Chapter Twenty
Colter
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Saint said when I glared at him while we waited for Syn to finish saying his evening goodbyes to Sugar, and Dylan tested her sugar again after having to dose herself with insulin when she’d underestimated the carbs in dinner and had a spike.
“You’re pissed at me. We gotta have words.
Maybe you want my face and your fist to connect. But I’m not sorry about it.”
“You insult her like that again and I’ll show you why Slash picked me outta the dozen or so guys who got out the same year I did,” I warned him.
“I’m an asshole,” Saint said, shrugging. “I won’t hesitate to say shit to someone’s face. And I’m not gonna apologize for it. Even if she didn’t like it.”
“She’s not dumb.”
“In all fairness, I didn’t call her dumb. I suggested she might be being dumb. There’s a difference. But you might have been too Hulked out to notice the difference. Never seen you angry like that before. Guess I see how you ended up in prison.”
“It doesn’t happen much.”
“No? Didn’t I hear a rumor in Shady Valley about you choking some fuck out?”
How the hell did he know that?
“There are specific circumstances that bring it out.”
“When someone threatens what’s yours. Or tries to take what’s yours.”
“That’s… an overly simplified way of putting it. But yeah.” I paused, exhaling hard. “But your little stunt had unexpected consequences. So I’m not gonna bash your face in for it. But don’t overstep like that again.”
“If it helps, that woman wants exactly what you do. She’s just too fucking repressed and scared to admit it. Maybe another gift basket would help,” he teased, shooting me a smirk as he walked off toward the doors as Syn and Dylan moved out of the elevator.
“Well, you don’t have flames in your eyes,” Dylan said, looking at me. “Good talk?”
“He got off with a warning.”
“I can handle him myself, you know,” Dylan said, inching a little closer when my hand went to the small of her back.
“I’ve seen it. But as much as it was about what he said to you, it was also about his lack of respect for me. He needed to be reminded it’s not his place to butt in on my life and my choices.”
“Is that what I am?” she asked, voice small, maybe even hopeful. “Your choice?”
There was something wide-eyed and hopeful on her face as I turned to look down at her.
I reached out, grabbing her chin in my hand.
“That’s exactly what you are,” I told her, fingers lingering for just a second.
“You guys can suck face later. We got a job to do,” Saint called, making Dylan roll her eyes but let out a little laugh.
“Ready?” I asked.
She gave me a nod.
Then, voice small, “Can I ride with you?”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear those words from her stubborn ass. But, fuck, did they make my heart squeeze.
“Fuck yeah, you can,” I said, trying to downplay just how big a moment this was.
Because I knew for a fact that, like me, she’d never ridden bitch before. It was a matter of pride to her. That she’d always been in control. It said something that she was trusting me to be.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked when we were both on the bike, the engine purring.
“For you to put your arms around me.”
“I can stay on without holding on,” she insisted.
Of course, she could. Her feet were on the passenger pegs. She could squeeze the tank with her thighs. She had the core strength to balance. And my bike had grab rails that removed the need to grab my vest or wrap her arms around me.
“Can sit here all night,” I said instead of arguing.
“You’re annoying,” she grumbled on a hard exhale, but I could practically hear the smile in her voice as she scooted just a little closer, her legs wrapping around my hips. Then her hands carefully slid around me until they cinched around my waist.
I kicked up the stand and took off.
By the time we reached the woods, I understood why she’d been so desperate to get me somewhere private and get me inside her. Because riding with her wrapped around me was unexpectedly intimate and sexy.
But that was going to have to wait.
We’d been making some progress thanks to the new cameras and some pictures and snippets of conversation we’d caught.
Since I was no longer sleeping in my hotel room, we’d turned that into a command center. The place looked like the war room in a cop movie. Papers were pinned all over with names, profiles, and maps of the grounds and the clubhouse.
We’d been studying everything as we waited for Rook to bring us more information about some of the faces we’d caught on the cameras.
We were just kind of in a holding pattern, making sure we knew all the players.
After that, well, it was up to Slash.
Maybe he’d send more of the guys out to us.
Maybe he’d trust the four of us to handle it.
It seemed like we were maybe only three or four days away from that.
To be honest, I’d spent almost no time thinking about the final battle, though. I spent all my time thinking about what came after that. When the clubhouse was back in Dylan’s hands. When her girls were away getting treatment.
What happened then?
Would she still want me?
Would she change her mind about the future she’d told me about?
Would she go back to her old life instead?
Because it was easier. Because it felt safer. Because it was not as risky as admitting she wanted me. And a brand new life away from everything she had ever known.
“You’re quiet,” she remarked as we stood in a new spot to try to get a better view of the front door.
“Was just thinking—” I started.
But just then, the front door opened.
And out walked one of Roach’s guys.
I remembered this one from the files.
Wayne-something. He had perpetually filthy, stringy blond hair, wide-set eyes, and old white supremacy tattoos from prison. Where he’d gone away for (coming as no surprise to anyone) rape.
So there wasn’t exactly shock in my gut as I watched him half-dragging a skinny brunette out of the front door, his grip hard enough to bruise, yanking so hard that he made her shoulder lurch back at an awkward angle as she cried out.
Beside me, Dylan stiffened.
Her eyes were huge as she zeroed in on the woman.
“Diana,” she whispered.
Wayne reached back, slamming the front door, then letting out a sick laugh as the woman struggled against his hold.
“Dylan,” I said, my voice both soft and firm at the same time.
Because I could practically hear her inner battle.
I was having my own.
But we were insanely outnumbered.
They were armed.
There were innocent women around somewhere.
We had to be smart.
Careful.
