Protected By Viper (Damned Saints MC #3)

Chapter 1

Ava

My coffee truck smells like espresso, vanilla syrup, and a life that might actually be mine.

It’s ridiculous to get emotional over a cramped little workspace with a moody milk steamer and a service window that groans in the cold. But I’ve passed through enough towns to know a good thing when it lands in my hands.

Lovestone Ridge is a good thing.

The people are kind in the way that sneaks up on you. They smile like they mean it. They tip like they’ve been broke before. They ask how I’m doing and wait for the answer.

It’s small stuff. But small stuff saves you, one steady beat at a time.

I wipe the counter again because my hands need a task. My hoodie sleeves are long, tugged down over my hands. Always are.

The line is gone for now. I restock lids, line up stir sticks, refill sugar packets. Rituals. If I can control the small things, I don’t feel so helpless about the big ones.

I’m reaching for napkins when I hear it.

A motorcycle.

The sound rolls through the street low and slow, and my whole body answers like it’s been trained. Stomach tight. Pulse quick. Heat blooming up my neck like I’ve been caught in something.

I already know it’s him.

He’s been coming every day since I arrived. Sometimes twice. Always early. Always quiet.

He rides like the bike is part of him. Moves like gravity does what he says. Tall, broad, built in a way that makes this little truck feel like a shoebox.

Leather cut. Boots. Ink.

Dark hair. Dark blue eyes that don’t roam, they land. And when they land, it’s like being seen and measured and held still, all at once.

There’s a scar beneath his left eye. Just a line, but my brain keeps trying to give it meaning. My body doesn’t care what it means.

It wants him anyway.

That’s the problem.

Wanting him feels dangerous. Wanting him feels like standing too close to the edge of something that could swallow me whole.

The first time I saw him, I was fumbling with the register, trying not to look like someone who doesn’t belong. I heard that engine and looked up, and there he was.

Calm. Big. Quiet.

He didn’t leer. Didn’t look me over. He just asked for coffee in a voice that warmed every nerve in my skin.

Then he came back.

And kept coming back.

Now, he’s part of my mornings. Like the hiss of steam. Like the heat of the cup in my hands.

He stops at the window and rests one arm on the ledge, casual. Like he isn’t the kind of man who could turn a street violent just by standing in it.

His sleeve is full ink, black and purposeful, the viper coiled through it looking less like art and more like a warning. It moves when he does. So does the low pull in my stomach.

My nipples tighten. My thighs press together. My breath catches.

And then the thought comes. The one that always does.

Men like him don’t want women like me.

Not really.

I’m too soft. Too round. Too noticeable in all the wrong ways. My body doesn’t shrink. It speaks. It takes up space I’ve been told my whole life to minimize.

I can hear the voices even now.

Too much.

Too soft.

Not worth wanting.

I swallow it down and paste on my safe smile.

“Morning.”

His gaze lifts. Not to my chest. Not to my curves.

To my hands.

It makes my heart stutter.

I pull my sleeves down another inch without thinking.

He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask. But something flashes in his eyes. A shadow. A shift. Like he saw more than I meant to give.

Then it’s gone. Masked behind calm.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is low, gravel-smooth, and when it hits, I feel it everywhere.

“Same as usual?” I ask, my voice thinner than I want.

He nods. “Yeah.”

It should be normal. Coffee, money, done.

But nothing about this man feels normal.

I turn to the machine, grateful for the cover. My hands move like muscle memory.

Espresso. Milk. Syrup. Lid.

I set the cup down.

He reaches. His fingers brush mine.

It’s barely a touch. A flicker.

But it shoots through me like a live wire.

I suck in a breath.

His eyes narrow slightly, like he caught it. Like he filed my reaction somewhere deep and private.

My cheeks burn hotter.

He takes the cup and walks away, drinking as he goes.

By the time he reaches the bike, the coffee’s gone. He crushes the cup in one hand and drops it into the bin.

Then he looks back at me.

“See you.”

Two words, low and steady, like a promise that feels heavier than it should.

He swings a leg over. The engine rumbles. Then he’s gone.

And I just stand there, heart loud, lips parted, stomach twisted into knots I pretend are caffeine.

The next customer clears their throat.

I blink. Straighten. Breathe.

I remind myself that I'am a functioning adult.

I am.

The morning keeps moving.

Orders come and go. I smile. I work. I laugh at a joke I barely hear. I keep busy, because busy means I don’t think too hard.

And when the rush finally thins again, I let myself breathe.

I love it here.

Even if my rental room is tiny. My bed is cheap and creaks every time I shift my weight. And the bathroom is even smaller. So cramped I can barely turn around. The shower squeaks, and the faucet leaks.

It’s mine.

No one locks me inside it.

No one tells me I owe them my life because they provide a roof.

I take a second to stare at the sunlight spilling across the street. Lovestone Ridge looks like something out of a movie. Small storefronts, slow mornings, people who wave like they’ve got nowhere else they need to be.

