Chapter 5
Kayla
He checks his phone. "We've got four minutes. Anything else you need?"
I glance around the dingy apartment that's been my prison for the past week. There's nothing here I'll miss.
"No."
"Good." He pulls off the balaclava completely and tucks it into a chest pocket. "And by the way, my name isn't Vincent Torrino. It's Dean Tianello. But they call me Fury."
Fury. The name fits him perfectly—there's a barely contained rage simmering behind his dark eyes, like a storm about to break.
"Let's go." He moves to the window, then pauses, turning back. "From this moment on, you stick to me like glue. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No questions. No hesitation. Your life depends on it. Understand?"
I nod, clutching my backpack to my chest.
"Say it," he demands.
"I understand."
"Good girl." Those two words send a shiver of warmth through me despite the situation.
We descend the fire escape, moving silently into the shadows. At the bottom, he pulls me against him, his body shielding mine as he peers around the corner.
"My guys are creating a diversion two blocks south," he whispers against my ear. "When those guards take off to check it out, we run to the black SUV waiting just around the corner. Ready?"
Before I can answer, a distant explosion rocks the night. Car alarms wail. The sedan with the cartel guards peels away from the curb, tires squealing.
"Now!"
He grips my hand tight, pulling me into a sprint. My heart hammers against my ribs as we dash across the street and around the corner. The SUV's door flies open, and Fury practically lifts me inside before jumping in after me.
"Go!" he barks, and the vehicle lurches forward.
I'm sandwiched between Fury and another massive man who looks like he could bench press a truck.
"All clear," the driver calls back. "No tails."
"Good work, Prophet," Fury says, his hand still wrapped around mine. "Take us home."
Prophet? What kind of name is that? I twist in my seat, watching through the back window for pursuing headlights, but the streets remain mercifully empty.
"You okay?" Fury asks, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
"I think so," I manage, though my voice trembles. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe," is all he says.
Twenty minutes of silence later, we pull up to a massive chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Beyond it, I see several industrial-looking buildings and what appears to be an old motel. A man steps out of a small gatehouse, machine gun clearly visible at his side.
"Welcome to the Renegade Kings compound," Fury says as the gates swing open.
The SUV pulls up to the largest building. Music and laughter spill out when the doors open. Fury helps me out, keeping me tucked against his side.
"This is our clubhouse," he explains. "You'll be safe here. No one gets in without our say-so."
"Renegade Kings?" My brain finally catches up. "Like…the motorcycle club?"
A laugh rumbles through his chest. “That’s us, doll."
Everything clicks into place. The dangerous aura, the confidence, the underlying violence in his movements.
"You were undercover," I whisper. "At Midnights.”
"Smart girl." His arm tightens around my shoulders. "We've been gathering intel on Los Cuervos for weeks. The cartel's moving a new drug called Raven into our territory. My stepsister wasn't the only victim."
I shiver. "My brother too."
"Yeah." His jaw tightens. "And we're going to stop them before more people die. But first, let's get you settled."
He leads me inside, where the noise hits me like a physical force. Men in leather vests with patches—cuts, my mind supplies from movies—drinking, playing pool, laughing. Several women in revealing outfits drape themselves over the men. It's intimidating and overwhelming.
The room quiets as we enter. Dozens of eyes turn our way.
"Where's Chaos?" Fury asks no one in particular.
"Office," a burly man with a wild beard answers, openly staring at me.
Fury guides me through the crowd, his hand possessive on my lower back. We move down a hallway to a closed door, which Fury opens without knocking.
Inside, a man with dark blonde hair tied back in a leather band looks up from a desk covered in papers. His eyes assess me in one quick sweep before returning to Fury.
"Kayla, this is Jace, our president. We call him Chaos."
Chaos stands. He's taller than Fury, with a presence that fills the room. He stares me up and down for a long time.
Fury's hand tightens on my waist.
“You planning on keeping her?" Chaos’s question is to Fury, but his eyes remain on me.
