Chapter 15 #2
I thought of Bandit—half-feral and smart enough to run when things got bad.
I thought of Mason’s stupid drunk words at the wedding, the wildflowers on my doorstep, the way he’d looked at me like I was the only thing that ever scared him.
I hadn’t told him any of this. Hadn’t trusted him enough to let him in. Now I might never get the chance.
The truck hit a deep rut. The front end bottomed out hard, radiator hissing like an angry snake. Steam exploded across the hood. I fought the wheel, but the truck slewed sideways and slammed into a thick clump of mesquite. Metal crumpled. The engine died with a final, pathetic cough.
Silence crashed in, broken only by my ragged breathing and the tick of cooling metal.
I grabbed the sat phone, the pocket knife, the half-full water bottle, and the binoculars that had started this whole nightmare, then kicked the driver’s door open.
Boots hit dirt and I ran—low, zigzagging the way I’d seen in every survival show I’d half-paid attention to—toward a jumble of boulders and thick creosote about fifty yards away.
My lungs burned. Every snap of a branch under my feet sounded like a gunshot.
I dove behind the biggest rock a small cave opened in the cliff just enough for me to crawl inside the dark hole and hide.
I pressed my back to the rough stone, and tried to make myself small.
The sun was almost gone now, painting the desert in deep purples and fiery oranges.
Shadows stretched long and black. Perfect for hiding. Terrible for seeing who was coming.
Footsteps. Voices. Two men at least, maybe more. They were fanning out, boots crunching on gravel, flashlights sweeping the arroyo floor.
“Little lady’s gotta be around here somewhere,” one called, voice lazy and amused. The same one who’d leaned against my truck hood at Station 19. “County girl. Real curious, aren’t you?”
Another voice, rougher, answered in Spanish. I caught enough to know they were pissed. And armed.
I slowed my breathing the way I’d learned in a long-ago self-defense class—slow inhale, slower exhale, trying not to gasp.
My hand shook around the pocket knife. It felt pathetic against whatever they were carrying.
The sat phone was on silent, screen dimmed.
No signal bars. I clutched it anyway like a lifeline.
Minutes bled into what felt like hours. I stayed frozen, ears straining, every tiny sound amplified.
A lizard skittered over rock. My own heartbeat roared in my ears.
One of the men passed so close I could smell his cologne and the sharp tang of gun oil.
His flashlight beam swept inches from my boot.
I didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just pressed harder into the boulder until the stone bit into my spine.
He kept going.
I waited longer than I needed to. Survival instinct screamed at me to stay put, to become part of the desert, to let the night swallow me whole. I thought about the last scientist who’d had this job. The one who’d “walked.” Had she seen something like this? Had she tried to run too?
My phone finally vibrated—once, soft. A text from Regan.
On our way. Fifteen minutes out. Stay hidden.
Fifteen minutes. It might as well have been fifteen years.
The men circled back twice more. One of them kicked at the wrecked truck, cursing when he found the sample vials inside. “She was there. Serial numbers match. County bitch saw everything.”
They argued in low voices. Decided to wait me out. One stayed near the vehicles. The other started walking the ridgeline again, boots deliberate and slow.
I hugged my knees tighter, knife pressed to my chest like it could stop a bullet.
Dust coated my tongue. My arm stung where glass had cut it during the chase.
I thought of Mason again—grease on his hands, that cocky smirk, the way he’d nuzzled my neck on the dance floor just to hurt me back.
I hated how much I wanted him here right now.
Hated how safe that thought felt when nothing else did.
Another ten minutes crawled by. Then fifteen. The sky went full dark, stars sharp overhead. The man near the truck lit a cigarette. The glow of it was the only light for miles.
I heard it before I saw it—the low, throaty rumble of a truck engine I knew in my bones. Dolores. My beat-up, rust-bucket Dolores, sounding smoother and meaner than she ever had. Headlights swept the arroyo from the far end, cutting through the night like a promise.
The hunters shouted. Guns came up.
Dolores didn’t slow. She came barreling straight down the wash like a green avenging angel, Mason’s arm out the driver’s window, pistol steady in his grip.
