Chapter 4 #2
The voice comes from behind him.
Deep. Texas drawl.
Bravos.
He materialized out of nowhere, standing between me and the drunk with a casual stance that's anything but casual.
His hand rests near his hip—not on a weapon, but close enough to be a warning.
The drunk's face flushes. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Someone who's going to ask you nicely, one time, to walk away."
"And if I don't?"
Bravos smiles. It's terrifying.
"Then I'll make you."
The drunk's friends are standing now, moving toward the bar.
Five of them total.
All big, all drunk, all stupid enough to think they can take on an MC member.
The Raiders at nearby tables are standing too.
The whole bar is holding its breath.
This is it. The moment everything explodes.
"I don't need your help," I tell Bravos, standing up. "I can handle myself."
"Didn't say you couldn't." His eyes don't leave the drunk. "But this isn't about you. It's about keeping the peace long enough for tomorrow's meeting. Can't have that if we're all killing each other tonight."
He's right.
Doesn't mean I have to like it.
"Just walk away," I tell the drunk. "It's not worth it."
But being drunk and stupid is a dangerous combination.
He swings.
Not at Bravos—at me.
I duck on instinct, the punch sailing over my head.
Come up fast, drive my fist into his kidney.
He grunts, staggers.
Then all hell breaks loose.
His friends rush forward.
Raiders members move to intercept.
Someone throws a bottle that shatters against the wall.
And Bravos—
He moves like violence is a language he's fluent in.
Efficient. Brutal. No wasted motion.
Grabs the first guy by the shirt, drives his forehead into the man's nose.
Blood explodes.
Doesn't wait—spins, catches the second guy with an elbow to the jaw.
He drops.
I'm fighting too, can't help it—adrenaline singing through my veins, memory from years of surviving taking over.
I duck under a punch, drive my knee into someone's gut.
He folds.
He spins, and catches another with a right hook that splits my knuckles but connects perfectly with his temple.
He hits the floor.
Through the chaos, I catch Bravos' eye.
He's grinning.
Actually fucking grinning, blood on his scarred knuckles, dead eyes alive with something that looks like joy.
And I'm grinning back.
Because this—violence and adrenaline and survival—this is the only thing that's ever made sense.
The fight ends as fast as it started.
The drunks are on the floor or stumbling toward the exit.
Club members are standing down, breathing hard, checking each other for injuries.
Someone's calling for cleanup.
Someone else is checking to make sure no cops are coming.
And I'm standing in the middle of it all, knuckles bleeding, heart pounding, feeling more alive than I have in months.
Bravos is watching me again.
Different this time.
Like he sees me—really sees me—and likes what he's looking at.
"Nice punch," he says.
"You're not bad yourself."
The corner of his mouth quirks. Almost a smile. "Need to get some air?"
I should say no.
Should go find Elfe, do anything but follow this stranger into the dark.
But I nod.
"Yeah. Air sounds good."
We leave the bar and head around back.
The alley smells like garbage and stale beer.
I lean against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath, trying to slow my heart rate.
My knuckles throb—split skin, bruises already forming.
But man, it was so worth it.
"You've got a hell of a right hook," Bravos says, stopping a few feet away.
"I don't need a fucking white knight." The words come out sharper than intended.
"Didn't figure you did." There's amusement in his voice. Respect. "But I also didn't need that fight fucking up tomorrow's meeting. So, we both got what we needed."
I turn to look at him.
He's leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching me with those dead eyes that keep sparking to life when they land on me.
"So, you always lure strange women into alleys?" I ask.
"Only the dangerous ones."
"Smart man."
"Nobody's ever accused me of being smart." He pushes off the wall, takes a step closer. "Especially not when it comes to women who look like trouble."
"I am trouble."
"I know." Another step. "That's the problem."
He's close now. Too close.
I should back away, put distance between us, remember that my father is probably dying and I'm here to confess to murder and I can't afford distractions.
But I don't move.
Can't move.
Because the way he's looking at me—like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands—makes my breath catch.
"What's your name?" he asks, voice dropping lower.
"Does it matter?"
"Probably should."
"Hell," I tell him. The name I race under. The name that's more me than Helle ever was. "Yours?"
"Bravos."
Yep. The Shotgun Saints Nomad. The man here to negotiate with the Raiders of Valhalla.
I should care about that.
But I don't.
He takes another step, and suddenly I'm backed against the wall.
Not aggressively. Just—deliberately. Claiming space. Giving me time to object, to push him away, to walk back inside.
I don't.
We're inches apart now.
Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Can smell leather and gasoline and something darker underneath.
Close enough that I can see when those dead eyes spark—really spark—coming alive in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"You're trouble," he says again. Not a question. A statement.
"You have no idea."
His hand comes up, stops just short of touching my face. Hovering there, giving me one last chance to end this before it starts.
"Tell me to walk away," he says quietly.
I should.
Should tell him to go back inside, should go find Elfe, should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
But all I say is: "No."
The moment hangs between us.
His hand is still hovering.
My breath is coming faster.
The air crackling with something that feels like violence bleeding into hunger.
We're inches apart.
We could kiss and should walk away.
Bravos grabs my wrist, yanking me deeper into the shadows.
