7. Ruby
Ruby
This man makes me so mad. Furious, even.
He comes in and saves the day, saves me, and he thinks I’ll be able to walk away and forget all about him. Is he serious? Does he think I’m that fragile? Or does he think so little of himself that he believes he’s something to be forgotten?
The same hands that just stole a life—hands I watched squeeze the breath from a man—are suddenly on me. But they aren’t violent. They’re desperate. They plunge into my rain-soaked hair, tangling in the strands, and he tugs my head back just enough to change the angle.
The kiss explodes.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I taste the rage on his lips mixed with the salt of rain. It’s the taste of the man who killed for me, and the man who’s terrified of loving me.
A broken sound—a sob, a gasp, I don’t know—escapes my throat, and he swallows it whole.
My own hands scramble for purchase, fisting in the wet leather of his vest, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s just shattered.
I kiss him back with everything I have, with all the fear and the relief and the wild, terrifying hope he ignited in me.
This is madness. We’re standing feet from a body, in rain that is now falling harder, and all I can feel is the searing heat of his mouth on mine, the solid thud of his heart against my chest. He’s not pushing me away. He’s pulling me in, deeper, as if he can fuse us together.
When we finally break apart, gasping for air, our foreheads rest together. The rain streams down our faces, mingling like tears. His breath is ragged against my lips.
“Ruby,” he rasps, like speaking is impossible.
I nod, already understanding.
Then, there’s the sound of rumbling. Not from thunder up above, but the sound of motorcycles approaching.
Don’t these guys know driving on wet pavement is dangerous?
Oddly enough, I feel relieved. That is, until I see three bikes and a hearse.
A hearse. Are these guys serious?
I recognized two of the men straight away as they were talking back and forth. Judge and Ripper, if I remember right. The third is the scary scar-looking guy.
Each one of these guys looks scarier than the last, but the one who takes the cake is the one driving the hearse. I’ve never seen a skeleton before, but the man who steps out has to be the closest one to it.
He’s unnaturally tall and gaunt, his black clothes hanging off a frame that seems to be all sharp angles and bone.
His skin is a pale, waxy gray, stretched taut over high cheekbones and a sharp jawline.
It’s his eyes that steal my breath—they’re sunken so deep in their sockets they look like empty pools of shadow.
He doesn’t walk; he glides toward us, and the air grows cold in his wake. He smells of old soil, and something else… something sweetly rotten that clings to the back of my throat. Just standing near him gives me the creeps, an instinct screaming that this is a creature that deals only in endings.
I quickly learn his name is Grim through a sharp order from Judge, and the name fits him perfectly. I can’t watch as he and two other men from the same vehicle efficiently bundle William’s body into a dark bag. Their movements are practiced, emotionless. Like they’ve done this a hundred times.
But I can’t stop the way my stomach clenches into a cold, hard knot when Grim turns his head.
His eyes only pass over me for a second before landing back on Judge.
His mouth stretches into a smile that doesn’t touch the darkness of his eyes.
His voice is a dry, rustling whisper, like leaves scraping over stone.
“Don’t you worry. I can make this look like a suicide.
All I need is some rope thick enough to match the marks your man left. ”
Judge then pins his attention on us, and by the familiar, furious clench of his fists, I can see he’s vibrating with agitation.
“At least it was a clean kill,” Ripper chirps in the background, happily adding fuel to the fire.
He’s smiling as he watches the cleanup. His eyes then slide from Judge to us.
“Good thing you said no blood. Imagine getting rid of all the evidence in this rain. Shit gets everywhere. Great job keeping it clean.”
Diesel doesn’t flinch, but his grip on me tightens immediately. He doesn’t take the words like praise.
Now that I’ve made up my mind to stay, he really may never let me go. The terrifying part is, as Grim glides back to his hearse looking like Death’s personal chauffeur, something so horrifying shouldn’t feel as right as it does.
The hearse pulls away, its taillights washing over us in a wave of bloody red. In that eerie glow, I squeeze Diesel’s hand, my own gone cold. The silence left behind is heavier than the rain.
Judge nears with Ripper at his heel while the third lingers behind long enough to dig around in his saddlebag.
I’ve got a bad feeling, a sinking certainty in my gut. This isn’t over. They’re not just here for the cleaning up of a body; they’re here to reprimand Diesel for his actions.
The third man joins the circle, moving with a quiet lethality that I barely hear his steps. He moves to the opposite side, flanking us. Before I can process his intention, he’s beside Diesel.
In one brutal, efficient motion, the man with the scar— Hammer, Diesel curses—grips the hilt of the knife still buried in his arm and yanks it free with a sickening, wet sound.
A gasp catches in my throat, sharp and pained like I’m the one getting the weapon removed. Diesel barely flinches, just a hard grit of his teeth, but his whole body goes rigid.
