Chapter 8
Cami
The wind slams against my ancient Corolla in torrents. I grip the steering wheel tighter as thunder cracks overhead, my headlights barely cutting through the sheets of rain. When the engine sputters, then coughs out a pathetic dying wheeze, I don't even have the energy to curse.
"No, no, no..." I plead under my breath, pumping the gas pedal as the car rolls to a stop on the shoulder of the desolate highway. The dashboard lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
Perfect. Just perfect.
I let my forehead rest against the steering wheel for a moment, fighting back tears.
This car is—was—everything. My home, my transportation to both jobs, and the only thing I've managed to keep since everything fell apart.
I've been living paycheck to paycheck, working double shifts at the diner and overnight stocking the grocery store, surviving on gas station coffee and whatever day-old food the diner lets me take home.
The forty-three dollars in my wallet won't even cover a tow truck, let alone repairs.
Lightning flashes, illuminating a weather-beaten sign about fifty yards ahead.
I squint through the rain-lashed windshield.
There's a building set back from the road—a cluster of several buildings, maybe.
Warm yellow lights bleed through windows.
My phone died hours ago, I'm miles from town, and the storm is only getting worse.
I really don’t have many options.
I grab my backpack containing all my valuables, and brace myself before stepping out into the deluge. The rain instantly saturates my thin waitress uniform and an icy chill leaks into my bones. By the time I reach the long gravel driveway, my sneakers squelch and my dark hair is soaked.
As I get closer, my steps falter. The building is larger than I expected—a sprawling structure that looks like a restaurant or a bar with some type of garage attached to the side.
But what makes my stomach clench are the rows of gleaming motorcycles lined up despite the weather, mostly sheltered by an overhang.
Even in the storm, I can see they’re top of the line machines.
The custom paint jobs alone probably cost more than I make in six months.
Oh God. I've seen enough in Blackrock to know what this means. This isn't some random roadhouse or truck stop. It’s either a biker bar or—I swallow hard—a biker clubhouse.
I hesitate. Rain streams down my face. What now? Turn back to my dead car and wait out the storm? Try to flag down a passing vehicle in this weather? The violent shivering that's taken hold of my body makes the decision for me. I just need to use a phone. Then I'll disappear.
The heavy door requires all my strength to pull open against the wind.
When it finally gives, I clumsily trip over my own feet and in stead of entering quietly, I stumble, slide, attempt to break my fall, and take a nosedive onto my hands and knees letting out a graceful “oomph” in the process.
The storm's howl is replaced by the steady beat of classic rock.
And then I register the scene before me.
The large, open room is filled with guys who look like they were forged in the fires of hell itself. Tattoos cover visible skin like roadmaps. Leather vests bearing patches and insignia are worn over broad shoulders. Hard eyes dominate weathered faces.
A long bar stretches along one wall. Round tables are scattered throughout the space, and a pool table occupies the far corner where several mountain-sized men pause with cues in hand. Conversations die. Every head turns in my direction like predators scenting prey.
Oh, shit.
I shakily push myself to my feet, hyperaware that my thin white uniform shirt is now transparent over my white cotton bra. My black uniform pants are soaked as well and clinging to my legs. My mascara is probably streaming down my cheeks in dark rivulets.
I’m a hot mess, I get it, but the way their eyes move over me makes my skin crawl.
"Well, well. What do we have here?" A bald man with a salt-and-pepper beard sets down his pool cue and takes a deliberate step toward me. The skull tattoos crawling up his thick neck seem to leer at me in the dim lighting. "You lost, sweetheart?"
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite being drenched to the bone. "My car broke down. I just need to use a phone, please."
A different man, this one with a wild mane of red hair and arms like tree trunks, barks out a laugh. "Hear that, brothers? She needs some help." The way he draws out the word help makes my skin prickle with warning.
"I'll help her," calls another voice from the bar, raising a beer bottle in my direction. "Got everything you need right here, darlin'."
My heart hammers against my ribs as Red Head approaches, his eyes traveling down my body with a look that makes me want to scrub my skin raw. I take an instinctive step back until my shoulder blades hit the door.
"Don't be shy now. We're all real hospitable here at the Hellbound Compound.” His grin reveals sharp teeth and bad intentions. “Real friendly to pretty little things like you."
I've spent nineteen years learning to read danger, learning when to run and when running would only make things worse—some men love a chase. Every instinct is screaming at me to flee, but I'm trapped between these beasts and the storm outside.
“I-I just need to call a tow truck," I say, hating the tremor in my voice. "Then I'll be gone. I promise."
Red Head reaches out to touch my wet hair, and I flinch so hard I bang my head against the door. His eyes narrow at the reaction. "Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be out alone at—"
"Tank."
The single word cuts through the room like a knife.
Every head swivels toward the voice, and the atmosphere shifts so dramatically I can feel the change in my bones. Mocking grins disappear. Postures straighten. Red Head’s hand drops away like he's been burned.
