Chapter 8
Diesel
Grace is still asleep when I leave.
She’s curled up in my bed, soft and quiet, hair tangled across the pillow like a halo. I watch her for a second too long, heart thudding in a way I don’t recognize. The kind of rhythm that belongs to men with something to lose.
She made herself mine last night and this early morning, in every way that counts.
And now I’ve got to leave her behind while I go hunt monsters.
I don’t wake her. Just brush my knuckles over her cheek, tuck the blanket up to her shoulder, and slip out into the cold morning.
The cabin door shuts behind me with a click that feels too final.
The sky is still dark, clouds heavy with another storm. My bike waits, growling low when I fire it up. Tires spit gravel as I tear down the mountain road, wind biting at my face, cutting through the heat still burning under my skin.
By the time I reach the clubhouse, the lot is already buzzing.
Ghost is leaning against a van, arms crossed, black jacket zipped tight. Havoc stands beside him, giving orders to Saint and Blade. Everyone’s armed. Everyone’s wired tight.
“Compound’s thinned out,” Ghost says the second I kill the engine. “They bought it. Viper and the prospects counted sixteen Wolves at the Rusty Nail, dressed like they’re playing soldier.”
“Idiots,” Havoc mutters, spitting into the dirt. “Leaving the girls unguarded to chase a ghost.”
Saint slams a mag into his rifle. “Then let’s give them a nightmare.”
We roll out before dawn breaks, two vans and three bikes. Ghost rides point, silent and cold, his back like steel. I ride behind him, every bump of the road vibrating through my bones, tension wound so tight I think it might snap.
The Wolves keep their compound tucked behind an abandoned lumberyard on the edge of a ravine. Fenced. Gated. Remote enough that no one hears the screams.
I know this place.
I’ve seen it before. Never went inside. Never had to. But I know the stench of it. I know the eyes of the men who run it.
We ditch the vans half a mile out. Walk the rest.
The forest closes in around us. Wet. Heavy. No birds. No rustle of wind. Just a silence so thick it feels like it’s watching us.
My boots move over the wet ground without sound, my Glock warm in my hand. I’ve got a knife strapped to my thigh and an extra mag clipped to my vest. But I don’t plan on needing it. I plan on making every bullet count.
We reach the edge of the clearing. Saint pulls out binoculars and scans the yard.
“Two guards at the gate,” he murmurs. “One smoking, one pacing. No movement in the watchtower.”
“They’ve got three trailers in the back, right?” I ask, voice low.
“Yeah. The cages are in the far one. If they kept the same setup.”
I glance at Ghost. “How do you want to play it?”
“Quiet,” he says. “Fast. Take the gate. Sweep the trailers. In and out before they know what hit them.”
Havoc checks his gun. “No survivors. If they’re part of this, they die.”
We move in pairs. Me and Ghost take the left side. Havoc and Saint go right. Blade is on guard.
The Wolves never see us coming.
The first one drops before he can even finish his drag.
Silenced shot to the temple. Ghost doesn’t flinch.
Just keeps moving. The second starts to turn, mouth open to shout, but I’m already on him.
One arm around his neck, the other driving my blade under his ribs. He gurgles, twitches, then slumps.
We haul the bodies behind the gate shack.
Saint waves us forward.
The yard smells like rust and piss and sweat. Like rot. Like everything good in the world has been scraped away. We pass crates stacked with illegal parts, a busted bike in pieces, and a line of heavy-duty chains bolted to the ground.
The trailer in the back is padlocked.
I nod at Ghost. He raises his boot and kicks the door in.
It crashes open, slamming into metal with a crack. Inside, the light is dim. Smells worse than the yard.
And then I hear it.
A whimper. Broken.
“Clear left,” Havoc says, sweeping the first room.
I move forward, gun up.
The cage is in the far corner, steel bars welded into the trailer frame. Four girls inside. One huddled, two limp, one pressed against the gate like she’s been waiting her whole life for someone to show.
Jesus.
They’re barely conscious.
"Check for more," Ghost says. "Diesel, you're with me."
I break the lock with a bolt cutter. The door swings wide. The girl closest to me flinches hard, expecting pain.
I crouch down, gun still ready. “You're safe now,” I say, voice low. “We're not here to hurt you.”
Her eyes search my face. Whatever she sees there makes her shudder once, then crumple into my arms.
I lift her gently. Bones under skin. She doesn’t weigh more than a bag of flour.
Saint comes in with a duffel of emergency supplies. Water. Food bars. Blankets. He kneels and checks the girls, calling out vitals like he’s done this before.
We find two more girls in another trailer, locked in a back closet. One of them can’t even stand.
Ghost’s jaw is clenched so tight I think he might break his teeth.
“These girls were prepped for auction,” he says. “Malice was really getting ready to sell them.”
My gut twists. Grace's face flashes in my head. Her voice, shaky but brave, saying you can save the girls trapped there.
She gave us this chance.
We carry them out one by one.
Load them into the back of the van with blankets, heat packs, warm water. Saint rides with them, checking vitals, keeping them awake. Ghost rides shotgun, calling our medic at the clubhouse to be ready.
I linger just long enough to sweep the main office.
It’s empty.
But there’s a ledger.
Names. Codes. Prices.
And dates.
One of them is today.
Today.
They were going to be moved tonight.
