Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
LUCKY
The bathroom door clicks shut behind her. I stand in the hallway, ear pressed close until I hear the shower kick on steady. She's in. Safe. For now.
I turn and stalk back to the kitchen, blood still roaring in my ears. Phone's already in my hand. I hit Riot's name. He picks up on the first ring. "Talk," I growl.
The shower's still running steady when Riot's voice crackles through the line.
"Got him," Riot says, flat and certain. "Brian Michael Cross.
Thirty-six. Divorced from Savannah two years.
Protective order filed, then dropped after she left the state.
Lives at 1427 Maple Grove, off Highway 17.
White 2022 F-150, plate incoming. Part-time at the east-side lumber yard.
No girlfriend listed. Posting 'healing journey' bullshit on Facebook for months.
Burner and real line both active. Last ping was two miles from her dad's office this afternoon. He's circling."
Brian. The name hits like a slug to the chest. My vision tunnels. The kitchen wall is right there. I slam my fist into it hard enough the drywall caves, knuckles splitting fresh, a fist-sized dent staring back at me.
"Fuck!" The word rips out raw. I flex my hand, blood already beading on the cuts. "It's him. That motherfucker."
Riot doesn't flinch on the other end. "You good, brother?"
"No." I drag a bloody hand down my face. "But I'm handling it. Sundown. Meet at the gate. Bring Ghost. Quiet. No bodies unless he forces my hand."
"Copy. I'll have eyes on his house by the time you roll up. See you at sundown."
I hang up. Pocket the phone. Stare at the dent in the wall like it's personally offended me.
Blood drips onto the tile. I wipe it on my jeans.
Walk back to the hallway and lean against the wall opposite the bathroom door.
Water's still running. She's in there trying to wash off whatever fear that asshole put in her bones.
I don't knock again. Just stand there. Arms crossed. Listening to the water. Listening to my own breathing slow down from rage to something colder. Sharper.
She comes out twenty minutes later in my hoodie, hair wet and dripping, eyes red but steady. She sees the dent first. Then my hand. Stops dead.
"Lucky..."
I push off the wall. Step close. Don't touch her yet. "Riot confirmed it. It's Brian."
Her face crumples for half a second. Then she straightens. Nods once. "Okay."
I cup her face with my good hand. Thumb brushes her cheek. "I'm handling it tonight. I'll be back before you go to bed."
She doesn't argue or beg me to stay. Just nods again. Walks past me to the laundry room. Starts folding clothes. Slow. Methodical. Like if she keeps moving the shaking stops.
I follow. Lean in the doorway. Arms crossed. Watch her fold my T-shirts, her leggings, a pair of socks that don't match. She glances over once. Doesn't speak. I don't either.
She moves to the kitchen next. Pulls out flour, sugar, chocolate chips. She starts mixing cookie dough. No music. No talking. Just the clink of the spoon against the bowl, the soft thud of dough on the counter.
I sit at the island watching her scoop the cookie dough onto the tray.
Watch her slide the tray in the oven and set the timer.
Then she wanders to the living room. Curls up on the couch with the remote.
Puts on one of those weird-ass documentaries she likes.
Something about deep-sea creatures or ancient cults.
I sit next to her. Pull her legs across my lap, resting my hand on her thigh.
She leans her head on my shoulder and stares at the screen.
We don't talk. Don't need to. The sun moves slowly across the floor. Cookies cool on the rack. She gets up once to flip the laundry. I follow her to the laundry room, stand in the doorway while she switches loads. She doesn't look at me. I don't leave her side all day.
When the light outside starts to turn gold, I stand and stretch.
She looks up from the couch. "You're going now?"
"Yeah." I crouch in front of her, hands on her knees. "I'll be back tonight. Promise."
She nods. Eyes wet but steady. "Come home to me."
"Always do."
I kiss her forehead. Hard. Then her mouth. Slower. Taste chocolate and her. Stand up. Grab my cut from the chair, pull it on, and walk to the door. "Stay inside. Lock up. Phone close. Anything feels off, call me first, then Mason. Got it?"
"Got it." She follows me to the door, locking the deadbolt behind me.
I wait for the front deadbolt to lock when I step out.
My bike fires up with a low snarl that matches the rage boiling under my skin.
Twenty minutes later I'm at the compound.
Ghost is already geared up wearing a black hoodie, no cut tonight, Glock on his hip, that knife he never talks about strapped to his ankle.
Riot's in the van, laptop open, feeding live pings.
"Truck's in the driveway," Riot says over comms. "Living room light on. He's home alone."
I nod. Pull my helmet off. We roll slow down Maple Grove like we're just two guys out for a night ride. Ghost parks the van one street over. I kill the bike two houses down, let the engine tick as it cools.
Brian's house looks exactly like I'd expect from a guy who thinks therapy fixes what fists broke. A neat lawn, an American flag on the porch, motion light that snaps on the second my boot hits the walkway.
He opens the door before I knock, wearing a pair of sweatpants, T-shirt, beer in one hand, that smug half-smirk plastered on his face like he thinks he's untouchable. "Lucky Kane," he says like we're old pals. "Figured you'd show up eventually."
I step forward and he backs up, leaving me free to enter his home. Ghost slips in behind me, shuts the door quietly, then leans against it with arms crossed.
Brian's eyes flick to Ghost, then back to me. A smirk twitches on his face. "Brought muscle for little old me? Cute."
I don't smile. "You've been texting my woman. Calling her. Driving by her job. You know her schedule. That stops tonight."
