Chapter 3
Ava
The biker doesn’t leave.
He steps inside like he already belongs, like a decision’s been made and I just haven’t heard the terms yet.
His eyes sweep the room. Quick. Controlled. Window, corners, exit. He takes it all in without moving more than a step. And somehow, even while scanning for danger, he makes it feel like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Then his eyes lock on me.
“I’m Mason,” he says. “Club calls me Viper.”
The name shouldn't land like a gut punch. But it does.
“Ava.”
He nods once. “I know.”
That pulls me up short. “How?”
“I find out what I need to.”
Right. He said my name when he knocked.
Before I can ask more questions, a knock hits the door.
Lighter than his. Just a normal knock.
I freeze.
He doesn’t.
Two strides and he’s there, hand on the knob, shoulders squared. One step from violence and already choosing it.
“Wait,” I say, breath catching. “It’s probably—”
Too late.
He rips the door open.
Mr. Borden stands there holding my borrowed suitcase, wearing the kind of neighborly smile that says thanks for the favor.
He doesn’t get a word out.
Viper grabs him by the jacket, drags him inside, and slams him against the wall so hard the drywall cracks.
“You did that to her?”
The voice is cold. Lethal.
Borden’s face goes white. “What—no—what are you talking about—?”
I shove forward, heart pounding. “Stop! He didn’t do anything. He didn’t touch me!”
Viper doesn’t let go.
His arm’s braced across Borden’s chest like a steel bar, knuckles white, rage coiled in his spine.
“What’s he doing here?”
“He borrowed the suitcase last week,” I snap. “Took a weekend trip with his daughter. That’s it.”
Borden’s hands go up, fast. “Just bringing it back. That’s all. I swear, I wasn’t— I didn’t— Jesus, man.”
A long, brutal second.
Then Viper steps back. Jaw tight. Eyes darker than before.
Borden stumbles out, practically gasping. “All good. Totally fine. I’m good, you’re good, we’re—good.”
He doesn’t walk away.
He flees.
I slam the door. Lock it.
When I turn around, the biker’s still standing in the center of the room, fists clenched, breathing like he's trying to leash something back inside.
“I told you he didn’t hurt me.”
Viper says nothing.
Just stands there, fists clenched, jaw locked, like the idea alone is still fighting for space inside him.
I drop to the edge of the bed, every limb heavy. “He’s a decent man. Has a little girl. Never looked at me sideways.”
“He looked at you.”
I huff out a breath. “You can’t beat the hell out of everyone who looks at me.”
“I can try.”
His voice is flat. Steady.
And it should scare me.
It doesn’t.
My gaze drifts to the suitcase. “I was leaving this town anyway. I just hadn’t packed yet. Clothes are folded. I didn’t think I’d have to run again.”
The last line is for me more than him.
He doesn’t say anything. Just kneels beside the suitcase, unzips it, and starts loading in the clothes like he’s done this before. Like it’s easier to focus on this than the fire still smoldering under his skin.
Every movement is measured. Methodical.
Too careful.
“You’re coming with me,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He doesn’t pause. “I’ve got space for the luggage. Custom mount behind the seat.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He zips it shut. Stands. His eyes meet mine. Calm, clear, completely unshaken.
“You’re not staying here.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“You don’t have to. You just need somewhere safe.”
I hesitate. “That’s the thing. I don’t know if I am safe with you.”
Something flickers across his face then. Quiet. Sharp.
“You are.”
The words land heavy. Certain. Like a promise.
“I’ll put you in a cabin. It’s mine. I’ll stay at the clubhouse.”
That softens something inside me.
Not all the way.
But enough.
I nod. Small. Barely there.
But he sees it.
He grabs the suitcase and heads for the door.
Doesn’t ask if I’m coming.
He already knows.
I stand.
And follow.
The ride is short. Too short.
The road winds through the edge of town and out into the quiet, where the pavement narrows and the trees lean in like they’re trying to listen. It’s beautiful in a way I haven’t let myself feel in a long time.
But what I feel more is him.
My hands wrapped around his waist, the warmth of his body in front of mine, the low rumble of the engine beneath us. It should make me nervous. Should make me pull away.
Instead, it feels... safe.
Like nothing can touch me when I’m holding on.
We pull up to a small cabin tucked behind a wall of pines. Wood and stone. Quiet. No lights on. No sound but the wind through the trees.
He kills the engine and sets the bike on its stand.
I let go of his waist slowly, fingers stiff from the grip, from the cold… maybe from something else too.
He climbs off first, then turns back to me. Offers his hand without a word.
I hesitate for a breath. Then take it.
I swing my leg over and step down, boots crunching on gravel. The space between us feels colder than the air.
He watches me a moment, then nods toward the porch.
“It’s clean. Empty. Locked up tight,” he says. “I had a crew come out this morning to restock it.”
“You really think this is necessary?”
“Someone gave you those scars. And you’re still running. That’s all I need to know.”
He grabs the suitcase and walks up the porch. Unlocks the door, then steps aside.
Doesn’t go in.
Just waits.
I go first.
The air is cool, but the cabin feels warm in a different way. Safe. Lived in, but not recently. A single bed. A chair. A fireplace. Small kitchen. Bathroom off to the side. Simple. Solid.
He sets the suitcase down and straightens.
“You lock the door behind me.”
I blink. “You’re not staying?”
“I said I wouldn’t.”
I watch him, unsure if I believe it. Part of me doesn’t.
And part of me doesn’t want him to leave.
That part is dangerous.
He must see something in my face, because he says, “There’ll be prospects posted nearby. No one gets within a hundred feet without me knowing.”
I nod. Surprised at myself for not being afraid of him. Not feeling caged all over again.
Because I’m not.
Not even a little.
That scares me more.
He steps toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. Looks back at me.
His voice softens. “You need anything, you call me. No second-guessing.”
Then he’s gone.
The door shuts behind him. I lock it. Slide the bolt. Check the windows out of habit.
The silence that follows isn’t peaceful.
It’s heavy.
Full of too many memories, too many ghosts.
I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the panic to come back.
It doesn’t.
Not exactly.
What I feel is something I can’t name.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours.
Then—a knock.
Soft.
I freeze.
Not from fear. Not this time.
Something else.
I step toward the window and peek out through the curtain.
Viper is on the porch.
For a second, my heart sinks. He didn’t keep his word.
Then I see him setting something down and leaving.
Two containers on the wooden steps. Wrapped in a folded towel, still steaming in the cold air.
I open the door slowly. No one in sight. Only the scent of food and pine and something else I can’t place.
I bring the containers inside. Set them on the small counter.
One’s soup. The other, thick stew. Still warm. Still fragrant.
No note. No message.
Just care, disguised as a meal.
I eat the soup and half the stew, standing barefoot on cool wood floors, in a stranger’s borrowed safety.
I still don’t know what kind of man Viper really is.
But tonight?
He feels like the safest thing I’ve ever let close.