Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Livie
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I check the rearview mirror for the fifth time in as many minutes. The dark sedan is still there, hanging back just far enough to avoid suspicion, but close enough that I can feel the driver's eyes on me like a physical weight.
"This isn't happening," I whisper to myself, but the cold fear crawling up my spine tells me otherwise. "Not here. Not again."
The sedan speeds up slightly, closing the distance between us.
My breath catches in my throat as panic surges through me.
I fumble for my phone, nearly dropping it as I pull up my mom's contact.
My finger hovers over the call button for a split second before I press it, bringing the phone to my ear with a trembling hand.
"Livie? Did you make it home?" Mom's voice is warm, slightly concerned.
"Mom," I manage, my voice cracking. "I think—I think someone's following me."
"What?" Her tone sharpens instantly. "Where are you?"
"About two minutes from home, but—" I swallow hard, checking the mirror again. "It's a dark sedan with tinted windows. Like in LA, Mom. Just like in LA."
She sucks in a sharp breath. "Go straight home and open the gate at the last second and slam it shut. Then keep on driving through the community to put distance between you," she demands, her voice slightly shaky, but it gives me a boost of confidence.
"He's still behind me," I tell her, my voice rising with panic. "Mom, he's following my turns exactly."
"Just get to the gate. You remember the code?"
"Yes," I breathe, pushing my car faster than I should on these quiet streets. "8427."
"Good girl. Don't hang up."
The gate to our property is just ahead, its high stone walls and electronic keypad promising safety. I punch in the code with shaking fingers, barely waiting for the gate to slide open before I gun the engine and slip through.
But as I look back, my blood turns to ice. The sedan has stopped directly in front of the gate. Through the windshield glare, I can make out a shadowy figure leaning out of the driver's window, reaching for the keypad.
"Mom," I whisper, horror closing my throat. "He's trying to get in. He's punching numbers into the gate."
"Lock your doors, Livie. Stay in your car. They’re three minutes out."
The figure continues methodically pressing buttons, trying combinations. Each attempt makes the keypad flash red, but he doesn't stop. My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize he's not giving up.
Something inside me snaps. The terror that's been choking me transforms into white-hot fury, burning away my fear like paper in a flame. This bastard followed me from Los Angeles. He invaded my home, my safety, my peace of mind. And now he's here, in my town, at the gates of my family's compound?
"Screw this," I growl, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat, my mother's frantic voice still calling my name. I pop open the glove compartment and grab the small handgun my father insisted I keep there. The weight is familiar in my palm, as I've been shooting since I was twelve.
I'm done running. Done hiding. Done being hunted.
I throw open my car door and step out, gun held low at my side. The night air is cool against my flushed skin as I stride toward the gate, my heels clicking against the pavement with each determined step.
"Hey!" I shout, my voice ringing out in the quiet night. "You looking for me? Well, here I am!"
The figure at the gate freezes, head snapping up at the sound of my voice. It's a man, medium build, wearing a dark hoodie pulled low over his face. He takes a startled step back from the keypad.
"What's wrong?" I call out, continuing my advance. "Surprised I'm not cowering in my car? Not the helpless little girl you thought I was?"
I'm at the gate now, close enough to see the shock in his posture. The gun hangs at my side, not raised but visible. My father's daughter through and through—never show fear, never back down, never let them see you sweat.
"You followed me all the way from California?" I demand, fury making my voice steady despite my racing heart. "For what? To scare me? To watch me run?"
He says nothing, just stares through the bars of the gate, his face still obscured by the hoodie.
"Well, I'm done running," I tell him, my free hand gripping one of the gate's metal bars. "You picked the wrong girl to terrorize. And you definitely picked the wrong family to fuck with."
In the distance, I hear the rumble of motorcycles—my father and brothers, no doubt, coming to my rescue. But I don't need rescuing. Not anymore.
"Next time you decide to stalk someone," I say, leaning closer to the gate, "make sure she's not an MC princess with a gun and a family who would burn the world down to protect her."
The man finally speaks, his voice unnerving. "This isn't over, Olivia."