Hammer doesn’t even look at the bloodied blade. He offers it, handle-first, to Judge. Then he immediately turns his attention to staunching the flow from Diesel’s wound, his touch clinical and unforgiving.
Judge takes the knife, turning it over in his hand. The steel glints, a stark reminder of the line that was crossed.
“You had one job,” Judge says, his voice dangerously low.
It’s not a shout; it’s the calm before an execution.
He flicks his eyes toward Ripper, who has the sense to look chastened.
“First him, and now you. Can’t any of you lot just do as I ask?
Do you enjoy torching the reputation I’m trying to rebuild? ”
Diesel growls as Hammer applies pressure, but it’s a sound of frustration, not pain. “He was going to hurt her.” The words leave him, surprisingly soft but clear, cutting through the tension. “It was already messy before I could get to her. I couldn’t let him go.”
Judge is the one to growl this time, a low, furious rumble. His eyes narrow to slits. “You could have. Not every problem needs to be solved with a goddamn grave—”
“I couldn’t.”
Diesel repeats the words, but this time they are not an explanation. They are heavy enough to carry a weight. I feel his gaze on me for a heartbeat before his eyes lock back with Judge’s, a direct challenge.
“He’d come back for her,” he grinds out, his voice dropping, letting the unspoken truth hang in the air that he doesn’t regret going out of line. “I couldn’t let him try again.”
The declaration changes everything. This wasn’t just a breach of the process. It was a choice.
He made his own call for me.
“Don’t tell me… " Judge squints, his fierce green eyes flicking from Diesel’s defiant stance to me.
When he leans forward, Diesel gives a small, possessive tug, shifting me more squarely behind him as if to shield me from the verdict.
Judge curses under his breath, a sound of pure exasperation. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he moves back and forth like he needs a lungful of air that isn’t as heavy before turning his gaze back to us. “She’s the one, then?”
“Yes.” Diesel’s answer is instant, absolute. It echoes in the space between them, answering a question I’m still scrambling to decipher.
The one? The one to risk everything for? The one worth breaking all the rules?
Judge snaps the pocket knife shut with a sharp click and pinches the bridge of his nose, a man battling a monumental headache. Ripper barks out a laugh, the sound grating in the tense air.
“You gave me an earful for cutting a man’s tongue out and letting him bleed out,” he says, a twisted grin spreading across his face.
He tilts his head, looking between Judge and Diesel.
“You can’t come down harder on him than you did on me, Prez.
It’s obvious. The man’s in love. A woman can make you a little reckless. ”
The words hang in the rain-soaked air, sucking out all the sound.
In love? With me?
The thought hits me not like a gentle realization, but a heavy strike on my poor heart. A wave of heat floods my cheeks, burning against the cool rain. And Diesel… Diesel doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t even flinch. His silence is a louder confirmation than any words could ever be.
“You—” Judge starts, looking like he’s ready to shake Ripper senseless. He cuts himself off, turning his glare toward Hammer. “He’ll be fine?” he grinds out, jerking his chin toward Diesel’s arm.
Hammer gives a single, curt nod, giving the bandaged wound a firm, almost punishing pat that makes Diesel grunt. “He’s survived worse.”
He has?
The question echoes in my mind, a stark reminder of how much of his life is still a mystery to me.
There are so many blanks to fill in, so many stories hidden behind his scars and his silence.
But as I stand there in the rain, with his blood soaking his sleeve and his love declared in front of his brothers, one thing is crystal clear.
I want to be there when he’s ready to fill in the blanks.
In some miracle, Judge makes the call that he’ll deal with Diesel when he isn’t soaked to the bone. Already frustrated and seemingly tired, he lets us go with the demand to see Diesel tomorrow. Preferably alone. It might be better that way, honestly.
I don’t think I can stomach even the thought of Diesel facing any punishment because of what he’s done.
Left alone with the roar of motorcycles leaving us, my hand tingles as he reaches down to grab it.
“What’s going to happen now?” Dreading the answer, I squeeze his fingers for any kind of reassurance.
“Footage will probably be scrubbed. His death will be written off as a suicide as long as everything runs smoothly.” Looking down at me, he curses softly when he notices how damp I’ve become.
Taking off his vest, he wraps it around my shoulders, and I’m engulfed in his warmth and scent. He doesn’t mind the rain and isn’t bothered even as we approach his bike.
I’m not sure I want to risk getting on that thing in this state. I tell him that, too, and despite the exhaustion on his face, he cracks a smile that sends butterflies tumbling around my stomach.
“Do you trust me?” The question weighs down between us, but the answer comes instantly.
“With my life.” Obviously.
His smile grows. “Then hop on. Let’s get you home.”
Home.