Ruined By Havoc (Damned Saints MC #2)

Chapter 1

Sage

“You call that a shortbread, Dorothy? That thing could double as a doorstop.”

“Don’t listen to her, Dorothy,” I say, shaking my head at the way two eighty-year-olds can go at each other over flour and sugar.

Thomas chuckles from his station by the window, elbow-deep in dough that looks like it lost a fight. He’s in his seventies and flirts outrageously with anyone under fifty.

“You ladies give each other grief, but your casseroles could win medals,” he says. “Baking, though? Whole different battlefield.”

“Says the man who nearly set the oven on fire trying to make brownies,” Gladys fires back.

“Brisket, not brownies,” Thomas says, unbothered. “That’s my area of expertise. I’m just here to keep you all entertained and maybe learn how not to poison anyone with a pie.”

Laughter ripples through the community center kitchen, warm and familiar. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. The smell of vanilla, cinnamon, and nostalgia clings to everything.

It’s dated, drafty… and the safest place I know.

The room was meant for church potlucks, not the bi-weekly baking class the senior center asked me to teach. I only said yes because they offered cash under the table and a place to blend in. We’ve made it work.

“Fair enough,” Gladys huffs, tapping a wooden spoon against her mixing bowl. “At least Dorothy’s won’t knock your dentures out.”

“We all have our talents,” I say, fighting a smile. “Now, who remembers what we talked about when creaming butter and sugar?”

“Patience,” they chorus, as if I’m running an elementary school.

They’ve all been alive long enough to call me out if I get bossy, yet they listen when I speak. Teaching them has become the highlight of my week, the only time my mind isn’t looping back to a hotel suite with stacks of cash and a judge’s cold stare.

While they work dough with arthritic dedication, I drift between stations, giving gentle reminders and accepting gossip in return. My hands move automatically, adjusting a mixer speed here, tucking a strand of honey-brown hair behind my ear there, while my mind catalogs everything.

Exits.

Angles of the windows.

The way the front door creaked louder than usual ten minutes ago.

Trauma rewired me that way.

I’m Sage Meyer in this town. Twenty-four, quiet, polite, and good with desserts. The kind of woman the white-haired crew tries to set up with their grandsons. But the truth is simpler and sharper:

Naomi Sage Bartlett died the night she saw cartel money change hands in a hotel suite, buying a judge’s agreement to throw out a murder case before it ever reached trial.

This Sage, anxious, cautious, always scanning, took her place.

“Well, sweetheart,” Dorothy murmurs, nudging me, “you still not seeing a man? You need someone sturdy. One of those bikers. Those men are too handsome for their own good.”

Gladys cackles. “The one riding at the front last week. Havoc. President of the Damned Saints. He all but stared a hole through you.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I know exactly who she means. I remember the rumble of engines rolling through the market last week, and the man at the front riding like the street already belonged to him. I learned his nickname within three seconds. Not on purpose. Dorothy made sure of it.

Havoc.

The one who scanned the crowd like he was assessing threats… the same way I scan every room I enter.

The way his gaze brushed me made my pulse misfire.

“I don’t think bikers are my thing,” I lie, ignoring the traitorous flutter in my stomach.

And surely I'm not their type anyway. I'm too soft, too curvy, too quiet. Not the kind of girl men like that look at twice.

“She says that now,” Gladys chirps, “but mark my words, a man like that would climb right up her kitchen window.”

“If anyone climbs my window, they’ll get introduced to my cast iron pan,” I say.

Laughter erupts again, and for a moment I can pretend I’m just a local girl with an uncomplicated life.

By the time class ends, dusk has settled over Lovestone Ridge. October air sweeps cool and wood-smoked across my skin as I lock the kitchen and wave the seniors into their cars. Their laughter fades, leaving the quiet hum of streetlights and the restless thud of my own heart.

I brace myself.

Keep your pace steady.

Don’t look back.

People who look back get remembered.

My flats slap the sidewalk. I push past the Grits&Grills diner and lift a hand to Frankie, pretending I don’t feel the prickling heat crawling up my spine, like someone is watching me.

By the time I reach the big old cabin where I rent a room, my pulse is pounding in my ears.

Mr. Hayes is on the porch. He owns the place, but lately he stands outside like he owns me too.

Mid-fifties. Heavyset. Wearing an old flannel and a smile that never reaches his eyes. He was nice when I moved in three months ago. Lately he’s been… too present. Too curious. His wife’s car is gone again tonight.

“Evening, Sage,” he drawls, gaze sliding down my body. “Long day?”

“Just teaching,” I say, forcing my voice steady. I angle toward the stairs.

He steps into my path.

My stomach drops.

Mr. Hayes’ fingers close around my arm, and my breath fractures. My vision narrows to the porch boards because looking at his face feels too dangerous. My body goes still in the way it always does when fear presses a hand over my mouth.