"Oh, I think it is," I reply, raising the gun now and pointing it directly at him. "Because I'm going to remember your license plate. I'm going to remember your car. And if I ever see you again, I won't hesitate."
He backs away, hands raised slightly. "You don't understand. We're meant to…"
"Save it," I cut him off. "The only thing we're meant to do is never cross paths again. Unless you want to meet my father and about thirty of his closest friends."
The motorcycle engines grow louder, headlights appearing at the end of the road. The man glances toward them, then back at me.
"I'll be seeing you, Olivia," he says, then turns and darts back to his car.
"Not if I see you first," I mutter, memorizing his license plate as he peels away from the curb, tires squealing.
I'm still standing at the gate, gun in hand, when the first few bikes arrive.
My father screeches to a halt, followed closely by my brothers, and my heart skips at the sight of Greyson.
Their expressions shift from concern to surprise when they see me standing there, clearly unharmed, and far from frightened.
"Livie!" Dad shouts, leaping off his bike and rushing toward me. "What the hell are you doing outside your car?"
"Getting his license plate," I answer calmly, though my hands have finally started to shake with delayed adrenaline. I recite the numbers and letters I've burned into my memory. "Dark sedan, couldn't see his face clearly. But it's him, Dad. The same guy from LA."
Dad pulls me into a fierce hug, his body trembling with what might be fear or rage or both. Over his shoulder, I meet Greyson's eyes. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"You walked toward him?" Mason demands, incredulous. "Armed?"
I pull back from Dad's embrace, lifting my chin. "I'm tired of being afraid. Of looking over my shoulder. Of feeling like prey."
"So, you decided to confront an armed stalker?" Dad's voice rises with each word. "Jesus Christ, Livie!"
"I decided not to be a victim," I correct him, the gun still clutched in my hand. "I decided he doesn't get to terrorize me anymore."
Greyson steps forward, his eyes never leaving mine. There's something in his expression beyond the anger, beyond the concern, and it looks almost like pride.
"You're either the bravest or the most foolish woman I've ever met," he utters quietly.
"Probably both," I admit, the first hint of a smile tugging at my lips despite the circumstances.
Dad looks between us, his instincts clearly warring with his grudging respect for my actions. Finally, he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.
"Let's get inside," he says. "We need to call the police, file a report."
"And then?" I ask, knowing there's more.
Dad exchanges a look with Greyson that speaks volumes. "And then we handle this our way."
As we move toward the house, Greyson falls into step beside me. His hand brushes mine, a fleeting touch that sends warmth through me despite the night's chill.
"Don't ever do anything like that again," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. "I just got you back. I'm not ready to lose you."
"I can take care of myself," I tell him, though the concern in his voice makes my heart flutter.
"I know you can," he replies, surprising me. "Doesn't mean you have to do it alone."
Inside the house, chaos erupts as everyone learns what happened. Mom clutches me to her chest, alternating between relief that I'm safe and horror at what I did. Aunt Brittany paces and swears, while club members make calls and discuss security measures in urgent tones.
Through it all, I feel strangely calm. The fear that's been my constant companion since that night in LA has receded, replaced by a steely determination. I'm done hiding. Done running. Done being afraid.
As I recount what happened to the police officer who arrives, I catch Greyson watching me from across the room, his blue eyes intense. Whatever this is between us, this connection that survived two years of separation, it's about to be tested by fire.
But if there's one thing I learned tonight, it's that I'm stronger than I thought. My father's daughter, indeed.
After the police officer leaves with a promise to increase patrols in the area, I collapse onto the worn leather couch, the adrenaline finally draining from my system. My hands shake as I accept the mug of tea Mom presses into them.
"I don't understand," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. "Why me? I'm nobody special. I'm not famous, not wealthy. I'm just a hair stylist from a small town."
Greyson sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. "You don't need to be a celebrity to attract this kind of obsession. Sometimes it's random. Sometimes it's not."
"But to follow me across state lines?" I shake my head, struggling to make sense of it. "Who would go to that much trouble for someone like me?"