The man who emerges from the shadows makes my knees weak. It’s not just his size, or his bulging muscles, but the undeniable air of dominance that surrounds him.
He's massive—towering well over six and a half feet, with shoulders that look as though they could carry the weight of the world. He's not putting on a show of badassery. He doesn't need to. Every inch of him screams “mean motherfucker.”
His hair is pulled back in a low bun, revealing a face that would be beautiful if it weren't so hard—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a strong jaw covered in dark scruff, and irises the pale gray of a winter sky.
Intricate tattoos cover both arms visible beneath a black t-shirt stretched tight across a chest that speaks of hours in the gym or years of hard labor.
But it's his eyes that stop my breath. When they find me, something electric passes between us—a recognition that doesn't make sense, a pull that defies logic.
For a moment, the room fades away, the storm quiets, and there's only the two of us. I swear he’s looking at me as though he's seeing something rare and special.
"What the fuck is going on?" His voice is low, gravelly, but carries easily through the now-silent room.
"Just having some fun with our unexpected visitor, Wrath," Red Head—Tank—says, though his earlier cockiness has diminished significantly. “Little girly here wandered in from the storm."
Wrath. Even his name sounds ominous.
His pale eyes study me with terrifying intensity.
I feel transparent under his gaze, like he can see every secret, every fear, every scar I've tried to hide.
But instead of the predatory assessment I'm used to from men, there's something else there—something that makes my pulse flutter for entirely different reasons.
“Her car broke down," someone offers from near the pool table.
Wrath approaches slowly, and despite my best efforts, I can't help pressing myself further back against the door. Lightning flashes outside the windows and for a split second his face is illuminated in stark detail.
"You hurt?" The question is so kind, so unexpected, from this dangerous man that it takes me a moment to respond.
I shake my head hard enough to send water droplets flying from the ends of my hair. "Just stranded."
His eyes track over my face. What does he see, I wonder.
Dark circles under my eyes? My arms wrapped around my body, holding tightly? Bone-deep exhaustion?
Maybe all of it because when his gaze comes back up to meet my eyes, understanding passes between us. As though he recognizes what I am—broken.
"Where's your car?"
“Um…it’s…um, just up the road. Maybe fifty yards." I'm surprised my voice comes out steady. "The engine died."
Wrath turns to the room, and I notice how everyone straightens to attention. "Jigsaw."
A lean man with grease-stained hands and intelligent eyes steps forward. "Yeah, VP?"
VP. Vice President. That explains the authority that radiates from him.
"Go check it out. Take Diesel with you." He turns back to me, and his voice gentles fractionally. "Keys?"
With numb fingers, I fish them from my pocket and hold them out. Instead of taking them himself, Wrath nods to Jigsaw, who approaches cautiously to retrieve them from me.
"It's probably not worth fixing," I admit quietly, the words tasting like defeat. "It's been stalling for months. I just couldn't afford—" I cut myself off, not wanting to reveal more of my pathetic situation.
Something flickers in Wrath's pale eyes—not pity, not exactly, I can’t say what though. "You're soaked."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway, suddenly aware of how badly my teeth want to chatter.
He turns to a woman I hadn't noticed before—an attractive blonde with shrewd eyes behind the bar, watching our interaction with obvious interest. "Trix, find her some dry clothes."
The woman raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow but nods.
"I don't want to be any trouble," I say quickly, panic rising at the thought of being dragged further into this world, this place. What did that guy call it? Hellbound Compound. "If I could just use a phone—"
“Who you gonna call?” Wrath cuts me off
“A tow truck,” I squeak.
“Ain't no tow coming out in this storm.” His tone is matter-of-fact rather than harsh. "And ain't nowhere open at this hour anyway."
As if to punctuate his words, thunder crashes outside so violently it seems to shake the building's foundations.
I clutch my backpack tighter, the reality of my situation sinking in. I have nowhere else to go, no money for a hotel, no friends to call, no family who would take me in. "I can wait in my car until morning—"
"No." The word is final, brooking no argument. Then, his voice softens. "It ain't safe."
I'm not sure if he means the storm or something else, but the conviction in his voice, the way he's looking at me like my safety actually matters, throws me even more off-guard.
Trix rounds the bar, her expression kinder than I expected. "Come on, honey. Let's get you warmed up."
I hesitate, looking back at Wrath, whose intense gaze hasn't left me. There's something in the way he's watching me—something protective and possessive. I should go. Leave. Run. But, god help me, I don’t.
"Nobody's gonna hurt you here,” he says, his voice growly and rough. “You have my word."
And strangely, impossibly, I believe him. Maybe it's my own desperation, or maybe it's the way he's looking at me like I'm something miraculous, something magical that's been conjured from thin air.
As Trix leads me toward what appears to be a hallway, I hear Wrath's voice turn granite-hard behind me. "Anyone so much as looks at her wrong, you lose an eye. Touch her, and you die.”
When I glance back over my shoulder, he's still watching me, his pale eyes tracking my every movement with the focus of an apex predator.
I think I've just been granted something I have never had before—sanctuary.