Chapter 2
AXLE
T he world blurred to a single thread of movement and sound.
The roar of the crowd, the hum of power vibrating through the wheel, and the track beneath my tires eating up every inch of space I gave it.
The turn was tight. Slick. Pushed my grip to the edge.
But that’s where I lived—on life’s edge, between control and chaos.
My body moved on instinct, every adjustment tuned so deep into muscle memory I didn’t have to think.
This was what I was born to do. I didn’t just drive my machine—I was part of it.
Even my breathing didn’t change when I passed the fucker trying to ride my draft and left him eating my dust through the straightaway.
There was nowhere I’d rather be. This was my place. My fucking church.
The final lap was approaching, and I planned to glide effortlessly across that finish line. Then everything went to hell.
The crowd’s roar shifted, becoming sharp and panicked. Tires squealed but not from the track.
A blur of chrome and black leather shot past the barrier, crashing through a folding security gate and slamming onto the dirt of turn three.
“What the fuck?” I growled.
My eyes tracked the shape automatically—small, off-balance.
Clearly not comfortable on a bike. It slid across the dirt like a skipping stone until the rider hit the ground hard and rolled, launching a duffel bag off the motorcycle, arcing through the air before it thudded just a few yards in front of them.
“Shit!” I snarled, wrenching the wheel hard as my boot slammed the brake pedal.
Tires shrieked, rubber biting asphalt as my car jerked to the side and cut a line through the edge of the track.
I missed the body by inches. My car came to a hard, shuddering stop, the engine growling under the hood like it was pissed at me for stopping the chase.
The cars around me screamed in protest as the drivers shifted course to keep from running over the bastard who clearly had a fucking death wish.
Who the fuck rides a bike straight onto a live speedway?
Especially one owned by Kane Beckett, the president of my motorcycle club, the Redline Kings. When people said his name, it was with respect. Or fear. Usually both.
My door flew open before the car fully halted, my boots hitting the dirt, and I sprinted toward the downed rider. Adrenaline and fury roared hotter than any race had ever burned through me.
“Have you lost your fucking mind, man?” I bellowed, eyes locked onto the figure crumpled in the dirt as my brow furrowed deeper.
The man was small, and despite the oversized bomber jacket, I could tell he was lean. Almost…willowy. Not the kind of guy you’d normally see on a machine that size.
He was still, but breathing.
Something was off about him. Wait…I froze.
Holy fuck.
Not a man.
It was a fucking woman.
I crouched and slid my arms beneath her. She was light. Almost fragile. Not nearly enough muscle on her bones to be riding a bike this big. Especially carrying a duffel bag.
Her breath caught as I lifted her, but she didn’t wake. Her cheek pressed against my chest, her body curling instinctively into me like she knew she belonged there.
I tightened my grip.
Mine.
The word came out of nowhere—raw and primal. No sense behind it. No logic. Just gut.
My hand went to the chin strap of her helmet. It was too loose. Like she’d grabbed whatever was lying around and didn’t even know how to tighten it.
My instincts screamed that she was on the run.
I tugged off the helmet, and my breath froze in my lungs.
She looked like a dark angel, one made of sweetness and sin, rolled into one.
Long dark maroon hair, streaked with pink, was messy and matted with sweat. Her heart-shaped face was too pale, her soft lips cut and slightly parted like she’d been gasping just before she went under. Blood was smeared on her temple, a drip slowly making its way down to her high cheekbone.
I unzipped the jacket to check for more injuries and was shocked to find myself feeling a zip of attraction.
I hadn’t felt a spark of interest in a woman in a long fucking time.
Even the pit bunnies had lost their allure in my early twenties.
I wasn’t cut out for one-night stands or friends with benefits.
But that worked for me because I was too focused on my career and had no desire to deal with a clingy woman and the shit that came with a relationship.
Her thick lashes twitched faintly, then her eyes fluttered, giving me a glimpse of gray eyes—like the ocean in a thunderstorm—before they closed again. She wasn’t fully out, but also not fully in. Somewhere between consciousness.
My gut twisted hard, and my heart pounded. My reaction was visceral, strong, and like nothing I’d ever felt before.
Seeing her lying there—small, injured, and helpless—I wanted to wrap my arms around her and fucking keep her.
Get a grip, Novak. You don’t even know her name.
A shadow fell over her as a guy in a track vest stepped in to help, reaching for her arm. “Shit, man, is she?—”
I whipped around to face him, keeping her close and out of his reach. My fury surged hot and sharp.
“Touch her again,” I growled, “and I’ll break your fucking hand.”
He backed up so fast, he almost tripped over himself.
That’s right. Back the fuck off.
My angel stirred, a low whimper escaping her lips.
I needed to get her to a doctor, but without knowing who or what she was running from, I needed someone I trusted. Cage, my club brother, was our doctor. He even had his own clinic built on the compound, across a small parking lot from the clubhouse.
Without another word, I spun on my heel and stalked off the track.
I was halfway to the gate when I remembered the bag.
The one that flew off her back when she crashed.
I stopped, adjusted her weight in one arm, and bent to grab the duffel with the other. It was heavier than it looked, and the zipper was just slightly open. Inside, I saw a glimpse of neatly bound cash.
Yeah, this wasn’t a joyride.
This was a fucking escape.
Teeth grinding, I strode off the field. Bystanders tried to ask questions.
“Who is she?”
“What happened?”
“Is she okay?”
I didn’t answer or slow down. My steps were hard, my focus laser-tight on the parking lot behind the pit wall.
The voice of my MC’s VP, Edge, crackled through my comms. He’d been back in the office, rather than watching the race. Someone must’ve told him about the crash, and he was probably wondering why the fuck I was bailing mid-race.
“Axle? You alive, brother?”
“Yeah,” I growled. “Race is over. Meet me behind the pit in ten.”
There was a pause. “You got a reason for that tone, or just feeling dramatic today?”
I looked down at the girl in my arms.
Her lashes fluttered again, her brow crinkling.
“No,” I muttered. “Got a reason.”
Another pause. Then Edge’s voice dropped low, more serious now. “You good?”
I didn’t know how to answer because I wasn’t sure. I had no idea what the fuck this was. Why I was this pissed, this protective. Why my heart pounded harder now than when I hit 212 on the final straightaway.
“Just meet me,” I grunted.
Someone asked if they should call an ambulance. I snapped, “I’ll handle it.”
Because I would.
I didn’t know who the hell she was.
But she was mine now.
And no one was touching what was mine.