The question makes my cheeks burn. Keeping me? Like I'm a stray cat?
"She's mine," Fury states flatly, the possessiveness in his tone sending a thrill up my spine.
Chaos studies me for another long moment, then nods once. "Alright. We'll figure it out.
Chaos's mouth quirks. “Have one of the cut sluts get a room ready for her. She can bunk with them until—”
"She stays with me," Fury counters.
The corner of Chaos’s mouth turns up slightly. “Of course she does," he drawls knowingly. “We’ll discuss this in church tomorrow morning.”
Back in the main room, Fury steers me toward a pretty young woman with honey-colored hair who's setting out plates of food on a long table.
"Rowan," Fury calls. "Got someone for you to meet."
The woman turns, and I'm struck by how normal she looks compared to the few other women I’ve glimpsed so far. She wears no makeup, and her clothes are simple, normal jeans and a sweater.
"Hi," she says, offering a genuine smile. "You must be Kayla."
"How did you—"
“Big compound, bigger ears," she explains with a shrug. "I'm Rowan—Chaos's old lady. Welcome to the madhouse."
Fury squeezes my shoulder. "Rowan will show you around while I meet with the brothers. Stay with her, understand?"
I nod, feeling suddenly bereft as his warmth leaves my side.
"And Rowan?" Fury pauses. "She's mine."
Those two words again, sending a flutter through my stomach.
Rowan rolls her eyes. "Yes, I gathered that from the way you're hovering over her like she might disappear if you blink. Don't worry, I'll take care of her."
Once Fury reluctantly leaves, Rowan links her arm through mine. "You look like you could use some food and a friendly face. Come on."
She introduces me to a formidable older Black woman in an impeccably tailored dark purple and lime green pantsuit.
"This is Mama Pat," Rowan explains. "She knows everything about everyone, and she's the only person who can tell the president to go to hell without consequences."
"Because I changed his diapers and whooped his behind,” Mama Pat declares, her voice rich and melodious. "And I'll be doing it again if these boys don't start making smarter decisions."
She hands me a plate piled high with food. "Eat, child. You're too skinny by half."
As I eat—realizing suddenly how hungry I am—Rowan and Mama Pat join me.
As the three of us eat, Rowan explains the hierarchy of an outlaw motorcycle club—the officers, the brothers, the prospects still earning their place.
Just as I’m finishing my plate, Fury reappears, his face grim. Without a word, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet.
"Time for bed," he says, his voice brooking no argument.
We climb a staircase to a second floor lined with doors. Fury leads me to the end of the hall, unlocking a door and ushering me inside.
The room is surprisingly nice—a large bed dominates the space, with simple but sturdy furniture. It's clean and comfortable, if sparse.
"Bathroom's through there," Fury points. "Go ahead and get cleaned up."
I obey without question, my body responding to his commands almost instinctively. In the shower, I let hot water wash away the stress and fear of the day. By the time I emerge in my oversized t-shirt, my body feels heavy with exhaustion.
Fury sits on the edge of the bed, his shirt off, revealing a torso covered in elaborate tattoos. My breath catches at the sight of him—all hard muscle and dangerous beauty.
"Come here," he orders softly.
I cross the room to stand between his spread knees. His hands settle on my hips, warm and solid.
"You've had a hell of a day," he observes, his eyes searching mine. "You should rest."
"I don't want to rest," I whisper, suddenly brave. "I want you."
His grip tightens. "Kayla—"
"You called me yours," I interrupt. "Did you mean it?"
"Yes." No hesitation, just absolute certainty.
"Then make me yours." I place my hands on his shoulders. "All the way." I step closer, my body flush against him.
Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he groans aloud.
His fingers tighten on my hips, but then he seems to come to some sort of decision.
“I will, baby doll, I will,” still holding my hips, he pushes me back an arm’s length. “But not tonight.”
He motions for me to climb onto the bed, slides in next to me, and cradles me against his chest. “Tonight we sleep."