Chapter 2
Ava
The roar of motorcycles fills the night air, getting closer with every second.
Ice Pick's hand wraps around mine, calloused and rough, pulling me through the maze of the Reapers' warehouse with a confidence that suggests he's memorized the layout, which he probably has. Men like him make it their business to know the terrain of their enemies. And men like him don’t move alone unless they have to. If he’s here without his brothers at his back, it’s because time ran out and consequences be damned.
"This way," he growls, taking a sharp left down a corridor that smells like stale beer and marijuana.
My head's still spinning from the beating, the cut above my eyebrow throbbing in time with my pulse.
I stumbled into this, thinking I could play the role, convince them I was just a reporter looking for a story about MC culture.
Instead, they'd seen right through me, found the wire I'd stupidly thought was well hidden, and decided to make an example.
If Ice Pick hadn't shown up when he did, I'd be in pieces right now.
The question is why he showed up at all. Saint’s Outlaws don’t trade women. They don’t sell them, and don’t ignore them. I don’t know their rules yet, but I know the look in Ice Pick’s eyes when the Reapers said missing women. That wasn’t curiosity. That was a line being crossed.
We burst through a side door into an alley, and the cool night air hits my face like a slap. My legs are shaking, adrenaline and fear mixing into something that makes me want to either throw up or scream. I do neither. I can't afford to fall apart, not now.
"Where's your bike?" I ask, scanning the alley for his Harley.
"Two blocks east. Can you run?"
"Can I run? I just survived three Reapers trying to beat information out of me. I can run a goddamn marathon if it means getting out of here."
His mouth quirks into something that might be a smile under different circumstances. "Good. Stay close."
We take off at a sprint, my messenger bag bouncing against my hip with every step. Behind us, the sound of the Reapers organizing their pursuit echoes through the streets. Shouts. Engines revving, and the slam of doors and boots on pavement.
Ice Pick moves like a man who's done this before, taking turns without hesitation, sticking to shadows where the streetlights don't reach. He isn’t just escaping; he’s calculating.
Routes and where we might be caught in the open.
The kind of thinking that comes from being the guy responsible for keeping a whole club alive.
I follow, my lungs burning, my legs protesting, but I don't slow down. I can't slow down.
We round a corner and nearly collide with his bike. He's on it in seconds, the engine roaring to life with a sound that's both beautiful and terrifying because it announces exactly where we are.
"Get on," he orders, and I don't argue.
I swing my leg over and wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath his leather cut. He's built like a man who's spent years fighting, every inch of him hard and unforgiving. It’s the kind of body that's made for violence.
And right now, I'm grateful for every bit of it.
He guns the engine, and we tear out of the alley just as the first Reaper bike rounds the corner behind us. Two more follow, headlights cutting through the darkness like predatory eyes.
"Hold on tight," Ice Pick shouts over the wind.
I press myself against his back, my arms locked around him as he weaves through traffic with a recklessness that should terrify me. Maybe it does, maybe I'm too pumped full of adrenaline to care. The Reapers are right behind us, close enough that I can see the fury on their faces.
Ice Pick takes a hard right, leaning the bike so low my knee nearly scrapes the asphalt. I tighten my grip, burying my face against his shoulder, breathing in leather and smoke and something darker, more primal. He smells like danger, and right now, danger is the only thing keeping me alive.
We race through the industrial district, past warehouses and abandoned factories, the Reapers still on our tail. Ice Pick doesn't slow down, doesn't hesitate. He takes another turn, this one into a narrow alley barely wide enough for the bike.
The Reapers try to follow, but the lead bike clips the wall, sparks flying, and goes down in a screech of metal and cursing. The other two have to swerve to avoid him, giving us precious seconds.
Ice Pick uses every one of them.
We burst out of the alley onto a main road, and he opens the throttle wide. The bike surges forward, and I lose track of where we are, everything blurring into streaks of light and shadow. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth, and my hands are numb from gripping him so tightly.
Finally, after what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, he slows. The Reapers are gone, lost somewhere in the maze of streets behind us. He takes a series of turns, doubling back, checking mirrors, making sure we're not being followed.