Brian takes a slow swig of beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Texting? Calling? I don't know what the hell you're talking about, man."
My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache. "Don't play stupid. We got the receipts. Burner number. Timestamps. Messages. You saw her in my hoodie this morning. You said it yourself. 'Bet it smells like him.' Ring any bells?"
He blinks. Once. Slow. Then he laughs, short and ugly. "Sounds like someone's got a jealous streak. Maybe she has a side piece who talks like that. Wouldn't surprise me. She's always been dramatic. Likes attention."
Ghost shifts behind me. I feel him tense but he stays silent.
Brian keeps going, voice dropping like he's sharing a dirty secret.
"She always was a needy little bitch. Crying over nothing.
Bruises? Please. Half of them she gave herself just to make me look bad.
You really think she's changed? She's still the same loud-mouthed cunt who couldn't keep her mouth shut.
Probably still flinches when you raise your hand too fast. Bet she likes it rough now, likes a man who actually hits back. "
Something snaps in my chest. Cold. Focused. I grab the front of his shirt, slam him back against the wall so hard the picture frame crashes down. Glass shatters. Beer spills across his chest.
"You don't talk about her like that," I say, voice low enough it barely carries. "Not ever again."
Brian's eyes go wide but he still tries to smirk. "Hit me, tough guy. Go ahead. Prove you're no better than I was. She'll see it eventually. She always comes crawling back when the shine wears off."
I drive my fist into his stomach. He doubles over, gasping. I grab his hair, yank his head up so he has to look at me.
"You think this is about me?" I say slow.
"This is about her sleeping without nightmares because of you.
This is about her sitting on our kitchen floor shaking because your pathetic ass won't leave her alone.
We got proof it's you. Burner pings. Messages.
You can deny it all you want. Doesn't change shit. "
I slam my fist into his jaw. Blood sprays. He staggers. I don't let him fall. Another punch—cheekbone this time. Bone crunches under my knuckles. He drops to his knees.
Ghost steps forward. "Enough, brother. He's down."
I'm breathing hard. Knuckles split and bloody. Brian's on the floor wheezing, one eye already swelling shut.
I crouch so we're eye level. "Listen real careful," I say.
"Delete her number. Block her on everything.
If I see your name on her phone again—if I hear you drove past her dad's office, her house, her grocery store, any fucking place she might be—I will come back.
And next time I won't stop at a bloody face.
I will make sure you understand what it feels like when someone decides your lungs don't work anymore.
And I won't leave enough for the cops to identify. You understand me?"
Brian nods once, blood dripping from his lip. "Yeah. I understand."
I stand slow. Wipe my hand on his shirt like he's trash.
Ghost opens the door. I walk out without looking back.
We ride home quiet. No rush. Night air cools the blood on my knuckles. Ghost doesn't say a word the whole way. He doesn't have to.
Savannah's waiting on the couch when I walk in. Wrapped in my hoodie, knees pulled up, eyes red but steady. She sees my hand first—the split knuckles, the drying blood—and her breath catches.
I lock the door, set the alarm, cross to her in three strides, and drop to my knees in front of the couch.
"He won't bother you again."
She reaches for my hand, gentle, thumb brushing over the cuts. "What did you do?"
"Had a conversation." I turn my hand over, lace our fingers together. "He tried to play stupid. Said he didn't know what I was talking about. I told him we got the receipts. Burner number. Messages. Timestamps. He knows now."
Her eyes search mine. "Did you...?"
"Beat his ass. Yeah. He said shit about you. Nasty shit. Tried to make me snap so he could say I'm no better than him. I didn't kill him. But he won't forget tonight."
She swallows hard. Then she slides off the couch, right into my lap on the floor, arms locking around my neck. I hold her tight, one hand splayed on her back, the other cradling her head.
"I was so scared," she whispers against my throat. "Not just of him. Of what you might do if he pushed too far. Of losing you to a charge or worse."
"You're not losing me." I kiss her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Not ever. He's done. For good."
She pulls back just enough to look at me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for protecting what's mine." I brush my thumb under her eye. "That's the job."
She kisses me then—soft at first, then hungry. Hands sliding under my cut, tugging at my shirt like she needs skin. I kiss her back the same way, tasting salt and relief and her.
"Bed," she breathes.
I stand with her wrapped around me, legs locked at my waist, and carry her down the hall. We don't make it far. I press her against the wall outside the bedroom, hoodie shoved up, mouth on her throat while she yanks at my belt.
When I slide inside her it's slow and deep. We both groan at the same time.
"Mine," I rasp, thrusting up into her. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders. "Always yours."
We move like that, desperate, grounding, reminding each other we're still here, until her legs shake and she comes with my name on her lips. I follow right after, burying deep, whispering promises against her skin.
After, I carry her the rest of the way to bed. We collapse tangled, my cut half-on, her hoodie bunched around her waist. She traces the scar on my chest with one finger, ring glinting in the low light.
"He won't come back?" she asks quietly.
"No." I catch her hand, kiss the ring. "Because if he does, next time I won't leave him breathing."
She smiles—small, tired, real. "My big bad biker."
"Damn right."
I pull the blanket over us. Tuck her against my chest. Listen to her breathing even out. The house stays quiet. Cats curl at the foot of the bed. My phone stays dark on the nightstand.
Brian Cross just learned what happens when you fuck with an Iron Reaper's old lady.
And Savannah is finally sleeping without one eye open.