His grip is iron, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise.
He doesn't say a word—just spins me around and slams my back against the rough brick wall.
The impact jars my spine, but I don't flinch.
I meet his eyes, those dead pools now burning with the same feral hunger I'd seen during the brawl.
“Do you fuck like you fight?” he growls, his Texas drawl rough as gravel.
His body presses in close, trapping me, his chest heaving against mine.
Heat radiates off him, mixing with the metallic tang of blood on his skin.
I don't answer with words.
My hands fist in his cut, pulling him harder against me.
Our mouths crash together, teeth clashing in a brutal kiss.
He tastes like whiskey and violence, his tongue shoving past my lips to claim every inch.
I bite down on his lower lip, drawing a hiss from him, and he retaliates by grinding his hips forward.
His cock strains against his jeans, thick and insistent, rubbing against my thigh.
“Fuck, Hell,”' he mutters, breaking the kiss to drag his mouth down my neck.
His teeth scrape over my pulse, then sink in—not gentle, but marking me with a sharp sting that makes my pussy clench.
I arch into him, my nails raking down his back, tearing at the leather of his vest.
He shoves a hand between us, rough fingers popping the button on my jeans.
No patience, no teasing—just yanking the zipper down and shoving his palm inside.
His calluses scrape my skin as he cups my mound, then plunges two fingers straight into my wet pussy.
I gasp, my walls gripping him tight.
He pumps them hard, curling to hit that spot that makes my knees buckle.
“Already soaked,” he says, voice low and mocking. “Knew you wanted this. Been eye-fucking me all night.”
I grab his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. “Shut up and fuck me,” I snarl, bucking against his hand.
My free hand claws at his belt, fumbling it open.
His cock springs free as I shove his jeans down—thick, veined, the head already leaking pre-cum.
I wrap my fingers around it, stroking rough and fast, feeling it throb in my grip.
Bravos pulls his fingers out, slick with my juices, and smears them across my lips.
Then he hooks his hands under my ass, lifting me off the ground.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, heels digging into his back.
He pins me harder against the wall, the bricks scraping my shoulders through my shirt as he lines up his cock.
He pulls my pants down and I kick off one leg.
And with that, one brutal thrust, and he buries himself to the hilt.
No easing in—just splitting me open, stretching my pussy around his girth.
I cry out, the burn mixing with the ache of fullness.
He doesn't wait, doesn't let me adjust.
He pulls back and slams in again, setting a punishing rhythm.
Each thrust drives me up the wall, my ass bouncing.
“Goddamn, you're tight,” he grunts, his hips snapping forward.
Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down to mix with the blood on his knuckles.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider, fingers bruising the soft flesh.
I claw at his shoulders, nails breaking skin through his shirt.
The pain spurs him on—he fucks me harder, deeper, the wet slap of our bodies echoing in the alley.
My pussy clenches around him, milking his cock with every plunge.
Heat coils low in my belly, building fast under the onslaught.
He shifts, angling his hips to grind against my clit with each stroke.
The friction sends sparks shooting through me, my breath coming in ragged pants.
“That's it,” he rasps, mouth at my ear. “Come on my cock. Squeeze me.”
I shatter, orgasm ripping through me like a storm.
My walls flutter and spasm, gushing around him.
He doesn't stop—keeps pounding, drawing it out until I'm shaking, oversensitive and raw.
But he isn't done.
With a growl, he drops me to my feet, spinning me around to face the wall.
“Hands up,” he orders, kicking my legs apart.
I brace my palms against the bricks, ass out, still trembling from the aftershocks.
Cool air hits my dripping pussy, but it's gone in seconds as he kicks my thighs wider.
His cock nudges my entrance from behind, then thrusts in deep.
This angle hits different—deeper, hitting spots that make me moan low and desperate.
Bravos grabs my hips, pulling me back onto him with every slam.
His balls slap against my clit, the rhythm brutal and unrelenting.
One hand slides up my back, fisting my hair and yanking my head back.
The pull arches my spine, forcing me to take him even harder.
“Fuck, yes,” I gasp, pushing back to meet him.
The alley blurs, nothing but the burn in my muscles and the thick slide of his cock filling me.
He reaches around, fingers finding my clit and rubbing circles—rough, no finesse.
It pushes me toward the edge again, my body coiling tight. “Gonna fill you up,” he warns, voice strained. “Mark you inside.”
Do it, I want to say, but words fail.
Instead, I grind back against him, chasing the release.
He thrusts once, twice—then buries deep, cock pulsing as he comes.
Hot spurts flood my pussy, triggering my own climax.
I clench around him, riding the waves until we both slump against the wall.
He stays inside me for a moment, breathing hard against my neck.
Then he pulls out, a trickle of cum sliding down my thigh.
We straighten clothes in silence, the adrenaline fading into something heavier—dangerous, like the secrets we both carry.
Bravos lights a cigarette, offering me a drag.
I take it, inhaling deep. “This changes nothing,” I say, voice steady despite the ache between my legs.
He smirks, that terrifying grin from the fight. “Everything changes, darlin'.”
And as we slip back toward the club's lights, I know he’s right.
The pull between us is a live wire, sparking toward something deadly.