The first shots from the hunters pinged off her new reinforced fenders.
Mason answered with two of his own—precise, controlled. One hunter dropped with a yell.
The rest of the club roared in behind him—bikes and trucks, chrome and leather and pure fury.
Regan’s voice carried on the wind, sharp and commanding.
Tank’s truck slewed sideways, blocking the black SUV’s escape.
More gunfire cracked across the desert, short and vicious.
I stayed down, ears ringing, until the only sound left was the idling engines and someone shouting that it was clear.
Boots crunched toward my hiding spot. I gripped the knife tighter, every muscle locked.
“Sienna!” Mason’s voice—raw, desperate, closer than I’d ever heard it. “Baby, where are you? It’s over. Come out.”
I stood on shaking legs, stepped out from behind the boulders, and the world tilted.
He was already running, closing the distance in long strides, dust swirling around his boots.
When he reached me he didn’t stop—just hauled me against his chest so hard my feet left the ground for a second.
One big hand cupped the back of my head, the other wrapped around my waist like he could shield me from the entire desert.
“You’re bleeding,” he growled into my hair, voice cracking. “Jesus Christ, Sienna.”
I clung to his shirt, face buried in the warm, familiar scent of motor oil and leather and him. “I saw them kill someone. They know I saw. I dropped the vials. They have my truck. They—”
“Shh. Later.” His arms tightened. “Right now you’re breathing. That’s all I need.”
Behind him I caught glimpses of the club—Tank directing prospects to secure the scene, Regan already on her phone calling in favors, River checking the downed hunters. But Mason didn’t let go. Not for a second.
He finally pulled back just enough to look at me, thumbs brushing dirt and tears from my cheeks. His eyes were wild, the same storm I’d seen the night he kissed me on the sidewalk.
The line shack Regan had mentioned was only a mile farther up the ridge. Mason steered me toward Dolores without letting go, one arm locked around my shoulders like he was afraid the desert would try to take me again.
We weren’t safe yet. Not by a long shot.
But for the first time since I’d dropped those binoculars on the ridge, I wasn’t facing the dark alone.
And Mason’s hand on my waist felt like the only promise in the whole damn desert I could believe in.
The line shack smelled like dust, old wood, and gun oil.
A single battery lantern hissed on the rickety table, throwing hard shadows across the faces of the brothers who’d made it here first. Tank, River, Edge, and a handful of patched members stood in a loose circle while prospects guarded the perimeter.
Sienna sat on the edge of a sagging cot, my jacket draped over her shoulders, a half-empty bottle of water trembling in her hands.
Blood and dirt streaked one cheek. She looked pale as hell, scared, fragile in a way that made my chest tighten like a winch cable.
Innocent. And now she was neck-deep in club business and state-level dirty shit she never asked for.
I couldn’t stop touching her—hand on her knee, thumb stroking the side of her neck—anything to remind myself she was still breathing and here.
River broke the silence first, voice low and flat.
“We got three bodies cooling in the arroyo. One of ‘em’s got an Oakley security patch under the cut. The other two are cartel muscle. We bury ‘em deep tonight, but the blowback’s already coming. Dirty cops, dirty judges, the whole fucking machine those Oakleys own—they’re gonna spin this.
Say we rolled up on a legit meet and started the shooting.
They’ll pin the dumping operation on us, the murders, the whole goddamn thing. ”
Tank rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking to Sienna. “She saw it all. The suit, the hit, everything. She’s the only civilian witness.”
River’s gaze hardened on her, not unkind, just club. “She ain’t patched. She ain’t an old lady. Right now she’s a loose end. And in court, a wife can’t be forced to testify against her husband.”
The words landed like a live round.
I felt Sienna stiffen under my palm. Her head snapped up. “Wait—what?”
River didn’t flinch. “Looks like we’re doing another wedding.
Vegas. Quick, quiet, legal. No blood test wait, no questions.
You two say I do in front of a chapel Elvis, file the paperwork, and suddenly she’s protected.
Can’t be compelled. And if they try to come at the club, they’re coming at a brother’s wife. That buys us time.”
