Chapter Eight
Jet
Morning seeps through the curtains, thin and golden, touching bathing everything in it’s golden light. For once, sleep came easily. It could’ve been the lingering rush of the night air, or the way the world finally went quiet for once.
Or it could’ve been him.
The thought stings.
A deep breath fills my lungs, but it steadies nothing. The scent of sea and sand lingers, dragging me back to the ride. The roar of the bike, the curve of the road, his hands sure on the handlebars, and the ocean breeze threading through the night.
Something inside had loosened out there on the road. The fear didn’t vanish, but it stopped ruling every breath. The world had felt wide again. Free.
Now guilt sinks in like an anchor.
Justice is part of this life, the one that took Hawk from me. The one that uses loyalty like currency and buries its dead in unmarked ground. But last night, sitting behind him, it hadn’t felt like danger. It had felt like peace.
A knock comes softly against my door. “You awake?” Devil’s voice is warm and sharp all at once.
“Yeah,” comes my answer, rough but steady.
She steps in, coffee in hand. “Thought you might need this. Heard Justice took you for a ride.”
I shrug. “Yeah, I guess Creed thought I needed air.”
“Smart man,” she says, smiling. “He’s got a good head for people. Justice too, when he’s not trying to drown his ghosts in whiskey.”
Her words make the chest tighten. “He’s not what I expected.”
“What’d you expect?”
“Arrogance. Control. The same kind of man who thinks women are property.”
Devil laughs, setting the mug down on the nightstand. “Oh, he’s got arrogance in spades, love. But that man? He’s got a good heart. Doesn’t know what to do with it half the time, but it’s there.”
Silence settles again, easier this time.
“You’ve been through hell,” she says softly. “No one’s rushing you. But if you let the good moments in, you might find they don’t bite as hard as you think.”
Her hand squeezes my shoulder before she heads for the door. “Breakfast in ten. Don’t make me drag you.”
The door closes, leaving warm air and a stillness.
Fingers drift over the edge of the coffee mug. The heat seeps into my skin. Devil could be right. Not every fire’s meant to burn you.
Justice is trouble.
Everyone can see it.
The kind of man my old captors pretended to be, right before they took me. I thought they were fun, charming, sure they were a little rough around the edges, and then they showed their teeth.
But he hasn’t looked at me like they did.
And that’s what scares me most.
Because part of me wants to believe he’s different, that his hands wouldn’t bruise, that his promises might actually mean something.
Trust got me hurt before.
So why does the thought of trusting him feel less like a mistake… and more like the start of something I’m not ready for?