Chapter 3
Sin
Her arms stay locked around my waist like she thinks the wind might take her if she lets go.
The bike tears through the dark while cold air cuts through my shirt and whatever calm I managed to drag out of that room. Velvet Reign falls behind us in a smear of neon and smoke, and I don’t look back.
Good.
I take the first few turns fast, not because I’m reckless, but because getting clear matters more than comfort. The fastest way to die is assuming nobody’s coming after you.
Ruby makes a small sound against my back, so faint I almost miss it. It lands somewhere in me that should’ve gone dead years ago.
I keep my voice low enough to carry through the helmet and the engine.
“Hold on.”
She tightens instantly.
Her nails dig through my shirt. Pain should be the first thing I notice. It isn’t.
Relief is.
She’s here. She’s breathing. That’s enough for now.
I check the mirrors and catch headlights behind us. One set, then another. One hangs back while the other edges closer.
Could be nothing.
I don’t trust that.
My comm unit buzzes in my ear, followed by the click of an open line.
Then Tank’s voice comes through, calm and clipped.
“You clear?”
“Working on it. You?”
Tank handles club security. Built like a wall. Violence makes him calmer.
He peeled off when the first girl got sold, followed the transport team out the back, and stayed with them.
“Got eyes on the van,” he says. “Two vehicles with it. Heading toward Black Pines.”
“Copy. Stay on it.”
There’s a short pause.
“You good?”
Tank’s idea of good is simple. Still breathing. Still armed. Still standing.
“I’m riding with one.”
Another pause, and I hear the change in his tone even if it only lasts a second.
“Bring her back safe.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
I check the mirrors again. The closer car takes the turn with us.
Of course it does.
I don’t waste time wondering who it is. I drop a gear and cut onto a back road most locals forgot was ever there. Trees crowd in on both sides, and the road narrows fast, all shadow and gravel and blind curves. It’s the kind of road that punishes hesitation, which is exactly why I take it.
Ruby presses closer against my back. Her breathing stays ragged, but she’s trying to keep it quiet.
I know that kind of quiet.
The kind you learn when making noise gets you hurt.
My jaw tightens.
I take the next bend, then another, and by the time the road dips low beneath the pines, the headlights behind us are gone.
Good.
My shoulder starts to ache where the shrapnel tore through it years ago.
Ruby shifts against my back but doesn’t let go.
One of our safe houses sits between Swoon Peaks and Lovestone Ridge, hidden in a stretch of forest nobody wanders into unless they’re lost or trying not to be found. The Damned Saints use it for exactly that.
Small cabin. Four walls. A narrow bed. A fireplace that works when it feels like it. Two mismatched chairs. A little table dragged close to the heat. A kitchenette that barely counts, just a counter, a kettle, and a sink. A bathroom with a shower.
Out back, a concealed bay built to swallow a bike whole and hide it from anyone who comes looking.
I paid for the place in cash through a name that isn’t mine, because that’s part of my job.
Treasurer.
Numbers.
Paper trails.
Making sure the club stays alive without letting the wrong people find the bones.
Havoc says I’ve got the kind of brain that makes boring look dangerous.
He’s the president.
He sees everything.
He speaks when it matters.
Tonight mattered.
The money trail started three weeks ago.
Velvet Reign.
New name. Old money behind it.
Salazar Huntington.
Blade crossed paths with him last month and dropped him hard enough that the message traveled. Salazar’s family runs clubs all over Blissmont County. VIP rooms. Product. Everything clean on paper until you look close enough to see the rot underneath.
So we started watching him.
A bartender who owed us stashed guns in a storage box the day before. Security wouldn’t allow weapons inside, and if things went bad, we wanted to be the only ones who could reach one.
We went in tonight to observe.
Map the exits.
Clock the security.
Figure out who was really in charge.
We went in to build a plan.
Then I saw her.
Her face under those lights, trying to hold herself together while men turned her into a number.
And the plan burned.
I pull up to the safe house and kill the engine in the trees’ shadow.
Silence hits hard.
Ruby doesn’t move right away.
She stays pressed to my back, arms still around me, like if she lets go she’ll end up back under those lights.
I keep my hands on the grips a second longer than I need to.
Then I turn my head slightly.
“Ruby.”
She flinches.
I hate that.
“Hey,” I say, quieter. “We’re here.”
Her breath shudders. “Where is here?”
“A place you can breathe.” I pause. “Get off slow. Your legs are going to feel wrong.”
My gaze drops before I can stop it.
Bare thighs.
