Chapter Four
The bike roared to life beneath him, and Crash felt something settle into place—the familiar vibration of the engine, the night air against his face, the weight of a mission that finally mattered.
Grace climbed on behind him with the cat carrier clutched against her chest, her movements awkward and uncertain. First time on a bike. He could tell by the way she held herself stiff, fighting the machine instead of moving with it.
"Arms around my waist," he ordered. "Carrier between us. You lean when I lean—fight me and we both go down."
"I've never—"
"You'll learn fast." He pulled her arm around him, positioning her hand flat against his stomach. Even through the leather, he felt the heat of her palm. The tremor in her fingers. "Hold on tight. Don't let go for anything."
Her other arm came around, the carrier pressed between their bodies, and suddenly she was wrapped around him like she belonged there. The contact hit him somewhere primitive—this woman, his woman to protect, clinging to him in the dark while enemies circled.
He kicked off the curb and the bike surged forward.
The first SUV appeared two blocks from the bookstore, headlights cutting through the side streets as Walsh's men searched for their escaped target. Crash spotted them before they spotted him, pulling into an alley and killing the lights.
Grace's arms tightened around his waist. She didn't speak. Didn't panic. Just held on and let him work.
Smart woman.
He pulled out his phone, keeping his voice low. "Maverick. Two vehicles circling Merchant. I need the east route clear."
"Working on it. Psycho's got eyes on their communications—they know she's with you but they don't have a fix on your position." A pause. "Get her to the Ashford safehouse. I'll have it prepped by the time you arrive."
"Copy."
He ended the call and felt Grace's breath against the back of his neck—warm and rapid, her fear a living thing pressed against his spine. But she was holding it together. Still not panicking. Still trusting him to get her through this.
The SUV rolled past the alley entrance without slowing, its occupants scanning the main streets where they expected prey to run. Crash waited until the taillights disappeared around the corner, then hit the throttle and launched them in the opposite direction.
The engine screamed as he pushed the bike hard through downtown, taking corners at angles that made Grace gasp and clutch tighter.
Her thighs squeezed against his hips. Her chest pressed against his back with every sharp turn.
She was learning fast—leaning when he leaned, trusting the physics even when instinct said to fight them.
Good girl.
Second SUV appeared in his mirrors, someone finally getting smart about checking the side routes. Crash grinned into the wind and opened up the throttle.
This was what he was built for. Speed and violence and the crystalline clarity of survival. The restlessness that had been eating him alive for months burned away in the roar of the engine and the woman holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world gone sideways.
He cut through the warehouse district, taking turns he knew by heart—alleys too narrow for four wheels, shortcuts between buildings that weren't on any map. The SUV tried to follow and lost them at the second turn, its driver too cautious to risk the tight space at speed.
Amateur.
Crash pushed harder, putting distance between them and the search pattern, the bike eating up empty streets while the night blurred past. Grace's arms never loosened.
Her grip was fierce now, almost bruising, and he liked the feel of it—her strength, her refusal to let go even when the world tilted sideways.
The Ashford safehouse sat at the end of a dead-end street in a neighborhood nobody visited after dark. Industrial buildings gone quiet, streetlights burned out and never replaced, the kind of place where neighbors minded their own business because minding someone else's could get you hurt.
Crash pulled into the garage and killed the engine. Silence crashed down around them, broken only by Grace's ragged breathing and the tick of cooling metal.
She didn't let go immediately. Her arms stayed locked around his waist, her forehead pressed against his shoulder blade, her whole body trembling with the adrenaline crash that followed danger.
He let her hold on. Didn't push. Something about the contact felt right in a way he wasn't ready to examine.
"We're clear," he said finally. "They lost us three blocks back."
Grace peeled herself away from him slowly, her movements stiff and reluctant. When she climbed off the bike, her legs wobbled badly enough that he reached out to steady her—one hand on her hip, automatic and possessive.
She looked up at him with those gold-flecked eyes, her face pale in the dim garage light. The cat carrier hung from her other hand, Marlowe yowling his displeasure at the evening's adventures.
"That was..." She stopped. Swallowed. "I've never moved that fast in my life."
