Chapter 10
Sage
The next few days are a blur of police statements, strategy meetings, and long nights tangled in Havoc’s sheets.
Sheriff Ramsey arranges protective custody at the clubhouse until Judge Flores can be arrested. The Damned Saints work with him reluctantly. Not because they trust the law, but because they hate the same enemies.
I give my statement to a team of feds the sheriff called in, trembling but steady, with Havoc’s hand firm at my back.
I tell them everything: the bribe, the hotel suite, the suitcase full of cash.
The faces of the cartel men. The faces of the men who grabbed me.
The attempted cover-up. I don’t sugarcoat it. I don’t hold anything back.
One of the agents just nods and takes notes. Another clenches his jaw.
Sheriff Ramsey paces behind them. “We’ve been trying to nail Flores for years,” he mutters. “If this helps sink him, I owe you.”
“She did your job for you. You owe her,” Havoc says, voice flat and lethal. “And you also owe me safe passage if I have to cross county lines to kill that bastard.”
Ramsey sighs. “I can’t give you a green light to go vigilante.”
He meets Havoc’s stare, then adds, “But if I had to pull over for coffee, or...take a piss...I might not notice who crossed behind me.”
That night, Judge Flores makes another move.
He sends more men. Bigger guns. Flashier vehicles. He thinks leather and brick can’t stand up to power and money. He thinks wrong.
Viper sets traps along the perimeter like it’s a goddamn jungle op.
Ghost positions himself on the rooftop with a long-range rifle and makes it rain hell.
Mercenary moves like a general. Quiet, calm, deadly, coordinating prospects with hand signals and clipped commands.
And Havoc?
Havoc moves through it all like a force of nature. Controlled. Precise. Brutal. A living storm in black denim and fury. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t flinch. He simply removes threats, one after another, until silence falls over the clubhouse again.
I watch from the window, heart in my throat, fists clenched.
I’ve never felt so scared, and so protected.
So claimed.
By dawn, it’s over.
And by sunset, so is Judge Flores.
He’s found in his home, tied to a chair in the middle of his kitchen. His guards are unconscious. His hands are zip-tied behind him. Laid out neatly on the table: photos, bank statements, ledgers, videos. Everything tying him to cartel money and rigged trials.
Havoc and Ghost are already gone by the time the feds arrive.
I don’t ask how they got in. I don’t ask how they got out. I don’t ask if Flores begged.
I don’t want to know.
Back at Havoc’s cabin, the door shuts with a solid thunk. The lock clicks under my hand. This time, it’s me throwing the bolt. Me securing the space.
Havoc stands in the center of the room, watching me with that unreadable stare. He hasn’t taken his cut off yet, but his shirt’s damp at the collar, his knuckles still bloodied. He looks like war.
I step closer, my pulse kicking harder with every step.
“Strip,” he says, voice low and rough.
I shake my head once. “No.”
His brow lifts. “No?”
“Not yet.” I walk right up to him. “You’ve been bleeding for me. Fighting for me. Tonight, I get to take care of you.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Sweetheart…”
I rise onto my toes and whisper against his throat, “Let me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say yes. Just watches while I unbuckle his belt, the scrape of metal loud in the silence. I drop to my knees in front of him, hands firm on his hips.
His voice goes dark. “That what you want, baby? On your knees like that? Mouth full of me?”
I drag the zipper down and glance up at him. “I want to watch you fall apart for me.”
A growl rips from his chest. “You better be ready to finish what you start.”
I free his cock from his jeans, already hard, already leaking. I take my time because I want to give him slow. The kind of slow that makes a man beg.
He braces a hand on the wall behind him, the other threading through my hair.
“Fuck… that mouth,” he mutters. “You look like heaven down there. All mine.”
I hum around him and he shudders.
His grip tightens in my hair, just enough to sting. “Eyes up, Sage. Wanna see how good you look while you’re wreckin’ me.”
I look up.
And his whole face changes. Like something cracks in him, right down the center.
“You were made for this,” he grits out. “Made to be on your knees for me. Made to be mine.”
I moan, the sound vibrating through him, and he swears low and filthy. His abs clench, jaw clenched so tight I think he’s about to break.
“You keep going,” he growls, “and I’ll come right down your fuckin’ throat.”
I do.
He jerks once, lets out a sound like a man breaking apart at the seams, and then he’s spilling into me, his voice rough and broken as he chokes out my name.
“Sage. Jesus fuck, Sage.”
He doesn’t move for a second, breathing like he ran miles. Then he yanks me up, hard and fast, and crushes his mouth to mine.
“Goddamn,” he rasps against my lips. “You just did that. Look at you. Lookin’ all sweet and innocent with my come on your tongue.”
“Havoc—”
He cups the back of my head, eyes blazing. “I’m never lettin’ you go. You understand me?”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.” His forehead presses to mine. “You think I’m gonna let you walk into danger again? You think I won’t burn this whole damn state to keep you safe?”
“I believe you.”
I smile, flushed and shaking and full of something sharp and warm.