Chapter 5
Rain tapped a steady, relentless rhythm against the shop windows, wrapping the quiet cobbled street outside in moody grey mist. Usually, the hum of the espresso machine calmed me, but today a prickling unease sat heavy right between my shoulder blades.
It was Thursday. And for once, I wasn’t watching my back for my father’s men – I was counting down the minutes until Rage walked through that door.
I topped up the glass jars on the counter, my hands moving on autopilot, my mind running in endless circles.
Exactly four hours from now. I’d have to lift my chin and meet those dark eyes, listen to that rough voice rumble through me, and every time I thought about it, a strange soft shyness washed over me.
Get a grip, I told myself sharply. I wasn’t some flustered schoolgirl.
I didn’t get tongue-tied over men. I certainly didn’t daydream about outlaw bikers drinking out of tiny espresso cups.
Yet here I was, polishing already clean surfaces, watching the clock drag like it was stuck in treacle.
The bell above the door chimed. I pasted on my usual polite smile and turned. “Welcome to —”
The words died in my throat. Every muscle in my body locked solid.
This wasn’t Rage.
The man standing there didn’t belong in a quiet little town café somewhere in the sticks.
He was mid-forties, tall, with sharp, calculating pale blue eyes and a perfectly groomed beard.
He wore an expensive charcoal trench coat that screamed London high society, carried a sleek leather briefcase in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other, water dripping onto the floorboards.
But it wasn’t just the clothes. It was the way he held himself – cold, assured, like he owned every inch of space he stepped into.
My stomach plummeted straight through the floor, ice flooding my veins.
I’d seen that exact look a thousand times before. Men like my father.
“Good morning,” he said, strolling casually toward the counter. His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying that distinct clipped accent of old London wealth. “Bit of a miserable day out there, isn’t it?”
That voice hit me harder than a fist. It sounded like my old life. Like Mayfair ballrooms and suffocating dinner tables.
“What can I get you?” I managed, my voice coming out thin and small – nothing like the sharp tone I usually carried. I gripped the edge of the counter behind my back so hard my knuckles burned white, fighting to keep my hands from shaking.
He didn’t even glance at the menu board. Rested his briefcase flat on the counter and slowly undid the clasp of his coat. “Just a black coffee, please. And perhaps… a little information.”
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a sleek silver case, flipped it open, and slid a glossy photograph across the wood so it sat right in front of me.
I stopped breathing.
It was me. Taken more than a year ago. I was wearing an emerald silk gown, my short red hair falling in perfect polished curls, a brittle, fake smile plastered over a fresh bruise along my jaw.
Standing right beside me, his hand clamped possessive around my upper arm, was the man they’d chosen for me.
I could still feel his fingers digging in, forcing me to grin for the cameras.
“I work for a very wealthy, very concerned gentleman,” he murmured, leaning forward, those pale eyes pinning me like a butterfly to a board.
“His daughter vanished from her London home months ago, just days before a very important family arrangement – a marriage – was meant to take place. He misses her terribly. He wants his property back.”
Property. The word echoed like a scream in my head, bringing back every suffocating second of my father telling me I was nothing more than an asset to be traded for profit.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I lied, my voice tight, defiance suddenly sparking hot through my fear. “People don’t usually wear ballgowns to buy coffee in places like this, mister.”
He let out a soft, mocking little laugh, tapping the photo with a manicured fingernail.
“Come now, Miss Sterling. Let’s not play games.
Your hair is a little longer, the makeup missing, and the clothes you’re wearing now are far more cheap…
but I am not paid to be blind. Your father has offered a very generous reward to the first private investigator in the country who brings you back. I know it’s you.”
Panic clawed wild at my throat. He knew. The peace I’d built, the safety I’d started to feel – it was all about to be ripped away. My pepper spray was right there in my coat pocket. But would it be enough?
“You need to get out,” I snarled, leaning hard over the counter, my own fire finally roaring back to life. “Leave this place before I call the police.”
The P.I. didn’t even flinch. Just sighed, glancing around the empty shop like he was bored.
“The local police. Please. A man with your father’s influence can have this whole tiny station wrapped up in red tape before your kettle even boils.
I have a car waiting just down the lane, Danika.
We can do this quietly… or we can do this messily.
But make no mistake. You are coming home. ”
He reached for his phone, fingers moving over the screen on to the call log, about to call the men he had waiting.
I glanced wildly toward the window. There was no way to run. If he had a car parked down there, they’d catch me before I even cleared the gate. I was trapped. Caught by the ghosts I thought I’d outrun.
Then my eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.
12:02.
If that clock was running fast… just like a certain outlaw had told me it was… then it was already twelve o’clock.
Right on cue, a deep, window-rattling roar tore through the air from the street outside, growing louder and heavier until the whole shop vibrated with the thud of a powerful engine cutting out. A massive shadow swallowed up the grey light pouring through the glass door.
The London investigator frowned, turning his head toward the entrance as the door swung open and the Iron Angel Enforcer filled the entire frame.
My heart gave a wild, soaring leap. The walls felt like they were closing in, all the old terrors rushing back – but as I watched Rage step inside, the fear in my veins suddenly shifted into something fierce and bright.
The man in the expensive suit had money, influence, power…
but he had absolutely no idea what kind of storm he’d just walked straight into.