Edge let out a low whistle. “Regan and I did the same damn thing in Vegas. Turned out pretty fucking epic, if I’m being honest. Even if River lost his shit and pulled a gun on me in the penthouse suite.
” He grinned, but his eyes stayed serious.
“What do you say, Sienna? You ready to become a Royal Bastard’s old lady before sunrise? ”
The shack went dead quiet except for the desert wind rattling the tin roof.
My gut twisted hard. Marriage. The word alone made my skin crawl.
I’d watched Rylee walk out on me with that goddamn ring still sitting in my closet like a curse.
Weddings were fairy-tale bullshit for people who hadn’t had their forever sold out from under them.
I wasn’t built for it. Never had been. The thought of standing up there again, saying vows, signing papers that could blow up in my face—fuck that.
But then I really looked at Sienna.
She was pale, eyes wide and glassy with leftover terror, lips pressed tight like she was holding back a scream.
Fragile in a way she’d never let anyone see before tonight.
Innocent as hell, even after everything she’d survived.
And now she was tangled up in our world—club blood, cartel bullets, Oakley money that could bury her six feet under before breakfast. She hadn’t asked for any of this.
She’d just been doing her job, trying to keep the water clean, and the desert had tried to eat her alive for it.
Something stirred low in my chest. Not just the same raw want that had been burning since the sidewalk kiss.
This was deeper. Darker. The need to keep her safe.
To put my name on her so no one—not the Oakleys, not the cartel, not the dirty badges—could touch her without going through me first. My patch. My ring. My old lady. Mine to protect.
The insane physical pull between us was just a bonus. Even now, covered in dirt and blood, she made my blood run hot. That fire in her eyes, the way her body had fit against mine in the truck earlier… yeah. That part I could handle.
I swallowed hard. My hand was still on her knee, fingers digging in like I could anchor her here.
“It’s not about the club,” I said, voice rough.
“It’s about keeping you alive. They know your face, Sienna.
They know what you saw. If we don’t lock this down tonight, they’ll bury you next to those bodies before the sun comes up. ”
Her eyes searched mine, wide and stormy. I saw the fear, the exhaustion, and underneath it something hotter, something that had been simmering between us since the sidewalk kiss. She didn’t pull away from my hand.
Regan’s voice crackled through the speaker on Edge’s phone—she’d been listening on the ride. “Come on, scientist. My Vegas wedding to Edge was the best bad decision I ever made. We can do this right. Quick ceremony, big party when the dust settles. You’ll look killer in white leather.”
Sienna let out a shaky laugh that sounded half-hysterical. “White leather? What the fuck is happening to me?”
I leaned in, forehead almost touching hers, blocking out the rest of the room.
“I’m not asking you to love me tonight,” I said, low enough that only she could hear.
“I’m asking you to let me keep you breathing.
The rest… we figure out after. But I swear on my patch, Sienna, I won’t let you regret this. ”
She stared at me for a long, aching beat. The lantern light caught the cut on her arm, the dirt in her hair, the fire that had never really gone out in her eyes.
Then she whispered, so quiet I almost missed it, “You’re still an idiot, Mason.”
My mouth curved despite everything. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot. If you’ll have me.”
Tank cleared his throat. “Clock’s ticking, brother. We need an answer before we roll out. Vegas is four hours away and those bodies won’t stay hidden forever.”
Sienna looked around the shack—at the armed men who’d just killed for her, at Regan’s voice still buzzing on the phone, at me. Her hand finally came up and covered mine on her knee, small and trembling but steady.
She took a breath that sounded like surrender and salvation all at once.
“Fine,” she said. “But if Elvis asks me to renew our vows, I’m shooting him.”
The room exploded into rough laughter and back-slaps. I didn’t laugh. I just pulled her into my chest and held on like the desert might still try to take her.
Vegas.
A ring.
A piece of paper that would make her mine in every way the law—and the club—cared about.
And maybe, just maybe, a shot at something real once the bullets stopped flying.
I kissed the top of her dusty head and felt the first real piece of hope I’d had since the wedding.
We were getting married tonight.