My fists clench around the folder, and for a second, all I see is red.
Then I grab the rest of the documents. Stick them in my jacket. We’ll burn the place after.
Havoc sets the charges. One on the gate. One on the main trailer. One inside the office.
We drive away just as the first explosion lights up the tree line.
The Wolves’ empire burns behind us.
We don’t talk much on the ride back.
The girls are alive.
Shaking. Broken.
But alive.
And that matters more than anything.
The clubhouse is prepped by the time we roll in.
Ava and Sage meet us at the door with clean clothes, warm food, and bandages. Nya’s already got cots set up in the rec room. The women don’t ask questions. They don’t flinch. They’ve done this before.
The girls are taken inside. The light in their eyes is flickering, but it’s there.
I hand the ledger to Ghost. “We’ve got enough here to bury Malice.”
He nods, flipping through the pages. “This is war.”
“No,” Havoc says, cracking his knuckles. “This is justice.”
I scrub a hand over my face, blood still drying under my nails. My ribs ache. My knuckles are raw. I haven’t slept in over a day.
But I don’t care.
Because we got them out.
And because Grace is safe.
I need to see her. Now.
I take my bike up the mountain like the devil’s on my heels.
The sun is barely up, gold bleeding through the trees. The cabin comes into view, quiet and untouched. I kill the engine and take the steps two at a time.
She’s still in bed, tangled in sheets, hair a mess. When I close the door behind me, her eyes blink open.
“Diesel?”
“I’m here,” I say, kicking off my boots before crossing the room, then sinking to my knees beside her. “It’s done.”
She sits up slowly, reaching for me. I bury my face in her stomach, wrapping my arms around her waist.
“We got them out,” I say into her skin. “All of them.”
Her fingers slide into my hair, trembling.
“I knew you would.”
But her voice cracks.
And I realize she didn’t believe it until now.
She holds me while I breathe her in. Her warmth. Her strength. The way she never gave up even when she was breaking.
“What about Malice? My brother John?” she asks, her voice small now.
Fear flickers across her face.
“They weren’t there.”
Her lips part. Panic rises, quick and sharp.
“I have information,” she says, sitting straighter. “I wrote things down in my notebook. Names. Places. Things I overheard. I can help catch them.”
I look at her. Really look.
At the fire behind the fear. The strength she doesn’t even know she has. This woman was brave in hell. She’s braver now.
I lean in and press a kiss to her forehead, slow and steady.
Then something shifts. The space between us tightens. Her breathing changes. So does mine.
She’s here.
She's mine.
And I need her like air.
I rise without a word and strip off my jacket. The leather hits the floor. My sweat-soaked shirt follows, peeled from my skin and tossed aside. Her eyes track every inch like she’s starving and I’m the only thing that matters.
She is already reaching for me, pulling me in like she needs me closer, like the distance between heartbeats is too much.
Her shirt is loose. My fingers fist in the hem and drag it up over her head in one swift motion. She’s bare underneath, breasts flushed, nipples already peaked.
My breath punches out of me.
“Jesus, Grace,” I whisper. “You undo me.”
She grabs my belt, yanks me between her knees, and kisses me like she wants to make sure I don’t vanish.
It’s messy. Starved. Her hands slip up my chest, around the back of my neck, pulling me down to her as her legs wrap around my waist. The heat between her thighs scorches through my jeans.
I groan into her mouth, grind against her once, and feel how soaked she already is.
“No time,” she whispers. “Please.”
My hand slides down between us, fingers dipping between her folds. She’s dripping. Warm and ready and so fucking sweet I almost lose my mind.
I work my fly open, shove my jeans low enough, and line myself up. Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and wanting.
“Now,” she begs, voice breaking.
I thrust into her in one slow, deep stroke, burying myself to the hilt. Her body tightens around me instantly, velvet heat sucking me deeper. We both groan—hers sharp and high, mine broken and low.
“God,” I rasp. “You really feel like heaven.”
She arches under me, nails raking down my back. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t.
I fuck her deep and slow, each thrust a promise I can’t say out loud. She clings to me, breathing ragged, eyes glassy.
The bed creaks beneath us, but it’s not enough. I lift her, still buried inside her, and carry her the few feet to the kitchen counter, knocking aside a mug as I set her down. She gasps at the cold stone under her thighs, but then she’s grabbing me again, dragging me back in.
I slam into her hard, bracing my hands on either side of her hips, and she cries out, head falling back.
“That’s it,” I growl. “Take it, baby. All of it.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps, her heels digging into my back. “And you're mine.”
Her words wreck me.
I grip her thighs tighter, slamming into her again and again, her slick heat sucking me in like she never wants to let go.
She breaks first.
Her body seizes, back arching, mouth falling open on a scream as her climax rips through her. She tightens around me like a vice, and I swear I see stars.
“Diesel,” she sobs, shaking.
I thrust once, twice more, then I’m gone. I bury myself to the hilt and come hard, spilling deep inside her, forehead pressed to hers, trying to remember how to breathe.
For a moment, we don’t move.
Just breathing.
Just hearts pounding.
Then I lift her gently off the counter, carry her back to the bed, and lay her down like something precious.
She curls into me, one arm flung across my chest.
No words.
We don’t need them.
Because she’s here.
And I’ll never let her go again.