Chapter 8
Violet
Morning comes quieter than it should.
For a few slow seconds, I don’t remember where I am. The bed is bigger than mine. The sheets smell like smoke, leather, and something darker, something distinctly him. My body feels heavy, used in the best possible way, every muscle aware in a new, tender way.
Then I shift.
A dull ache pulls low in my hips, between my thighs. Not pain. Just a reminder. Heat creeps up my neck.
I remember.
Everything.
I turn my head.
He’s gone from the bed.
For a split second, something tightens in my chest.
Then I hear it. The low clink of ceramic. The faint hum of a kettle.
Kitchen.
I push the covers back carefully and sit up. My body protests in quiet ways, like it’s still catching up to last night. I breathe through it and stand.
There’s a sweatshirt on a chair. I pull it on. It smells like him, like the cabin, like smoke that clings to skin after the fire’s gone low. I don’t bother with anything else.
When I step into the kitchen, he’s there.
Barefoot. Jeans low on his hips. Shirtless. Back to me.
Coffee mug in one hand.
Sunlight spills through the small window over the sink, catching the scars across his shoulders. They look different in the morning. Less like warning signs. More like history.
He turns slightly, like he sensed me before I spoke.
His eyes sweep over me once. Quick. Assessing.
“You sore?” he asks.
The bluntness makes me blush.
“Yes,” I admit.
Something shifts in his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite nothing.
“Sit,” he says.
I do.
He sets a mug in front of me. Black coffee. Strong enough to bite back. I wrap both hands around it and let the warmth seep into my fingers.
For a moment, it feels almost normal.
Like this is just morning.
Like I didn’t give myself to a man fifteen years older than me less than twelve hours ago. Like I wasn’t nearly dragged out of a club by someone who thought my no didn’t count.
Blade leans against the counter, watching me drink.
“You sleep?” he asks.
“I did.”
“You?”
He shrugs once. “Enough.”
It’s a lie. It sits there anyway. I don’t push. Not yet.
He reaches behind him and grabs a small container I hadn’t noticed last night.
“Eat,” he says, setting it in front of me.
I lift the lid.
Muffins. Blueberry.
I glance up at him. “You bake?”
A faint smirk touches his mouth. “Our prez, Havoc does. Him and his old lady.”
“Oh.”
“They bake together. She showed him how.”
That surprises me more than it should.
He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s just another fact.
But it isn’t.
It’s a man who leads a club full of hardened ex-military bikers, standing in a kitchen measuring flour with his woman.
Something settles low in my chest at that. Not softness.
Stability.
I pick one up, brushing crumbs from the top.
He watches until I take a bite.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod, chewing. “Very.”
“Eat the whole thing,” he says. Not bossy. Just steady.
I do.
For a few minutes, it’s quiet. Coffee. Muffins. Morning light through the window.
Almost peaceful.
Then the guilt hits.
My phone.
It’s still in the pocket of my dress, the one I folded on the bathroom counter. I turned it off when I got here. I never turned it back on.
Lyla.
My stomach tightens.
I don’t know what she saw. Or if she saw anything at all. She was too busy with that man.
“I should turn my phone on,” I say quietly.
His gaze sharpens immediately.
“Why was it off?” he asks.
“I turned it off when we got here. I didn’t want…” My voice trails off.
He nods once.
I stand, slower than usual, and head to the bathroom. The dress is still where I left it, folded with careful hands. I dig into the pocket and pull my phone out.
When I step back into the kitchen, Blade’s watching me.
I set the phone on the table and reach for my coffee again, taking a slow sip before pressing the power button.
The screen lights up.
For a second, nothing.
Then it floods.
Missed calls.
Texts.
All from Lyla.
My mouth goes dry.
I open the first one.
Where did you go???
Then:
Vi call me.
Then:
This isn’t funny.
My chest tightens as I scroll.
The last message sits at the bottom like a stone.
Timestamp: two hours ago.
They took me.
My breath stops.
I read it again.
They took me. I’m at 148 Hollow Creek Rd. Come alone. Don’t tell anyone. If you want to see me again.
The room tilts.
The phone shakes in my hand.
Then the mug slips from my other hand.
It hits the floor and shatters.
He’s on me immediately.
“What is it?”
I can’t speak.
“Violet.”
“They took her,” I whisper.
His expression changes.
Hardens.
“Who?”
“My friend. Lyla.”
He takes the phone and reads the texts.
His face doesn’t explode with anger.
It goes blank.
That scares me more.
“They really took her,” I say again.
“That address isn’t an invitation,” he says. “It’s a trap.”
“They said come alone.”
“They always do.”
“If I go—”
“You don’t.”
“She’s my best friend.”
She sat with me the night Derek shipped out.
One bad night doesn’t erase that.
“That’s why they took her,” he says.
The air shifts.
“She’s not leverage,” I insist.
“She’s bait,” he corrects quietly.
“They’re pissed,” he continues. “He didn’t get you. I put him on the floor in front of his people.”
“So what do we do?”
“Now,” he says, reaching for his phone, “we react.”
He dials without hesitation and sets the phone on speaker.
“Yeah,” a voice answers.
“Ghost,” Blade says calmly. “They grabbed the friend. Her name is Lyla.”
Friend.
The word feels too small.
“Address?”
Blade reads it off.
“Industrial strip,” Ghost says. “Old Huntington storage.”
Industrial strip.
She’s there because of me.
“Figures,” Blade mutters.
“They’ll expect her alone,” Ghost adds.
“She’s not going alone.”
Relief flickers. Brief. Fragile.
“Of course she’s not. You want bodies?” Ghost asks.
“Quiet ones,” Blade says.
“You’ll have them.”
“She doesn’t leave my sight,” Blade says.
My pulse kicks at that. Protective. Territorial. Certain.
“Understood.”
The call ends.
Silence presses in.
“They said not to tell anyone,” I whisper.
“They don’t get to make rules in my life.”
I wish I believed that was enough.
“What if they hurt her because of this?”
“They need her breathing. For now.”
The calm in his voice chills me.
“They’ll escalate,” I whisper.
“Yes. And so will we.”
There’s no doubt in him. Not even a crack.
“You trust me?” he asks.
It isn’t romantic.
It’s operational.
He’s asking if I’m about to break.
“Yes.”
“Get dressed.”
“I don’t have—”
“A prospect brought some up from the clubhouse while you were sleeping,” he says. “We keep clothes for women we pull out of dark places.”