Chapter 16
ARROW
T he morning sun cuts through the October cold as I roll my Ducati out of the garage.
Matte black paint shines in the light like a loaded weapon, every line sharp and coiled with intent.
The engine purrs with that quiet, deadly hum that turns heads and makes SUV drivers double-check their mirrors.
It’s modified for speed and control with upgraded exhaust, track-tuned suspension, and clip-ons positioned exactly where I need them for riding that toes the line between thrill and felony.
Then I’m off around the front door of the house.
Cindy is waiting on her front steps, bundled in that burgundy sweater that makes her skin look like cream, worn jeans that hug her gorgeous ass.
Her soft curls glint in the morning light, all honey and gold, and when she sees me, her whole face transforms. That nervous smile, the way she tucks hair behind her ear, the little bounce on her toes…
fuck me, this Omega’s going to be my undoing.
“Your chariot awaits,” I call out, pulling up to the curb.
She eyes the bike with a mix of excitement and terror. “I’m ready to ride with you again.”
I grin, handing her the spare helmet, matte black with a tinted visor. “Safety first. Can’t have my Omega getting damaged.”
Her cheeks pink up, but she doesn’t correct me. Progress.
She swings her leg over, settling behind me, and the first contact of her thighs against mine sends electricity straight to my cock. Then her arms wrap around my waist, tentative at first, like she’s afraid to hold too tight.
“Closer,” I growl. “Unless you want to fly off when I hit third gear.”
She scoots forward, pressing her entire front against my back, and Christ. Her tits crushed against me, her thighs bracketing mine, her hands splayed across my stomach, I can feel her heartbeat through my leather jacket, quick and nervous.
Her scent wraps around me despite the wind, that sweetness that makes me want to shout Mine, claim, protect .
“Hold tight,” I warn, then gun it.
She squeaks, arms tightening to the point of pain, and I can’t help but grin inside my helmet.
The industrial district flies by, old warehouses being converted to trendy bullshit, graffiti giving way to commissioned murals, brew pubs and artisan whatever-the-fucks sprouting like mushrooms after rain.
Whispering Grove Brewing Company sits in the middle of it all, a restored brick building with huge windows and a sign that tries too hard to look vintage.
I pull into the employee lot, killing the engine. The sudden silence feels loud.
“You can let go now,” I say, amused.
“Give me a minute.” Her voice is muffled against my back. “My legs forgot how to work.”
I help her off, steadying her when she wobbles. Her face is flushed, eyes bright, and she’s grinning like she just got off a roller coaster.
“That was terrifying,” she says. “When can we do it again?”
“Anytime you want, gorgeous. I’m your personal taxi service now.”
“I really should get a car?—”
“Why? So you can sit in traffic like every other sucker while I’m out here living free?” I pull off my helmet, shaking out my hair. “Besides, I like having you plastered against me. Best part of my morning.”
She ducks her head, but not before I catch her smile. “Thanks, Arrow. Really.”
“Go brew your beer, woman. I’ll pick you up at five.”
She heads toward the employee entrance, and I watch every step because I’m a weak man and that ass in those jeans is a religious experience. She turns at the door, waves, and disappears inside.
I turn around, and that’s when I spot him.
Across the street, maybe ten yards down, leaning against a busted streetlight like he owns the fucking sidewalk. Even without the helmet, even with the distance, I’d know that cocky stance anywhere.
Mack.
My baby brother, the walking disaster. He’s watching the brewery entrance where Cindy just disappeared, and every protective instinct in my body goes nuclear.
I fire up the Ducati, not bothering with the helmet, which I keep in front of me. The engine roar echoes off the buildings as I tear across the street, sliding to a stop inches from his feet. Gravel sprays, and he doesn’t even flinch.
“Nice entrance,” Mack says, that shit-eating grin I remember from when he was twelve and setting fires in the backyard. “Very dramatic.”
He looks rough. But not as bad as last time.
Still has our mother’s sharp cheekbones, our father’s dark eyes, but there’s a hardness there that wasn’t present when he was a kid.
His hair is longer, tied back off his face, new tattoos creeping up his neck.
He’s wearing ripped jeans, combat boots, and a leather vest over a black Henley.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, not getting off the bike. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“Nice to see you too, brother.” He spreads his arms like he wants a hug. “It’s been years.”