That dress riding too high.
Skin exposed to cold. To eyes that had no right to it.
I look away fast, jaw tight.
Her fingers loosen one by one.
She slides off the bike like she’s made of glass. The second her feet hit the ground, she wobbles.
I’m off before she can fall.
My hands catch her shoulders.
Light.
Careful.
Her eyes lift to mine.
Hazel.
Wide. Wet. Freckles scattered across pale skin like paint someone never meant to spill. Her red hair is a mess, strands stuck to her mouth.
She looks like she ran through hell and somehow came out still soft.
She swallows. “Are you going to…?”
The question hangs there.
I keep my voice level.
“No.”
Her shoulders sag a little, but her eyes stay guarded.
Smart.
I pull a key from my pocket and press it into her palm.
“Door’s behind you. Go inside.”
She looks at the building. Then the trees. Then me.
Like she’s trying to figure out where the trick is.
There isn’t one.
I wheel the bike around back and guide it into the concealed bay until the wall panel swallows the last shine of metal.
One latch. One lock. Then another.
Then I go inside.
Ruby is standing in the middle of the room like she doesn’t trust anything enough to touch it.
The fireplace is cold. The bed is too small for someone trying to recover from terror. The air smells like old pine and smoke that never fully left.
She wraps her arms around herself.
That red dress is too short. Too tight. Made to make men hungry.
It makes me furious.
I keep my face blank.
I keep my hands to myself.
Her eyes track every move I make like she’s waiting for the shift, the second the mask slips.
I know that look.
I wore it for years.
Foster homes teach fast. Which footsteps mean trouble. Which voices mean pain. Which smiles mean you’re about to owe somebody something.
I learned that before I ever had a bed that stayed mine.
I clear my throat and nod toward the chair by the fireplace.
“Sit.”
She hesitates.
I soften it. “Please.”
That gets her moving.
She sits on the edge of the chair, posture tight, knees together, hands clenched in her lap.
I cross to the kitchenette. Fill the kettle. Flick it on. Reach for the tin of tea bags I keep here because hot liquid does something useful to a nervous system.
Tells the body it can stop running.
I don’t look at her while I do it.
I let her have the space.
Behind my ribs, my heart is still throwing punches.
I ride into gunfire without blinking.
Tonight, I’m worried about scaring a girl with the sound of a spoon.
The kettle clicks.
I pour hot water into two chipped mugs.
Carry one over and set it on the table in front of her.
“Tea.”
Her eyes flick to the mug like it might detonate. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can drink anything.”
“Small sips,” I tell her. “If you can’t, leave it.”
I take my mug and sit across from her, leaving enough distance that she can breathe.
She watches me drink first.
Smart again.
Then she lifts the mug in both hands and takes a careful sip.
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
I glance at her bare legs, the way the dress rides up, the way she still looks exposed even sitting still.
I look away fast.
I stand and cross to the duffel by the bathroom door. Pull out a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants.
I set them on the table beside her.
“Change,” I say. “You’ll feel better.”
Her fingers hover over the fabric. “These are… yours.”
“They’re clean.”
Her throat works. “Why are you doing this?”
Because if I don’t, I’ll tear Velvet Reign down board by board with my bare hands.
Because watching you on that stage woke up something ugly in me.
Because I saw you looking at that room like you were drowning and nobody planned to help.
Because I know exactly what it is to be treated like somebody else’s problem.
I keep all of it where it belongs.
Inside.
I give her the truth she can survive.
“Because men like him deserve consequences,” I say. “And you deserve to be safe.”
Her eyes glisten, but she blinks fast like she refuses to cry in front of me.
“Luke,” she whispers, like his name tastes poisonous now.
I nod once. “Luke.”
Her mouth trembles. “I thought he liked me.”
I can’t stop the low sound that leaves my throat. “He liked what he could sell.”
Ruby flinches, and I regret the bluntness immediately.
I lower my voice. “That’s on him. It isn’t on you.”
She swallows hard. “How did you even… how did you know?”
I take a slow breath.
Here it is. The part where I either sound crazy or say too much.
“I follow money,” I tell her. “That’s my job.”
She frowns slightly. “Your job?”
I glance toward the window, then back at her.
“I’m the treasurer for the Damned Saints. We’re based in Lovestone Ridge.”
Her eyes widen a little. The Damned Saints aren’t exactly a secret around here. People talk. People whisper.
Sometimes they smile when they say our name.
Sometimes they cross the street.
“You’re… a biker,” she says, her voice catching on the word.
“Yeah.”