Chapter 4
Diesel
I spend half the night in the garage, pretending to work.
Engines don’t argue. They don’t lie. They either run or they don’t.
I swap out a filter I don’t need to swap, just to keep my hands busy. I tighten bolts on my bike. I reorganize tools that are already in order. Anything that keeps me from going back inside and looking at the bed, at the blanket, at the woman sleeping there.
My eyes keep drifting to the corner of my workbench, where a photo sits under a magnetic strip.
Me and my mother. Years ago. Before.
She’s laughing in the picture, head thrown back, red hair bright even in faded print. But her eyes are sad. Like she already knows the ending.
She had the same red hair as Grace.
That thought comes sharp and unwelcome, like my brain is trying to tie knots I don’t want tied.
I promised my mother I would never let a woman suffer under a man’s fists the way she did.
She left before I could keep that promise for her.
Maybe this is my chance to keep it for someone else.
When dawn creeps into the edges of the trees, I wash the grease from my hands and go back inside.
Grace is still asleep.
Curled on her side, hair spilled across the pillow, mouth soft, one hand wrapped around her sketchbook like it’s a lifeline. The sight of her that way hits me in the gut. Not lust first. Something worse.
Tenderness.
And a hard, possessive need to keep her breathing like that.
I don’t move closer right away. I shouldn’t. I’m not a man who sneaks up on sleeping women.
But her sketchbook is half open, the corner of a page peeking out from under her fingers.
Curiosity tugs. Quiet. Insistent.
I lift the edge just enough to see.
Charcoal lines. Confident. Sure. Not the shaky kind of drawing you do when you’re guessing.
Me.
My jaw. My nose. The angle of my eyes. Even the ink on my arms, simplified but unmistakable. She drew me like she knows me. Like her hand decided before her brain had a say.
For a second, something in my chest squeezes tight.
Then reality shoves back in.
This is still a setup. Wolves still have their hooks in her. Nothing about this is safe.
I close the sketchbook gently, the way you close a wound, and step back before she wakes.
Coffee first. Something normal. Something I can control.
I make it the way I always do, strong enough to bite. The smell fills the cabin, warm and blunt. A minute later, she stirs.
Her eyes blink open, wide and disoriented.
Panic flashes across her face, fast and raw.
Then she sees me by the stove, and the panic eases into something else. Relief. Small, unwilling.
That shift, fear to relief when her eyes land on me, hits like a sucker punch.
I shouldn’t be the thing she’s relieved to see.
I could hurt her, too. I’m big enough. Strong enough.
But I won’t.
I’d cut off my own hand first.
She sits up slowly, wincing like her ribs remember things she’s trying to forget. I hand her a mug.
“Coffee?” I ask.
“Thanks,” she whispers. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it.
Sparks crawl up my arm.
I ignore them.
She sips. Her eyes close for a second, savoring the warmth. The tight lines on her forehead smooth out like the cup is doing what I can’t.
My gaze drops without permission.
The shirt she’s wearing, one of mine, rides up at the collar when she moves. The bruises I noticed last night peek out. Dark purple and sick green. Finger marks.
My teeth grind.
“You okay?” I ask.
It’s a question I’ve asked my brothers more times than I can count. It’s a question you don’t ask unless you know what it means.
She freezes, mug halfway to her mouth.
Tears flash in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. She nods once.
Liar.
She isn’t okay. She isn’t safe. Not really. Not as long as Malice has her by the throat.
Her phone buzzes on the table.
She flinches like it’s a slap.
Her face drains. Her hands shake so badly the coffee ripples in the mug. She looks at the screen and swallows hard, jaw tightening like she’s trying to hold in pain.
She doesn’t tell me what the message says.
She doesn’t need to.
They’re checking in. Demanding proof. Demanding progress. Demanding she earn her keep.
Her shoulders curl inward. Obligation wraps around her ribs and squeezes.
Rage rises in me, hot and sudden, toward a man I’ve hated for years for entirely different reasons.
“I’ll make breakfast,” I say, because my voice will do something violent if I keep talking. “Eggs and bacon.”
She nods without looking up.
I cook in silence. The skillet pops and hisses. The smell of bacon fills the cabin. She sits at the table with her mug and tries to make herself small.
We eat without speaking.
Fork to plate. Chew. Swallow.
The kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful, just careful.
When the plates are mostly empty, I wipe my hands once on a towel and lean back, chair creaking.
“A prospect will bring your car up this morning,” I tell her. “Ghost already has it moving. I’ll fix it.”
Her head lifts slowly.
Something cautious flickers in her eyes.
Questions she doesn’t ask out loud.
How do you know? How much do you know?
She takes a breath and finally meets my gaze. Her eyes are glassy, but sharp. Like she’s made a decision.
“I was sent,” she says.
The words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other like she’s afraid she’ll lose her nerve if she pauses.
“My father. Malice. The prez of the Wolves. He ordered me to seduce a Damned Saints member. He thinks you…” Her throat works. “I don’t know why, but he thinks you like girls like me. He wants revenge. He wants information. He doesn’t care what he does to me in the process.”
She swallows. Her fingers tighten around the mug.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she adds, quieter. “I removed the connector myself. I lied to you. I’m sorry.”
Her confession hangs in the air like smoke.
She waits for me to explode. To drag her to the door. To throw her back to the Wolves like she’s a bad deal.
I don’t.
I take a slow sip from my second cup of coffee, buying myself a second to keep my voice steady.
“I know,” I say.
Her mouth opens and closes. “You… know?”
“Ghost looked you up last night.” I keep it plain. “And I’ve got eyes, Grace. I saw what you did to the car.”
She flinches, bracing for the hit that should follow being caught.
It doesn’t come.
I lean forward slightly, forearms on the table.
“I also know Malice,” I say. “I know how he treats people. Especially the ones he thinks belong to him.” My voice stays level, but something hard sits under it. “We don’t let innocent women get used in our wars. That’s not how the Damned Saints operate.”
Her breath shudders out of her.
Relief floods her face so fast it looks like pain. Then fear surges right behind it, as if her body doesn’t trust relief to last.
“Safe,” she whispers, like the word is unfamiliar. “Safe isn’t real. Safe doesn’t exist.”
I set my mug down carefully.
“It does,” I say. “It just doesn’t look like you think it does.”
She watches me like she’s waiting for the catch. Waiting for the price.
“It looks like a cabin that creaks,” I continue. “A garage full of wrenches. A man who will put himself between you and a fist, or a blade, or a bullet, without expecting anything in return.”
Her eyes search mine for the lie.
She won’t find one. I’m not good at lying. I don’t bother.
She nods, slow.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Then… what happens now?”
I sit back and fold my arms, because I need the distance to keep my hands off her.
“You stay here,” I tell her. “You don’t leave this property. You don’t answer your phone unless it’s me.” I hold her gaze. “You tell me everything you know about the Wolves’ next move. In return, I protect you. We protect you.”
She looks down at the half-empty mug. Her fingers tighten hard enough to whiten the knuckles.
For a second, I think she’ll throw it. Or stand up and run. Or collapse.
Instead, she nods.
“Okay,” she says.
A small, shaky smile appears, like she’s trying it on for size.
It’s the bravest thing I’ve seen in a long time.
My own smile surprises me. It’s small, maybe invisible, but I feel it in my chest like something loosening.
Then I push it down.
Now is not the time for hope.
Now is the time to plan for war.