“Yeah, since you called from county lockup needing bail money. I remember real well, assault with a deadly weapon, wasn’t it?”
He rolls his eyes, the gesture so familiar it hurts. “Fuck, man. I fucked up. Let it go.”
“Not just once.”
“I know, I know.” Something’s different. The manic energy that usually radiates off him like heat waves, it’s muted. Controlled. “Look, I’m trying to?—”
“What do you want this time?” I cut him off because Mack’s apologies are like his promises—worth less than the air used to speak them.
He stretches his shoulders. “Nothing. I’m here for a job, figured it might be good to see my older brother. Maybe patch up some things.”
I scoff before I can stop myself. It’s automatic, like breathing. This usually means he needs money, a place to crash, or someone to take the fall for whatever stupid shit he’s gotten into.
The last time I saw him, he’d shown up at Savor during the dinner rush, high as fuck, screaming the same thing about how I abandoned him, how I left him in that house with those monsters.
Made a scene, broke dishes, scared customers.
I had to physically throw him out while he cried and cursed me in equal measure.
The time before that, he’d stolen my bike and wrapped it around a telephone pole. Cost me fifteen grand to rebuild.
But before all that, before the drugs and the crime and the endless fucking disappointments, he was just my little brother.
The kid who’d sneak into my room during Dad’s prayer sessions, when the screaming got too loud.
Who’d share his dinner when they put me on restricted rations for defiance.
Who cried for three days straight after the beatings when he got caught helping me.
I was sixteen. He was thirteen. And I left him there. Fuck, it still guts me because then things might have turned out differently.
“What job?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
His eyes flick to the brewery. “That chick on your bike. Your girl?”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “You’d better fucking believe it. But she’s not for your eyes.”
“Hey, I get it.” He holds up his hands, and there’s something in his expression like resignation? “But that’s the thing, Arrow. I’m here because of her, and we need to talk. There’s something you need to know.”
The words hit like ice water. Van. It has to be fucking Van. That piece of shit has reach, connections, the kind of money that buys muscle. And Mack, my desperate, always-broke brother, would be exactly the kind of muscle he’d buy.
“For fuck’s sake,” I spit. “Fine. Follow me to the restaurant. We’ll talk there.”
I don’t wait for a response, just tear out of the industrial district like hell itself is chasing me.
In my mirrors, I find Mack scrambling to keep up, though he always could ride like the devil taught him personally.
We weave through morning traffic, splitting lanes, running yellows that are definitely reds by the time we clear them.
Savor is empty when we arrive, won’t open until lunch. I use the side entrance, flipping on lights as I go. The kitchen crew is already prepping—I can hear them chopping, smell onions and garlic hitting hot oil—but the dining room is all mine.
I grab two beers from behind the bar, pop the caps with the edge of the counter, and slide into a corner booth. Mack follows.
“Place looks good,” he admits. “Successful.”
“It is.” I push a beer across to him. “Now speak.”
He takes a long pull, either gathering courage or buying time. With Mack, it’s always hard to tell.
“A few days ago, I took a job through an MC.” He’s peeling the label off his beer, a nervous habit. “For some guy called Van. Wanted someone to do surveillance, maybe apply some pressure. On a girl.”
My hand tightens on my bottle until I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Go on.”
“It was for a pretty Omega, blonde, working at some brewery.” He meets my eyes. “I had no fucking clue she was yours, Arrow. I swear on Mom’s grave?—”
“Don’t think Mom’s dead.”
“Whatever. You know what I mean.” He leans forward. “The job was simple. Watch her. Make her nervous. Maybe stage a few accidents, nothing serious. Make her want to leave town.”
“And you took it.”
“I needed the money.” His voice cracks, just a little.
“I’ve been trying to get in with the Savage Sons MC.
Some of the old crew from the club you were in, Savage Reapers.
This was supposed to be my trial run, so they offered me the job and were liaising directly with Van.
And I had to prove I could follow orders, be useful before they considered taking me. ”
“That’s your career aspiration? A biker gang?”
“It’s protection. It’s belonging somewhere.” The words hang between us, heavy with accusation: You left me with nowhere to belong.
“So, what, you came to scare my Omega and earn your patch?”
“I came to do a job. Then I saw you with her this morning, and—” He shrugs. “Blood’s blood, Arrow. Even after everything.”