenity, my sister’s best friend. I want everything—socials, family, bank records, known associates. If he’s ever so much as kicked a dog, I want to know about it. "
"Consider it done. I'll have a preliminary file for you by morning. You want him handled or just watched?"
"Just watched for now," I say, my jaw tightening. "I want to know the second he leaves LA. If he even looks at a map of Nevada, I want to be the first to know."
I hang up and head to the kitchen, needing to do something with my hands that doesn't involve punching a hole in the wall. I pull out a couple of steaks and some greens, the familiar routine of cooking usually enough to settle my mind. But tonight, the air in the house feels different. It’s charged.
Every sound from the guest wing—the rustle of her moving bags, the click of a closet door—vibrates through me like a low-frequency hum.
I'm used to this house being a sanctuary of silence, a place where I can shed the weight of the MC and the garage. But with Serenity in the guest room and her scent already hanging in the air, there’s no letting go of shit tonight.
By the time I've got the steaks on the grill, Serenity wanders into the kitchen. She’s changed into a pair of soft, grey leggings and an oversized UCLA T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of pale skin and the delicate curve of her collarbone.
She looks soft. Dangerous. I keep my eyes on the meat, flipping a steak with a little more force than necessary.
"Need help?" she asks, sliding onto one of the barstools. The movement is graceful, her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders. She smells like the guest room soap now, clean and sweet.
"I've got it," I say, focusing on the sear. "Go ahead and pour yourself some wine. Third cabinet on the left."
She finds a bottle of red. “Would you like one?” she asks.
“Please.” I glance over and watch as she pours two glasses, sliding one across the counter toward me. “I picture you more as a beer guy,” she jokes.
“I live to be different.” I shrug and take a sip, the dark fruit and oak hitting my tongue, but it does nothing to dull the hyper-awareness of her sitting five feet away.
We eat at the island, the light from the overhead pendants casting long shadows across the concrete.
For a while, the only sound is the clink of silverware against porcelain.
"What’s going to happen if he finds out I'm gone?" she asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet. She isn't looking at me, her gaze fixed on the wine swirling in her glass. "He's going to realize Alana and I aren't at the apartment."
"Fuck him," I say, my voice hard. "I won’t let him get anywhere near you."
“What about Alana?” She looks up then, and the vulnerability in her eyes is enough to make my chest ache.
It’s a physical sensation, a tightening around my ribs that makes it hard to breathe.
I want to reach across the counter and take her hand, to pull her to me and tell her that I’d burn the whole city down before I let that bastard touch her.
“While you packed your bags, I arranged for a very discreet bodyguard to keep an eye on her. Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to my sister.”
She looks a little confused. “Why didn’t you just hire a bodyguard for me, too?”
That’s the million-dollar question. “Because it’s my job to keep you safe.”
"Why?" she asks softly.
"Because I can’t lose you," I say, the words escaping before I can filter them. I set my glass down, looking her straight in the eye.
"Oh," she whispers. The word hangs in the air, thick with subtext and the years of tension we've both pretended doesn't exist. She leans forward just a fraction, her lips parted, and for a second, I can see the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat.
I want her. I want her with a ferocity that scares the shit out of me—a raw, visceral need that has nothing to do with protection and everything to do with the way she owns my goddamn heart.
"Get some sleep," I say, my voice sounding like I’ve been swallowing glass. I stand up, grabbing the plates and moving toward the sink, effectively cutting the moment short. "Tomorrow’s a long day. I’m taking you to the garage. New environment, more people. It’ll be good for you."
She doesn't argue, but I can feel her gaze on my back for a long beat before she slips off the stool. "Goodnight, Diesel. Thank you for the dinner. And for… everything."
I don't turn around until I hear her bedroom door click shut. I stand there in the dark kitchen for a long time, the silence of the house pressing in on me. I should be happy. She’s safe.
She’s under my roof. I have a plan to handle the threat.
But as I walk toward my own room and collapse onto the bed, sleep feels like a distant, impossible dream.
The house is quiet, but my mind is a riot of images.
Of her. She’s twenty feet down the hall.
I could walk there right now. I could open that door and show her exactly what she is to me.
I could bury myself in her until neither of us remembers the name Kirk Voss.
But I don't move. I lie there in the dark, my hands fisted in the sheets, tormented by wanting what I can't have.