No matter how hard it was to watch the Wayne bastard manhandle one of the girls.
Maybe, maybe we all could have kept our cool if shit didn’t go any further.
But we stood there and we watched as he forced the struggling woman down on her knees, then reached to free his dick.
We weren’t close enough to hear what Diana said. But we saw the way her head shook almost violently side to side.
A no was a no even without words.
Wayne’s slap to her cheek was loud enough to reach us, hard enough to make Diana whip to the side.
But he was undeterred.
He reached down, gathered a handful of her hair, yanked her back up to her knees, and moved himself closer to her face.
And that was it.
I think for all of us.
Dylan was just faster.
She was halfway through the clearing before I even took two steps. I didn’t think she could move that damn fast. She practically blurred.
One second, Wayne was trying to force himself into the woman’s mouth.
The next, he was tackled to the ground.
It probably wasn’t her first instinct.
I’d reached for my gun right off, but our angle was shit and the wind was whipping harder than usual. It wouldn’t be easy to get a clean shot off at a distance. And the gunshot was sure to bring everyone out of the clubhouse, ready to shoot.
Dylan had surprise on her side.
Wayne went down hard, wind too knocked out of him to fight as Dylan’s fist landed blow after blow.
It all probably would have been fine.
But Diana, likely just out of shock, screamed.
And that was it.
All fucking hell broke loose.
I was vaguely aware of movement in the trees in the direction Saint and Syn had come from.
But they weren’t close enough to do jack shit when the door burst open and men spilled out.
Two went right for Dylan.
I went for them.
Her cry of pain made my vision go red as I grabbed one of the fucks by his thin-ass ponytail, pulling so hard I was surprised the damn thing didn’t rip clear out by the roots.
He yowled in pain, swung at the air, but I got him away from Dylan.
One hard uppercut had him sprawled out, letting me reach for the next guy, who was trading blows with a fiery-eyed, bloody-lipped Dylan.
That blood?
That was what signed the motherfucker’s death certificate for him.
He’d made her bleed.
He had to pay.
My knife was in my hand before I was even conscious of my brain saying to reach for it.
It was a nasty thing.
Not a flimsy little folding pocketknife.
It lived in a slot in my boot.
A ten-inch, serrated tactical knife.
Almost identical to the one I’d carried in the service.
The grooves of the handle felt familiar in my hand.
The practiced hold came back to me with ease.
As did the way I closed in on the bastard, yanked his head to the side to expose his neck, and rammed the knife into his carotid.
Blood poured.
Over at me.
All over the stunned Dylan.
But I only noticed that for a second or two.
Because something wide and hard closed around my throat from behind, pulling back hard, and immediately cutting off my airflow.
My hands went for it automatically, before my training even kicked in.
The knife fell from my hand down near Dylan’s side as she started to scramble up, her eyes huge.
My blood was rushing too hard in my ears to hear her yell, but I saw the way her lips formed my name.
Colter!
The horrified look in her eyes was oddly comforting even as my head started to feel light.
There was only one member of Roach’s club large enough to drag me backward.
His name was Liam.
He was massive.
And, like me, he’d served.
We would be equally matched once I got out of the choke.
And I could.
I would.
Only right then, two men closed in on Dylan, grabbing at her.
And all my self-preservation evaporated as all I could think of was getting to her, saving her.
She kicked, punched, scratched.
But she was outnumbered.
They were stronger.
She knew she was going to be taken.
But she had the split second of brilliance to grab for my bloody-ass knife.
I watched as she shoved it into the waistband of her jeans, then down the side of her leg, likely cutting herself in the process, but she was too panicked to show pain.
Then I watched in fucking horror as she was dragged away.
Into the clubhouse.
Away from me.
My vision was going spotty.
The strength left my legs.
I was going to pass out.
And this bastard wasn’t stupid enough to let me go as soon as I did.
He’d choke me out until I died.
Two more minutes, give or take.
The spots got darker, taking over almost all of my vision.
Then the belt loosened.
The primal need for survival had me gasping hard. Once. Twice.
I wasn’t even aware of what was happening around me as my heart banged against my ribcage, as dizziness overtook me.
Then, through the rush of oxygen filling my body with adrenaline, I heard him.
Saint.
“Fucking fight!” he yelled from somewhere behind me.
I whirled around, seeing him take on two of Roach’s men.
His brother was a few yards off with his own assailant.
And for just a second, I appreciated his surprising speed, his utter lack of acknowledgment of pain as the man landed blow after blow. He just kept going, kept fighting.
Fighting.
Like I needed to do.
So I could get to Dylan.
I flew to my feet, noticing Liam on the ground, a plug to his temple.
I’d been so close to unconsciousness that I hadn’t even heard the gunshot.
Saint’s gun was right there on the ground, knocked by one of the guys, I assumed.
I went for it, aimed, and caught the guy closest to me in the gut.
He went down hard, screaming, clutching his stomach.
Maybe the shot itself wouldn’t be fatal.
But the infection he was gonna get from it?
He was a goner.
He just didn’t know that yet.
Saint abandoned the guy he was fighting, leaving him to me as he went toward his brother.
I saw the flash as the guy I was approaching reached for his gun.
He was fast.
But he had shit aim.
The white-hot pain ripped through the side of my arm.
Blinding.
But motivating at the same time.
My aim?
It was a hell of a lot better.
He was dead before he hit the ground beside his yowling buddy.
I didn’t spare them another glance.
And as a gunshot rang out at the side, I knew Saint and Syn had won their fight too.
I ran toward the clubhouse door.
“They have Dylan,” I roared back to the brothers.
Then I kicked the fucking door in.