I came here because I needed somewhere to disappear.

Somehow, I ended up somewhere I want to stay.

My chest tightens with a feeling that scares me.

Hope.

Hope is dangerous. Hope makes you sloppy.

Running taught me that. One wrong choice, one trusting smile, one moment of thinking you’re safe, and everything snaps.

I push the thought down and wipe the counter again, because my hands need something to do.

My mother is gone. That truth sits in me like a stone. She’s been gone long enough that it should hurt less, but grief doesn’t work that way. Some days I can almost forget. Other days I remember her voice and it feels like a wound ripped open.

After she died, my stepdad stopped pretending.

He’d always been hard. Always angry in the way some men are, like the world owes them and they take it out on whoever’s closest. My mom needed a provider. I understand that in a way that makes me sick, because it means I understand why she stayed.

When she was alive, he kept the worst of it behind clenched teeth and closed doors.

When she was gone, he let it breathe.

He didn’t touch me in the ways people assume when they hear stories like mine. He didn’t need to. He found other ways to own me.

Locks. Rules. Chores that never ended. Punishments that made my skin crawl. Words that burned worse than the cigarettes he stubbed out on my arms.

And when he drank, he got worse.

I ran a few months ago. I packed what I could carry and left without a plan. I went from town to town, staying small, staying quiet, never letting myself settle.

A knuckle taps the metal frame of my service window, and I blink hard, dragging myself back to the present.

Doris is at my window, holding a paper bag and wearing the satisfied look of a woman who knows she’s about to improve my day whether I like it or not.

She runs the waffle truck in the spot next to mine, like we’re a matched set—caffeine and carbs.

“Trade,” she says, waving the bag.

I can’t help smiling. “You are not bribing me with waffles again.”

“Yes,” she replies, without apology. “And don’t start, Ava. I’m doing community service.”

I laugh, because she says things like that like she’s done a whole court-ordered program in kindness.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Vanilla latte,” she says. “Extra shot. I’m not playing today.”

I make it while she leans on the ledge and watches me work. Doris has a way of watching that makes you feel seen, not judged.

Her gaze flicks down the street, and her eyes sparkle like she just found her favorite topic. Then she looks back at me with a grin.

“That biker wants more than coffee,” she says.

My face heats instantly. “Doris.”

“What?” she says, innocent. “I’ve been alive a long time, honey. I know what I’m looking at.”

“He barely talks,” I mutter, focusing hard on the milk like it has the answers to all my problems.

“That means he’s serious,” Doris says, like it’s obvious. “Men like him don’t waste words.”

I hand her the latte and try to look unimpressed. I fail. My smile pulls at my mouth anyway.

She nudges the paper bag toward me. “Trade complete.”

I huff a laugh and take it. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“Good,” she says. Then her eyes soften. “You’re doing good here, Ava. I’m glad you landed in this town.”

My throat tightens and I hate it. I hate how much those words matter.

“Me too,” I manage.

She plays with the cup in her hands.

“You’d be safe with a man like him.”

My head snaps up before I can stop it.

Doris nods toward the street.

“Same goes for the rest of the Damned Saints boys. They look dangerous, but they keep their mess contained. They don’t mess with locals.”

I glance down the street without meaning to. “You know them?”

“I know the town,” she says. “And I know who I’d rather have on my side if trouble ever came calling.”

It’s meant to comfort me.

It does, a little.

I’m still smiling when Doris heads back to her waffle truck, waving like she owns the street.

The day stays bright. The truck stays busy.

For a few hours, I let myself live like nothing is chasing me.

Then my phone buzzes.

The sound is small, but my body goes still like a prey animal hearing a branch snap.

My gut goes on high alert. My fingers feel numb as I pull it from my pocket.

Unknown number.

My stomach drops anyway.

I open the message.

I can’t breathe.

"I know where you are, Ava."

My vision narrows until the words are the only thing in the world.

Another message comes in before my brain can catch up.

"You think you can run forever?"

My hands start to shake. I taste metal.

A third message hits, and the world tilts.

"You come home, or Nadia pays for it. She’ll be back from college soon."

No.

Nadia.

My sister’s name punches through me like pain.

My chest tightens so hard it hurts. My ears ring. The bright little town goes blurry around the edges.

I don’t think.

I move.

I flip the sign to CLOSED.

I don’t explain. I don’t call out to Doris. I don’t tell anyone anything.

My hands shut down the truck with frantic, jerky motions. My body is already halfway out the truck before my brain catches up.

Then I’m walking.

Then I’m running.

I can hear my own footsteps too loud on the pavement. I can hear my breath, sharp and panicked.

I can feel eyes on me, confused, but I don’t stop.

I get to my rental room, and my hands fumble the key so badly I almost drop it.

The door swings open and I stumble inside.

I lock it.

I press my back to the door and slide down to the floor, phone still clutched in my hand like it’s a weapon pointed at my throat.

He found me.