Chapter 3
Grace
We eat in silence, the only sounds the scrape of cutlery and the low crackle of the fire. The steak is tender and juicy. I close my eyes for a second as the flavor fills my mouth. Something sharp pricks behind my eyes.
I blink hard.
I’m not crying over steak.
“Havoc’s lady makes a mean cake,” Diesel says suddenly, like he can feel the quiet getting too heavy. “Sage dropped some off this morning.”
He gets up, opens the fridge, and pulls out a container with two thick slices of chocolate cake. He sets one in front of me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
My jaw drops.
“You have cake,” I say, stupidly.
Diesel’s expression shifts, like he doesn’t know what to do with my shock.
“Havoc’s our president,” he says, like that should explain everything. “Damned Saints. And Havoc and Sage bake together when they’re bored.”
Havoc. The president of the Damned Saints. Same title as my so-called father, same seat of power, but nothing about them feels the same.
In the Wolves’ world, a president collects fear like currency. Women are decoration, leverage, punishment. You don’t get given dessert in that world. You get given orders. You get measured. You get used.
Here, the president’s woman bakes cake because she feels like it, and the president apparently gets bored and helps her.
Havoc was on my no-target list for a reason. We had info that he was already in a committed relationship.
I stare at the glossy frosting. In the Wolves’ world, cake is for birthdays or bribes. Here, a biker hands me dessert like it’s nothing. I pick up my fork and take a bite.
It melts on my tongue.
A hum slips out of me before I can stop it, embarrassingly soft, almost a moan.
Diesel goes still.
His mouth twitches, his eyes flick to my face and hold. Something darker rolls through his expression, quick and hot, like lust trying to take over before he can rein it in.
For one stupid heartbeat, I think it’s for me.
I shove the thought away so fast it stings. Men like him don’t look at girls like me. Not really. Not the curvy, soft kind. Not the kind my father called “piggy” like it was my name.
So whatever I saw in Diesel’s eyes, I must have imagined it.
At least, he doesn’t ask me questions. He doesn’t interrogate me about why I was on the road or where I’m from. At first it feels suspicious, like a trap I can’t see. Then it starts to feel like a reprieve.
I’m used to being accounted for. To having my day demanded from me, detail by detail.
Who looked at me.
What they said.
How they said it.
What I did wrong.
What I owe.
Diesel seems content to exist in silence.
After we finish, he washes the dishes and hands me a towel. Without thinking, I step in beside him, drying each plate he passes me. We fall into an easy rhythm, shoulder to shoulder, hands moving in sync.
Domestic.
Strange.
Warm.
It also feels like a lie.
My chest tightens. I remind myself, hard: I am here to spy. I am here because my life depends on playing a part. I cannot get comfortable.
Diesel points to the bed. “You take the bed,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
My eyes widen. “I can’t.”
“You’re taking the bed,” he repeats, firmer. “Don’t argue. You need sleep.”
I open my mouth to protest again, but something in his gaze makes me close it. He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to prove he’s decent. He’s just stating a fact, like the world contains rules and he intends to follow them.
I pick up my sketchbook from my bag and move toward the bed.
The sheets smell like soap. Clean. Simple. I sit on the edge, heart thudding.
Diesel hands me a T-shirt to sleep in, then turns his back while I change. He doesn’t peek. Doesn’t linger. When I say I’m done, he drops onto the couch and drapes an arm over his face, his shirt pulling tight across his abdomen as he settles.
The fire crackles. Rain begins tapping against the roof.
My mind won’t stop.
I slide under the blanket with my sketchbook tucked close, the way I’ve held secrets my whole life. My fingers itch to draw. I pull out a pencil and open to a blank page.
I keep the blanket pulled up to my chest, a thin shield, leaving just enough space to see.
The room is dim, the porch light filtering through the window, the fire giving everything a soft flicker.
Diesel is a shape on the couch, broad and still.
When he shifts, light catches the hard line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the ink on his arms.
My hand moves before my thoughts can catch up.
I sketch his face, then the way his rugged body looked on that bike. I draw what I can see and what I remember, filling in details the way my brain always does when it’s trying to make sense of a man.
My hand shakes. Lines wobble.
I breathe through it.
Drawing is the only time my mind quiets.
Somewhere in the room, Diesel’s voice rumbles, low. “What are you doing?”
I freeze, pencil hovering.
“Drawing,” I whisper. “It helps me. It just… helps.”
He grunts, like that’s enough explanation. “Make sure you sleep.”
I go back to sketching until my eyes grow heavy.
The rain thickens. Thunder rolls in the distance. Lightning flashes, bleaching the cabin white for a heartbeat.
My body tenses automatically, bracing for a blow that isn’t coming.
Nothing happens.
Diesel doesn’t move. He keeps breathing evenly, steady as the rain. I press my hand over my heart and wait for it to slow. When it does, when my breathing starts matching the rhythm on the roof, I let my eyes close.
I drift without worrying someone will yank the covers off and drag me out of bed.
I hate that the one place I feel almost safe is a cabin belonging to a man I’m supposed to betray.
But I’m too tired to hate it for long.
Sleep pulls me under like a river, and for a few hours, I float.