Chapter 5
Grace
I still don’t know what got into me.
Maybe it was the way he fed me twice like it meant nothing. Maybe it was the way he gave me his bed without asking for payment. Maybe it was the quiet, the normal, the strange little moments that made my body believe in something my mind doesn’t trust.
Or maybe I really am that pathetic, that stupid to feel hope because a biker cooked for me and didn’t demand anything in return.
Hope is dangerous.
It makes you careless.
Diesel is outside, his silhouette moving past the window. I hear the low rumble of a motorcycle, the clink of tools. I stand by the table with my sketchbook in my hands, not knowing what will happen next.
I stretch, wincing when the bruise on my shoulder pulls. My mind flashes to Malice’s fist connecting with my collarbone.
I inhale. Exhale
Not now.
I sink into a chair and pull my sketchbook into my lap. The page from last night is smudged, but it captures Diesel too well, the slope of his brow, the hard line of his jaw, the way his eyes seemed to glow even in the dark.
Drawing him feels intrusive and intimate at the same time.
It also calms me.
I flip to a clean page, go to the window, and start drawing the scene outside: Diesel bent over an engine, hair falling into his eyes, grease staining his fingers. My pencil moves without conscious thought. Lines become shapes. Shapes become a world where my hands can do something besides shake.
Then the memories push in anyway.
A shipping container on the Wolves’ compound, metal walls sweating cold. The sour tang of blood in the air. A whimper that didn’t belong among engines and laughter.
I’d gone to the garage to get my sketchbook. Malice had hidden it, like stealing my pencils could teach me obedience. I heard the sound again and followed it.
The container door was latched. I pried it open.
She was inside.
Tied. Gagged. Wrists raw. Eyes huge and wild. Like she’d been there for days.
I didn’t think.
I cut the ropes with the knife I kept in my boot and tore the gag away. I told her to run.
She ran.
I never saw her again.
Malice found out anyway.
He told me she was merchandise.
He slammed my head against concrete and broke my arm like it was nothing.
“You cost me money,” he said, voice almost calm. “Now you’ll pay.”
I spent a week in the hospital.
John told everyone I fell down the stairs.
My pencil stops. The paper trembles under my hand.
I can’t draw the woman’s face. Every time I try, the line digs too hard, the page threatening to tear. My throat tightens until I can barely swallow.
So, I draw Diesel instead.
I draw the way the morning light slides over his skin. I draw his hands, big and rough, and how they were careful when he handed me cake. I draw the set of his shoulders, the steadiness in him.
I draw because it keeps the nightmare back.
The door creaks.
Diesel steps inside carrying a bundle of firewood. His eyes flick to the sketchbook in my hands. He doesn’t comment. He drops it into the wood bin.
He studies me for a beat too long. “You okay?”
The question is a minefield. It’s the kind of question that can turn into punishment if you answer wrong.
A laugh barks out of me before I can stop it.
“No,” I say honestly. “But… I’m better than I was yesterday.”
His nod is small, like honesty matters to him. “If you need anything, I’ll be outside.”
He leaves again, and the cabin falls into quiet.
The truth is, I’m terrified.
Malice will be expecting a report. My phone buzzes.
Ignoring it makes things worse.
I look.
Clock’s ticking, princess.
John.
My blood goes cold. He always calls me princess right before he hits me. It isn’t a nickname. It’s a warning.
My stomach churns. I need to give them something. Something to buy time.
An idea flickers. Small. Dangerous.
If I feed the Wolves false information, I can buy the Saints time. If I give the Wolves nothing, they’ll come anyway and I’ll be the first casualty.
Before last night, I wouldn’t have dared to betray them. I would’ve tried to survive by staying invisible. By taking hits and swallowing screams and hoping it ended before it killed me.
But Diesel’s cabin, his quiet care, the way he fed me and gave me his bed, cracked something open.
A sliver of courage.
A spark of self-worth.
Maybe just anger.
I find myself wanting to protect the man who has already protected me.
I type with shaking fingers.
He’s taking me to the clubhouse tomorrow. He has an important meeting outside Lovestone Ridge. I heard bits about shipments. I’ll find out more.
It’s a lie.
I hit send before I can rethink it.
My heart stutters. This could blow up in my face.
But maybe it will do what I need it to.
Lure Wolves away from the girls they keep caged.
Give the Saints a window to save them. I hope they intend to save them and I’m not just fooling myself.
The wind shifts. A soft patter starts against the window, then builds, steady and insistent. The door opens again. Diesel steps in, rain misting his shoulders, water darkening his shirt at the seams.
I’m still holding my phone.
There’s no hiding it now.
“I gave them a false lead,” I whisper. “They think there’s a meeting tomorrow.” My breath shakes. “You’ll need a place. They’ll send people. But it’ll thin out the compound. If… if your club was thinking about doing anything… You can save the girls trapped there.”
Diesel crosses the room in two long strides, then stops a few feet away, giving me space on purpose. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t praise me. He just looks at my face like he’s reading the truth through my skin.
“You sure you want to do this?” he asks quietly. “Because if you set them up, you can’t go back. There’s no second chance. They’ll know it was you.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “I don’t want to go back. I’m tired of being a pawn. I’m tired of them hurting girls and getting away with it.” I swallow hard. “I want to do something. Even if it kills me.”
His nod is slow. Final. “Then we move fast.”
