21. Jasmine
JASMINE
The drive to the Raider’s hangout feels different this time.
I don’t know what about this drive makes it harder for me.
Maybe it’s the weight in my chest, tight and unmoving, or the way my fingers can’t stop picking at the frayed hem of Landon’s leather jacket.
The one he insisted I wear, as if it could shield me from what’s coming.
Maybe it’s the silence in the car, thick and thoughtful—not heavy, not uncomfortable, but full of things we aren’t saying out loud.
Or maybe it’s because this time, I’m not just walking in as a girl pretending she belongs.
I’m walking in as a reckoning.
The trees blur past in the dark, tall shadows leaning in like they know something I don’t. Gravel grinds under the tires as we turn onto that narrow, hidden road, and the cabin appears like it’s been waiting for me. Like it’s always been waiting.
And still—my stomach twists.
My mind spins with doubt, rage, grief, all of it layered and bleeding together. I think about Tommy. I think about the way Cast’s voice cracked when he told me. The silence on the other end of the line when I couldn’t respond. The way his death settled over everything like ash.
I should be on fire. I want to be. But beneath the fury, I’m still asking myself the same brutal question:
Can I actually do this?
Can I look Marcus in the eye and not break? Or will I freeze the second his life is truly in my hands? I’ve never been a murder. Warrior? Sure. Savior? Definitely. But a murderer? I never thought I would be so certain about murdering a man. So certain in someone not deserving the right to live.
I press my palm to my thigh, trying to ground myself. My knee is bouncing, and Landon notices. His hand drifts over mine, anchoring me without a word. The warmth of it seeps into my skin and stays there.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I’m thinking,” I whisper.
“Don’t overthink it.”
“I’m not sure I’m built for revenge.” I choke, pulling my thighs into my chest and placing my chin on my knees. I am not sure if I can kill again, especially on purpose.
“You’re not built for it,” he says quietly. “Because you were meant to be more. You are more.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste metal, eyes fixed on the dark horizon as the woods thin and the clearing opens up before us.
The Raider’s compound rises out of the trees like something out of a nightmare.
Floodlights glare down on rows of bikes, the air thick with smoke and leather and oil.
The cabin is still massive. Still looming.
But this time the sound of music and laughter does not engulf me.
It is just silence and the heavy weight of the moon making a shadow out of the cabin.
The tires crunch to a halt over gravel, and the engine hums into silence.
I’m still hugging my knees, still fighting the war in my chest, when someone approaches the driver’s side window.
Landon doesn’t flinch. He just reaches for the door handle and mutters, “Showtime.”
The door swings open with a groan, and a shadow leans into the light.
At first, I barely register the shape—tall, broad-shouldered, hands buried in the pockets of a black bomber jacket. But then the porch light hits his face, and my stomach does something violent.
Blonde hair, tousled like he ran a hand through it a hundred times in frustration.
Sharp green eyes that never blink long enough like he’s too meticulous to miss a thing.
He’s in all black: fitted tee that hugs the lean, muscled cut of his torso, slim tactical pants tucked into scuffed black boots, and the craziest thing is he is wearing a bomber jacket.
A too casual, out of character, kind of hot bomber jacket.
I have never seen him in something so casual.
I can’t believe my fucking eyes. Because standing outside the car—here, in front of a fucking biker fortress like it’s totally normal—is Professor Kilgore.
My mouth parts. “Wait—what the fuck ?”
Landon’s already out of the car, so I scramble after him, slamming the door shut and rounding toward the front. “Is that—are you serious right now is that… Professor Kilgore? ”
Professor Kilgore turns around with a stoic expression and nods. “Just Conner tonight.”
My brain flatlines. Did he just— Conner?
What? No. No. Absolutely not. I am going to have a fucking aneurysm.
Or maybe I’ve hopped timelines. Yeah. That makes more sense.
Grief’s finally cracked me open and tossed me into a parallel dimension where my forensic psych professor moonlights as a gun-toting antihero in biker gang drama.
Because there is no way that’s real life. “You teach forensic psychology. You wear loafers and assign reflection essays about guilt.”
“Still do,” Conner says dryly, arms crossed like this is just a regular office-hours chat and not a literal biker compound meeting. “Also, you’ve missed six classes, Miss Rivera. And your first lab analysis is due next Wednesday.”