When he's satisfied, he pulls into a parking garage attached to what looks like an old apartment building. The engine cuts, and the sudden silence is deafening.
I don't move, I can't move. My arms are still locked around him, my body pressed against his back, and I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
"Ava." His voice is gentler than I expected. "We're safe. You can let go now."
I try. My arms don't cooperate. They're locked in place, muscles refusing to obey my brain's commands. Shock, probably. Or just the bone-deep exhaustion of surviving something I shouldn't have.
Ice Pick shifts, turning on the bike until he can see my face. His hand comes up, cupping my jaw with surprising gentleness for someone who just beat three men into submission.
"Look at me," he says.
I do. His eyes are dark in the dim light of the garage, but there's something in them I don't expect. Concern, maybe even anger, but not at me.
"You're okay," he says firmly. "You're alive. They didn't win."
The words break something loose inside me, and I suck in a shaky breath. Then another. My arms finally unlock, and I pull back, immediately missing the solid warmth of his body.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice rough. "For coming after me."
"Don't thank me yet. We're not out of this." He swings off the bike and offers me his hand. "Come on. We need to get you cleaned up and figure out what the hell you were thinking going into that warehouse alone."
The criticism in his tone snaps me back to reality. I ignore his hand and climb off the bike myself, even though my legs feel like jelly. "I was doing my job."
"Your job nearly got you killed."
"My job is worth the risk."
"Is it?" He steps closer, using his size to make a point. I refuse to back down. "Is exposing the Reapers worth dying for? Because that's where this is heading if you keep being reckless."
"I'm not being reckless. I'm being thorough."
"You're being stupid."
"And you're being an asshole."
For a moment, we just stare at each other, locked in another standoff. Then his mouth twitches, and that almost-smile appears again. "Yeah, I've been told that before."
Despite everything, despite the fear still coursing through my veins and the pain throbbing in my face, I almost laugh. Almost.
"Where are we?" I ask instead, looking around the garage.
“Safe house. Belongs to the club." My mind flashes to the kind of place women whisper about when they’re trying to get free: quiet doors, quiet help, nothing official. The club’s version of that scares me… but it also feels real.
He heads toward a door at the back of the garage, expecting me to follow. "You'll stay here tonight."
"I have my own apartment."
"Which the Reapers probably know about by now." He doesn't look back. "They found you once. They'll find you again. Unless you want another round of interrogation, you'll stay here."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. My apartment isn't safe anymore. Nowhere is, really, not after tonight. The Reapers know my face now; they know I'm investigating them. And whoever hired those men in the parking garage earlier knows it, too.
I'm caught between multiple threats, and the only person offering protection is a biker with Saint’s Outlaws colors and a reputation for violence.
What choice do I have?
I follow him through the door and up a flight of stairs.
The safe house turns out to be a studio apartment, sparsely furnished but clean.
There's a bed against one wall, a small kitchenette, and a door that probably leads to a bathroom.
Nothing personal, nothing that would identify who uses this place.
"Sit," Ice Pick orders, pointing to the bed.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding. Sit down."
I sit, mostly because my legs give out. The adrenaline's wearing off, leaving exhaustion and pain in its wake. Ice Pick disappears into the bathroom and returns with a first aid kit that's seen plenty of use. Ice Pick doesn’t reach for his phone.
He kneels in front of me, and I'm struck by how strange this is. This massive, dangerous man, covered in tattoos and scars, carefully opening antiseptic wipes and bandages like he's done this a thousand times before.
"This is going to sting," he warns, and then he's cleaning the cut above my eyebrow.
I hiss through my teeth, but I don't pull away.
His touch is surprisingly gentle, his free hand resting on my shoulder to keep me steady.
Up close, I can see the details I missed before.
The scar that runs through his left eyebrow.
The tattoo that creeps up his neck is some kind of bird with spread wings.
And the way his jaw clenches when he concentrates.
"You do this a lot?" I ask, needing to fill the silence. "Patch up people after rescuing them?"
"More than I'd like." He applies a butterfly bandage, his fingers brushing my skin. "Usually it's my brothers, though. They're better at following orders."
"I don't follow orders well."