“You look tense,” he says, voice too soft for the words. “Let someone take care of you. A girl like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Something sharp curls in my stomach.

“Please, move,” I whisper, barely able to force sound out.

He steps closer instead. His fingers tighten.

“Come on now. Don’t pretend you don’t know what you owe me.”

The edges of my vision pulse. My heart climbs into my throat and sticks there.

Then I hear it.

A low, dangerous motorcycle growl that vibrates straight through my ribs.

Mr. Hayes stiffens.

I can’t turn right away. My body is still caught in that trapped-animal freeze.

When I manage to look, it feels like watching something enormous emerge from the dark.

A Harley glides to a stop at the curb. The headlight sweeps the porch.

The man who steps off it looks carved out of shadow and violence held tight. His leather cut catches the light. The Damned Saints emblem is stark across his back like a promise.

It's Havoc.

He walks toward us with a steady, unhurried stride that somehow fills the whole yard. Mr. Hayes shifts, releasing my arm. I can feel him calculating escape routes.

Havoc’s stare cuts straight through Mr. Hayes, leaving him pale and shrinking back.

Then his eyes settle on me.

My knees nearly give out. Something inside me pulls tight like a wound stitched too fast.

“You have a reason to be this close to her?” Havoc asks, voice calm enough to be terrifying.

Mr. Hayes forces a laugh that sounds like a breath being strangled. “Just talking is all.”

Havoc studies him with bored disdain. “You should take a step back. Right now.”

Mr. Hayes scrambles to obey, hands lifted as if Havoc already has a weapon drawn.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he stammers.

“That’s good to hear,” Havoc says, tone flat. “Because putting hands on a woman who doesn’t want it tends to end rough around here.”

Mr. Hayes’ face drains. “I wasn’t hurting her.”

“She didn’t look fine to me,” Havoc replies, voice quiet and even. “And if she wasn’t fine, neither are you.”

Mr. Hayes backs toward the door so fast he nearly slips. He mutters apologies as he disappears inside and slams the door behind him.

The shift is so sudden that my body can’t keep up. The adrenaline drains and my legs give out. I reach for the railing but miss.

A strong arm catches me before I fall.

“Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” Havoc says, voice still low but edged with something protective and dangerous.

He pulls me upright, one hand settling at my waist with a grip firm enough to hold me steady but not cage me.

My palm lands flat on his chest. Heat, muscle, the slow heartbeat of a man who is not scared of anything on this street.

“Look at me,” he says.

I don’t want to. I’m shaking too hard. But my gaze lifts anyway.

His eyes lock on mine, and something inside me finally breathes.

“Did he hurt you?” Havoc asks, voice darker now.

“I… I don’t know,” I whisper, my throat tight. “I mean… no. Not really.”

His jaw tightens. “If he did, he will not get another chance.”

The certainty in his tone sends a shiver through me. He notices instantly and shifts closer, bracing me without crowding me.

“I—um, I saw you last week,” I blurt, against my better judgment. “At the charity ride.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me, steady and unreadable.

My stomach twists. Why did I even say that?

“Not like I was staring or anything,” I add, too fast. “Dorothy basically shouted your name to half the market. I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

A beat passes. Then the edge of his mouth shifts, like he might actually smile.

“I saw you too,” he says.

Something tightens low in my chest.

“They call me Havoc, but my name is Kane,” he says, offering his hand like he’s giving me something dangerous to hold.

I take it anyway. His palm is warm and rough and steady in a way my body has forgotten how to trust.

“Nao...” The name sticks in my throat. “I mean, Sage.”

You are Sage. You don’t get to be Naomi anymore.

“You heading inside?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He glances toward the dark street, eyes scanning as if he is measuring every shadow for intent. “Make sure your door is locked.”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his cut and pulls out a small, worn card. He holds it between two fingers, offering it to me without ceremony.

“Take this,” he says. “It’s the number for the clubhouse. Direct line. If anyone puts hands on you again, you call and ask for Havoc. They’ll find me fast, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

The promise coils through me, unsettling and strangely safe all at once.

I nod and take the card from him.

His hand lifts like he might touch my face, then he curls it into a fist and lets it fall to his side.

“Lock it tight, sweetheart.”

I step inside and make it to my room on unsteady legs. The door closes with a soft thud and the deadbolt clicks on the second try. Outside, his motorcycle growls back to life, the sound rolling through the night like a warning and a promise.

I press my forehead to the cold window. My breath fogs the glass.

“What am I doing?” I whisper, because I should not be thinking about the warmth of his hand on my waist or wondering how a man like him would taste if I were foolish enough to find out.

He looks like heartbreak, and I have a bad habit of pretending it might be worth it.