His hand lifts like he might touch my face, like the urge comes before the decision. He stops himself. Drops his hand.
“There’s somewhere we need to go.”
We ride to the Damned Saints’ clubhouse on his bike, afternoon clouded over, the sky gray and heavy. The rain stopped for now.
My hands grip his waist. The steady rhythm of his breathing calms mine.
The clubhouse sits on the edge of town, a converted factory with brick walls and high windows. Heavy steel doors bear the Damned Saints emblem, a skull-halo symbolic tone.
Leather. Smoke. Whiskey.
The scent hits as soon as we step inside.
Men lounge on worn couches around a fire pit, laughing and teasing like they’ve survived the same hell and decided to make it home. Music hums low from a jukebox. Rough, loud, and somehow… welcoming.
A big man stands behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey, dark hair threaded with gray, short beard. His eyes sharpen when he sees me with Diesel.
Diesel leans close and murmurs, “Havoc.”
Havoc’s gaze pins me, assessing without leering. “This her?”
Diesel nods. “Grace Henley. Malice’s daughter. She gave John a false lead on a meeting. We have a window.”
Havoc whistles low. “Ballsy.”
“I’m not his daughter,” I blurt. “My mother had an affair.”
Something shifts in their faces. Understanding, quick and ugly. Like the missing piece clicks into place.
Havoc’s eyes drop to the sketchbook clutched to my chest like a shield. “You draw?”
I blink. “What?”
He nods at it. “Sage said we were getting an art teacher for the kids at the community center. From Black Pines. That you?”
My mouth falls open. “You… you run the orphan’s center?”
Havoc snorts. “No. But we show up.” His expression goes wry. “Sage teaches them to bake. Nya brings toys and flowers. We do charity rides. Keeps the town from forgetting we’re still human.”
I just stare.
Because in my world, men like this don’t do gentle.
They don’t volunteer.
They don’t protect kids.
A man steps in from the side, quiet in a way that makes the room seem louder around him. He looks at me once, sharp and knowing.
Diesel murmurs, “Ghost.”
Ghost doesn’t waste time. “Text Malice. Meeting is outside Swoon Peaks. Bar called the Rusty Nail.” His eyes hold mine. “Make it believable.”
My fingers are numb, but I do it. I type. I send.
Havoc claps his hands once, the sound snapping the room into motion. “Alright. False lead goes out to the Wolves.” He points. “Viper, take three guys to the bar outside Swoon Peaks tomorrow morning. Play cards. Take vans. Weather’s turning ugly tonight.”
Then Ghost: “Check their compound. See if their ranks thin.”
His gaze lands on Diesel. “Diesel. You and Grace stay put. I want you two alive if shit hits the fan.”
Nobody hesitates. Nobody questions. They move like a machine, clean and practiced.
Not chaos.
Not fear.
Organization.
Protection.
It makes my head swim. I feel small and huge at the same time.
Diesel squeezes my hand. “Let’s get back to the cabin,” he murmurs. “It’s going to rain all night.”
We ride up the mountain in silence. The sky opens halfway home, rain lashing sideways. We’re soaked by the time we reach the cabin. My boots squish as I step inside.
Diesel’s hair is plastered to his forehead. Water drips down his tattoos. He shucks off his wet shirt and tosses it aside like he doesn’t notice what it does to the air.
My mouth goes dry anyway.
Muscle. Ink. Scars cutting across his ribs. Evidence of a life that hit hard.
He moves to the fireplace and feeds it logs. Heat blooms quickly, fighting the cold clinging to our skin.
I stand near the fire, arms wrapped around myself. My shirt clings. My teeth chatter.
Diesel glances at me and frowns. He grabs a towel and presses it into my hands.
“Get out of those wet clothes,” he says. “I’ll find something dry.”
His voice is rough, but there’s nothing sexual in it. Matter-of-fact. Protective.
He turns his back and rummages through a drawer, then tosses me a T-shirt and flannel pants.
I duck into the bathroom for a quick shower and change. When I come back, he’s in dry shorts and a gray T-shirt. His hair is damp, curling at the ends.
He looks up.
His eyes linger on my face.
Something hot flashes between us, quick and undeniable, then vanishes like he locked it down.
Rain pounds the roof. Thunder shakes the walls.
The power flickers.
Then goes out.
The only light is the fireplace.
Shadows dance. The room shrinks down to heat and breath and the man standing a few feet away.
There is nothing to distract me from him.
My heart thuds louder than the rain.
Diesel steps closer, then stops like he’s fighting his own body. His gaze drops to my mouth and snaps back to my eyes, jaw tight.
I shouldn’t want this.
Men like him don’t want girls like me.
But my body doesn’t care what I believe.
He reaches out slowly, giving me a chance to flinch, to say no. His knuckles brush my cheek, barely a touch.
The gentleness breaks something in me.
I tilt my face into his hand before I can think.
His breath catches.
For a heartbeat, he looks like a man on the edge of control, and then he makes a decision.
He cups the back of my neck and kisses me.
Not soft.
Not gentle.
A kiss that says mine without a word.
Heat rushes through me, lightning under skin. I grab his shirt, dragging him closer, desperate and furious at myself for wanting it.
He groans into my mouth like he’s been starving.
Then he breaks the kiss abruptly, forehead resting against mine, breathing hard.
“Grace,” he says, like my name is a warning. “Tell me to stop.”
I should.
I don’t.
I shake my head, and his control snaps.