Chapter 1 #2
I grab the book. “Nothing? Okay then. Let’s check the book for who we can expect to be gator bait first. It should be fun to see the kill list. Can’t say I’ll miss any of the fuckers in here.”
I flip the book open, my fingers moving automatically, scanning lines and names I already half-know. Yada-yada. Dirty politician. Dirty club owner. Dirty beat cop…nothing new.
“Fun, huh?” There’s a dark glitter to Grudge's eyes that gives me pause when I look up from the book.
He gestures to the book. “You might wanna look twice, Savage.”
I flip the page and my eyes catch on a name near the top of the list.
Motherfucker.
A slow, cold dread settles under my skin, rooting itself deep in my chest. Every instinct I have screams to cross the room and bury a blade in Grudge’s chest, to spill his secrets right here and now. But my pulse never gives me away. My expression stays smooth, even as a storm rips through me.
I read the name again.
Agent Harlow Montgomery.
Suddenly, the air in the room thickens, pressing against my lungs until every breath feels like punishment. My heart hammers once—hard, sharp—before settling into a deadly, deliberate rhythm.
It’s all there, laid bare in black ink. Her badge number.
Cellphone. Home address. But the details that twist the knife deeper are further down the page.
They have the place she likes to eat, her daily routine, the exact minute she slips away for her coffee break.
It’s all the kind of information a monster would want.
The kind that says she’s already being hunted and I’m already late to the game.
I stare at the page, fighting the urge to rip it in half and then shatter every bone in Grudge’s body. And then I want to kick my own ass for letting her get this close to danger.
But I can’t move.
Not yet.
Not until I know just how deep this nightmare goes.
I straighten slowly, my grip tightening on the edge of the table. Somewhere behind me, Reaper shifts.
“Have it your way, Grudge. My brothers back there are waiting for me to talk nice to you to see if you might open up a bit to save your own ass. Seems you are the kind of man that likes things the hard way.”
I don’t care about the deep fear in his eyes or the nervous way his knee starts to jump.
I tighten my grip on the book and signal Reaper with a jut of my chin as I leave the interrogation room.
It’s soundproof and tucked into the back acres of the Savage land among draping willows and mounds of snow.
Nobody knows about the place and Grudge is in for a really shitty evening.
I don’t look back as I leave the cell, my mind already burning through possibilities, timelines, mistakes. I stop and turn once I’m out of earshot from everyone. “Look, Prez. I gotta go check something out.”
Reaper comes to a standstill at my side and taps the cover of the book. “Somethin’s got you spooked. Anyone I know?” he asks.
Concern pulls at the edges of his lips and the creases in his brow grow deeper. Arabelle, his ol’ lady is gonna have my ass if what I say gives him any more gray hair.
I keep my expression carefully neutral. I don’t want to worry anyone if this turns out to be nothing. “Not really. She’s from the past, but I gotta know what’s up for sure. I can’t let this one sit, if you know what I mean.”
“I do, but be careful. No one seems to be on our side lately.”
I nod. “If she’s turned dirty, I’ll be the first one ready to take her out.” Saying those words out loud makes my stomach churn.
“Keep me in the loop, brother.” Reaper places a hand on my shoulder. “And keep your head on a swivel.”
“Copy that.”
He leaves me to do what I need, but I know he’ll worry all the same. I didn’t grow up with a loving family that checked in on me or worried if I was still breathing. The Savage crew gave me that and I would die to protect it.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at the screen for half a second longer than necessary. Her number is still there. I never found the heart or courage to delete it. But I’m pretty sure she deleted and burned me out of her life after the way I left her.
I type a message and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Where are you? It’s important. You’re in danger.
The reply comes almost immediately.
You have balls texting my sister, asshole. Real balls. Thought you were dead. Wished it anyway.
Burn. But I deserve Laura’s wrath. I exhale through my nose. Harlow’s sister was always lethal with her words.
Not yet. Working on it. Where is she?
There’s a long pause before I hear the ding of a new message.
She’s gonna kill me. Check the Den. Said she was going to build street cred tonight.
The Den? What the fuck is she doing?
I pull up the security feed from the Savage Den, my fingers moving fast. The screen loads, grainy at first, then sharpens. The underground parking structure beneath our casino is already packed, bodies pressed close around the makeshift ring. I scan faces, heat rising under my skin.
Bodies shift, and then I see her.
Harlow stands in the center of the ring, shoulders squared, fists wrapped.
Strawberry blonde hair is braided tight down her back, keeping it out of reach.
She’s wearing black shorts, and a cropped top that shows the lean strength of her body, the kind earned through pain and discipline.
Her blue eyes are sharp, focused, alive in a way that hits me straight in the chest.
She’s changed.
Stronger. Harder. There’s a bruise already blooming along her jaw, and instead of backing down, she smiles like she’s daring the world to hit her again.
When she turns, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo running along her spine.
I zoom in close and read No heroes needed inked in clean, unforgiving script as the stem of a blooming red rose sitting between her shoulder blades.
My jaw tightens.
I don’t remember breathing as I watch her move. The way she shifts her weight. The way she reads her opponent. The way she takes a hit and gives one back twice as hard. She drops a man nearly a foot taller than her with ruthless efficiency, and the crowd erupts.
I shove my phone into my pocket. Standing here won’t save her. Thinking won’t save her. Only moving will.
I head for the kitchen, the familiar warmth and chaos of the Savage compound a sharp contrast to the cold focus in my chest. The smell of sugar and butter hits me as I spot the cookie jar on the counter, still half-full of Christmas sugar cookies someone baked earlier.
I grab a scrap of paper, scribble a note, and tuck it inside the jar before snapping the lid back on.
Charli, give this to the men when you find it. Gone hunting. Wish me luck. I might need bail money… or a casket. I’ll keep you posted. Merry Christmas. —Haze.
I grab my keys and head for the door, the night air biting as soon as I step outside. I don’t slow as I get into my truck. The engine roars to life, and I peel out of the compound like hell itself is on my heels.
This isn’t how I planned to spend Christmas night.
Then again, it’s not every night my ex-fiancé picks a fight in my underground fight club.