Chapter 20
East
The ride back from the clubhouse is a silent, heavy thing.
The Harley’s engine, usually a roar of defiance, feels like a low groan cutting through the sleeping streets.
Every pothole is a potential jolt to her bruised ribs, every car that gets too close a threat my body tenses against. The woman on my back is a fragile, precious weight, her hands a tentative grip on my jacket.
The crunch of gravel in my driveway is too loud.
I kill the engine, and we’re plunged into a silence that feels heavier than the noise it replaced.
A single porch light glows like a lonely beacon in the dark.
My house is my sanctuary, the one place that is quiet, ordered, and mine.
The war found her, so this is the only fortress I have to fight it from. I wouldn’t want her anywhere else.
She slides off the bike before I can help her, her movements stiff with pain. I take the steps two at a time, unlocking the door and pushing it open. The familiar scent of cedar and clean linen greets me. It’s a stark contrast to the coppery tang of violence that still clings to the air around us.
“Go on in,” I say, my voice rough.
Darla steps past me into the entryway, a small, wounded shadow in the soft light. I watch her gaze drift over the polished wood floors, the leather couch, the neat rows of records. She looks at the quiet order of my life, and I wonder if tonight, it feels like peace or just another cage.
I shut the door behind us; the sound echoes in the quiet house. “The girls are taking you shopping tomorrow, right?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.
She nods, a small, tired movement. “Frankie is picking me up at ten.”
“Okay,” I say, my jaw tightening. “Rider will be with you. A shadow. He’ll keep his distance, but he’ll be there.
Just in case.” I want to be the one to go, to keep my eyes on her, but the thought of caging her, of not giving her the freedom she just fought for, is a bitter pill. “I just… need to know you’re safe.”
“I will be,” she says, and there’s a hint of her fire back in her eyes. Then her voice softens. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Yeah,” I say, my throat suddenly dry. “Good idea.”
She heads down the short corridor, the door to the guest room clicking softly shut behind her. The simple domestic act leaves me feeling strangely adrift in my own home. I retreat to the kitchen and pour myself two fingers of whiskey.
The night’s events are a highlight reel of horror playing on a loop behind my eyes.
Chuck’s broken face. Candace’s raw, shattered grief.
Malachi’s final cold justice. Declan’s promise is a ghost whispering failure in my ear.
Take care of her. How can I when the world I’ve brought her into is just as brutal as the one she escaped?
Then, I hear it. The whisper of the shower starting in the guest bathroom.
And the highlight reel changes. All I can picture is her standing under the hot spray.
The thought makes my hand clench around the glass.
I can see the water sluicing over her pale skin, tracing the dark bloom of bruises on her ribs.
I can smell the sharp, clean scent of the citrus soap Sloane gave her.
My cock stirs, a thick, heavy pulse of want that is completely at odds with the protective terror in my chest. I want to keep her safe from the world, and I want to be the one to wreck her in the best possible way.
The two instincts are at war inside me, a vicious, impossible conflict.
Giving up, I push off the barstool and head toward the living room. I sink onto the couch, the leather cool against my skin, and stare at the blank TV screen, seeing nothing but her. An hour later, the whiskey is gone, and I know I won’t sleep.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. I look up. She’s a silhouette in the doorway, a fragile shape wrapped in my oversized gray T-shirt, staring out into the darkness.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” I ask, my voice low.
She turns. The moonlight turns her pale blonde hair silver and catches on the dark bloom of the bruise on her cheek. “The quiet is too loud,” she says.
I nod, understanding completely. I cross to the record player, flipping through the vinyls until I find an old, bluesy album, something with a low, mournful guitar that can fill the space without breaking it. The soft crackle of the needle finding the groove is the only sound.
She watches me, then her voice comes, so soft I almost miss it. “Are you okay?”
The question hits me like a punch to the gut. My default setting kicks in. “Peachy. Just deposed a traitor and planned a war. Usual Tuesday night.”
It sounds hollow even to my own ears.
She doesn’t smile. “You don’t have to perform for me, East,” she says quietly. “I saw you tonight.”
The dam inside me cracks. I lean my hands back on the edge of the bookshelf. “It’s a hell of a thing,” I admit, my voice rough. “Knowing what needs to be done. Knowing what it’ll cost.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “For dragging you into this. For being…”
“Don’t,” I cut her off. “Don’t you dare say you’re a burden.
” I push off the shelf and close the space between us.
“This started for me seven years ago, Darla. It started the second Declan…” I can’t finish the sentence.
“My only fear,” I confess, the words scraping their way out, “is failing him. Failing you.”