“Um…great,” I squeak, mortified beyond measure, clutching Landon’s jacket tighter around me like it might somehow make me invisible.
I whirl on Landon, whose smug grin is doing absolutely nothing to help my rising blood pressure.
“Why is my professor here when I’m supposed to be getting revenge for Tommy ?” I hiss, voice climbing an octave.
“Who do you think got you the chance at revenge?” Landon shrugs like he’s talking about picking up takeout. “Besides, Conner Kilgore is my best friend… who has also seen your face when you cum.”
I choke.
“Dude, what the fuck?” I snap, taking a step back like the sheer audacity of this man might be contagious.
“Dude?” Landon takes a slow, lazy step toward me, that same cocky glint in his eye as he leans in close—too close. “I think you mean thank you. ”
“No, I mean this is the last motherfucking straw, Landon. I don’t want my professor to see me murder a guy! And yeah, Marcus is a piece of shit, but you— you are an asshole for just inviting him here!”
“You really don’t have any manners, Peach.”
“Yeah? Well I’ll shove your manners up your stupid?—”
“Wow,” Conner cuts in, and I spin around so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
He’s smirking. Smirking. The color drains from my face so fast I might pass out right here on the gravel like a goddamn Victorian debutante.
“I—I’m so sorry, Professor?—”
He raises a hand. “Conner.”
“I—Conner—I just… I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be here,” I stammer, words tumbling over themselves as I try to recover some level of dignity, which is laughable at this point.
Conner cocks his head, stepping just close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his all-black outfit, every inch of him giving off dangerous older man who’s too composed to panic and too smart to miss a thing vibes .
“I think we’re a little past appropriate, don’t you, Miss Rivera?” he murmurs, voice low and smooth.
My spine straightens like it’s been yanked by a string.
“W-What?” I stammer, blinking too hard, too fast.
Conner leans in—not enough to touch, but enough that I can smell him. Smoke. Clean soap. Gunmetal. Trouble.
“I mean I use your panties almost every night,” he says, low enough that only I can hear it. “Now I have organized a murder for you. I don’t think you should argue about what is or is not appropriate. I think you should just say thank you. ”
My brain does this twitchy static thing like an old radio trying to find a station as I feel my pussy clench around the air, because holy shit he’s been…
to my…fuck I can’t breathe. I think I black out for a second because when I blink again, he’s still standing there, too close, too calm, like he didn’t just casually drop that he jerks off with my underwear and arranges hits like it's Wednesday brunch.
“This is—” I gasp, hands flailing as I try to find a sentence that will not get me immediately arrested or committed, “This is still— unacceptable behavior! There are rules! Boundaries! Ethical— things! ”
Conner chuckles, slow and deep like he’s amused by a particularly feisty pet. “Say thank you.”
I blink again. “I—what?”
“You heard me.” He leans just a little closer, voice like silk-wrapped steel. “Say thank you.”
“For what?” I breathe, heart hammering.
“For cleaning up your messes, sunshine.” The nickname breaks something in me, and my knees almost give out.
My mouth opens, closes. Fires up again. “I—thank you,” I grit, because what else am I supposed to say to a forensic scientist who apparently moonlights as my personal goddamn assassin?
His green eyes flick over my face, and for a moment they darken, satisfied. “Good girl.”
“ Fuck ,” Landon chuckles, sliding an arm across my shoulders. “If I knew all I had to do was steal your panties to make you behave. I would have done it a while ago.”
I growl, elbowing Landon hard in the ribs.
He grunts, grinning like an idiot as he stumbles half a step away, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
I roll my eyes and shift toward Conner, who’s far more composed—though the faint twitch in his jaw suggests he might be two seconds away from losing his patience with both of us.
“Okay, so how are we doing this?” I ask, licking my lips. My voice comes out steady, but my fingers twitch at my sides. The adrenaline is already crawling up my spine.
“I’ve arranged for Xavier to move up his plans,” Conner says calmly, like he’s reciting a grocery list and not outlining a coup. “He’s going to challenge Marcus tonight. Publicly. Loudly. When things start to unravel, you move in. You end it.”
I raise a brow. “So what—you want me to knock on the door and just put a bullet in the guy’s skull?”
“Preferably between the eyes,” he says with a shrug, then glances at Landon. “But I’m not picky.”
Landon steps closer, sliding the cold and heavy gun into my palm.