"You did good." He kept his hand on her hip, not ready to break contact. "Most people panic. You held on."
"Didn't have much choice."
"You had a choice. You made the right one."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, at the praise. Like she wasn't used to being told she'd done something right. He filed that away, another piece of information about the woman he was protecting.
The woman who was starting to feel like more than just a mission.
He guided her inside, clearing each room by habit before letting her settle. The safehouse was sparse but functional—living room with a couch that pulled out, kitchen with basic supplies, bathroom with working plumbing. Not comfortable, but defensible. That's what mattered.
Grace set the carrier on the floor and released Marlowe, who stalked around the perimeter with his tail puffed up, hissing at corners. She watched the cat for a moment, then turned to face Crash with an expression that had shifted from fear to something harder.
Determination.
"My bookstore," she said. "What happens now?"
Not what happens to me. Not am I safe. Her first thought was for the thing she'd built. The life she'd made. The place that mattered more than her own survival.
Crash felt that unfamiliar sensation shift in his chest again—respect, maybe. Or something warmer that he wasn't ready to name.
"Walsh's men will be watching it. Waiting for you to come back."
"So I just... leave it? Let them win?"
"You let us handle Walsh while you stay alive." He moved closer, watching her spine stiffen as he invaded her space. She didn't back down. Didn't flinch. Just lifted her chin and held his gaze like she had every right to challenge him. "That bookstore means nothing if you're dead."
"That bookstore is everything I have left of my mother."
The words hit him like a fist. He'd read her file—knew her mother had died, knew she'd come home to help and stayed to carry on the legacy. But hearing her say it, watching the grief flash raw across her face before she locked it down again...
"We'll protect it," he heard himself say. "The building. The inventory. Whatever Walsh's people try, we'll have eyes on it."
"You can't promise that."
"I just did."
She stared at him, searching his face for the lie. He let her look. Let her see whatever she needed to see—the violence he was capable of, sure, but also the absolute certainty that he meant every word.
"Why?" she asked finally. "You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. Why does a motorcycle club care about a bookstore?"
Crash considered the question. There were a lot of answers he could give—territory protection, Walsh operating in their space, the club's code about defending people who couldn't defend themselves.
All true. None of them the whole truth.
"Because you walked into The Fortress alone," he said.
"Scared out of your mind but holding it together anyway.
Because you organized a whole block to stand up to a man who could destroy them, and when he came for you specifically, your first question wasn't how to save yourself. It was how to save them."
He stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Close enough to watch her pupils dilate.
"Because I've been looking for a mission worth my time since I got out of the Corps. And protecting someone with that much spine feels like a mission I could believe in."
Grace's breath caught. Her lips parted slightly, and Crash tracked the movement with laser focus.
"That's..." She shook her head slowly. "That might be the strangest compliment anyone's ever given me."
"Wasn't a compliment. Just the truth."
They stood there in the dim light of the safehouse, the air between them thick with something neither of them was ready to acknowledge.
The cat wound between their ankles, finally satisfied that the perimeter was secure.
Outside, the city hummed with ordinary sounds that meant Walsh's men weren't kicking down the door.
Yet.
"You should sleep," Crash said, making himself step back before he did something stupid. "I'll keep watch."
"You don't sleep?"
"Not when I'm protecting something that matters."
Grace looked at him for a long moment—reading him the way she probably read people who walked into her store, cataloging details and drawing conclusions. Whatever she saw made her expression soften slightly.
"Thank you," she said. "For what you did at the shop. For getting me out. For..." She gestured vaguely at the safehouse, at the situation, at everything that had turned her life upside down in the span of a few hours. "All of this."
"Don't thank me yet." He moved toward the window, checking the street through a gap in the blinds. All clear. "Walsh is still breathing. His operation is still running. This isn't over until he learns that you're not something he can take."
"And if he doesn't learn?"
Crash looked back at her—this stubborn woman with her bruised wrist and her rescue cat and her absolute refusal to abandon the people depending on her. Something fierce and protective coiled in his chest, the same feeling he got right before contact in a firefight.
The certainty that he'd do whatever it took to win.
"Then I teach him," he said. "The hard way."