Tears well in her eyes, silver in the moonlight. “My only fear is that you’ll die trying.”
Raw, terrifying honesty hangs heavy between us. Our space contracts, the air thickens, charged with the weight of our shared past. A quiet melody, mutual sorrow, and an undeniable pull all converge in this moment.
I’m moving before I’ve made the choice. My hand comes up, my thumb brushing the tear from her bruised cheek. She leans into my touch, a small, almost imperceptible movement that is a surrender and a demand all at once.
And that’s it. I crash into her.
My mouth claims hers, not with gentleness, but with a desperate, raw hunger.
This isn’t a kiss of romance; it’s a kiss of survival.
It’s all bruised lips, tangled breath, and the shared, metallic taste of grief and fear.
A groan tears from my chest as her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer.
Her body, small and fierce, presses against mine, and my entire system ignites.
I’m instantly hard, my body’s primal, selfish need overriding everything else.
One hand tangles in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other slides down her back, gripping her hip to pull her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me.
She lets out a soft, broken sound against my lips, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. A part of me—the feral, possessive part—wants to push her against the wall, to hike her legs around my waist and take everything she’s offering. To claim her. To own this moment.
But the ghost of Declan is screaming in my head. Traitor. The promise I made is at war with the man I am right now. I’m holding back, every muscle in my body straining with the effort to not take more than she’s giving, to not become another man who takes from her.
I break the kiss, pulling back with a ragged gasp. I rest my forehead against hers, the world tilting on its axis. We’re both breathing hard, the air thick with a new, unspoken current. The kiss fixed nothing. It just made everything a hell of a lot more real.
Her eyes are wide, her lips swollen. I can feel the tremor running through her body, or maybe it’s my own. “We should… we should probably get some sleep,” I say, the words a lie, my voice a wrecked whisper.
She just nods, unable to speak. I lean in and press a soft, final kiss to her forehead, a promise of something more.
It’s a desperate act of restraint. Then I make myself step back, putting a torturous inch of space between us.
She turns and walks to her room, and I walk to mine, and every step feels like I’m walking away from the only thing that matters.
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my bed feeling too big, too empty.
I can still feel her. The soft press of her body, the ghost of her lips on mine.
She tasted of salt, fear, and a strength that humbled me.
The promise I made to Declan and the man who just kissed his girl are at war inside my skull.
For once, I’m not sure which side I want to win. Sleep doesn’t come.
She’s already in the kitchen when I walk in the next morning, clutching a mug of coffee. Her image, so at home in my space and wearing my clothes, felt both incredibly natural and deeply unsettling, sending a shockwave through me. A heavy silence sits between us, echoing the lingering night before.
I clear my throat, leaning against the counter. “So,” I start, my voice rough. “On a scale of one to ‘calling my brother to bail me out of a Mexican jail,’ how awkward is this?”
She takes a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee before looking at me over the rim of the mug. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile plays on her lips. “I’d say we’re hovering somewhere around ‘accidentally telling your teacher you love them.’ Mortifying, but probably not an international incident.”
Relief washes through me, so strong I almost laugh. Her sense of humor is still in there, sharp as ever. “Ouch. That’s a low blow. I’m definitely at least at ‘waking up with a bad tattoo’ level of regret.”
“You don’t regret it,” she says, her voice quiet, her gaze steady. It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact. And the air is suddenly charged again, the memory of the kiss hanging there.
“No,” I admit, my voice low, holding her gaze. “I don’t.”
My phone buzzes on the counter, a harsh intrusion that makes us both jump. A text from Malachi.
War room. One hour. It’s time to plan the hunt.
I look up and meet her eyes across the kitchen island. The soft, fragile moment is gone, replaced by the grim reality of the day. She’s already dressed, her expression resolute.
“So, the girls are meeting us at the club?” I ask, my mind already shifting, calculating.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice firm. “Frankie’s rounding them up. The plan is they’ll take me to get some actual clothes while you guys are in your meeting.”
My jaw tightens. Her being out in public, even with the girls, feels like a risk. “Okay,” I say, my voice tight. “But Rider is going with you. As a shadow. Non-negotiable.”
I expect a fight, but she just gives a single, sharp nod. She’s not just anticipating my protection; she’s accepting it as part of this new life. My warrior. She raises her chin slightly, her gaze steady and clear. “When do we leave?”
I look at the woman standing in my kitchen, a warrior in borrowed clothes, and realize the lines have been irrevocably redrawn. This isn’t just my fight anymore. It’s ours. That makes it a hell of a lot more complicated.
And a hell of a lot more important.