Chapter 5
The bike roared to life beneath him, and Forge felt something click into place—something that had been rattling loose since he'd walked out of Graterford two months ago.
Purpose. Direction. A reason to move.
"Hold on," he said over his shoulder.
Dana climbed on behind him, her movements uncertain, clearly not used to motorcycles. But when her arms locked around his waist, there was nothing uncertain about her grip. She held on like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go.
Good. He wasn't planning to disappear.
He pulled out of the alley behind Second Chances and headed east, away from the main roads, away from the routes Ray's men would expect.
Kensington's streets were a maze of row houses and industrial blocks, and Forge had spent the past two months memorizing every turn, every shortcut, every escape route.
Some habits died hard. Some habits kept you alive.
The night air bit at his face as he accelerated, Dana's warmth pressed against his back. She was smaller than he'd expected, lighter, but there was strength in the way she moved with him as he leaned into turns. Adaptable. Quick learner.
Worth protecting, his mind supplied again, and he didn't argue with it.
His thoughts ran through Ray Stoltz's probable responses while he navigated the darkened streets.
Prison logic was simple once you understood it: everything was about power, respect, and territory.
Dana had challenged Ray's authority by saying no.
Forge had escalated that challenge by stepping in.
Now Ray had to respond or look weak in front of his crew.
The man would hit back. Hard and fast, probably within hours. He'd want to make a statement—prove that some ex-con with Graterford ink couldn't protect what he'd already claimed.
Forge smiled grimly. Ray had always been predictable.
A bully who'd built his reputation on picking targets who couldn't fight back.
He'd run a crew inside, sure, made himself feel like a king in a concrete kingdom.
But he'd never tangled with the men who kept quiet and watched.
Never understood that silence wasn't weakness—it was patience.
Forge had been patient for five years. He could be patient a little longer.
Headlights flared in his mirrors as they crossed Frankford Avenue.
One car. Black sedan, moving too fast, taking the same turn he'd just made.
Coincidence. Maybe.
Forge accelerated, weaving through a residential block where the streetlights had long since burned out. The sedan followed, gaining ground, its headlights cutting through the darkness like hunting eyes.
Not coincidence.
Dana's arms tightened around him. She'd noticed.
"We've got company," he called back, voice calm despite the adrenaline starting to pump through his veins. "Hold tighter. This is going to get rough."
She didn't scream, didn't panic, just pressed closer and locked her grip like her life depended on it. Because it did.
Forge opened the throttle and the bike surged forward, engine screaming as he pushed it harder than he'd pushed anything since before the bars. The sedan tried to match his speed, but cars weren't built for the kind of moves he was about to make.
He cut left down an alley so narrow the walls scraped his knuckles. Emerged onto a side street and immediately cut right, threading between parked cars and overflowing dumpsters. The sedan overshot the turn, brake lights flaring as it tried to correct.
Forge didn't slow down.
He knew these streets. Had ridden them in his dreams during five years of concrete and steel, imagining freedom while he counted cracks in his cell ceiling.
The industrial blocks near the river were his territory now—abandoned warehouses, empty lots, the skeleton of a neighborhood that had died decades ago.
The sedan reappeared in his mirrors, closer this time. A second set of headlights joined it.
Two cars now. Ray wasn't taking chances.
Dana's grip was so tight he could feel her heartbeat against his back, rapid and terrified but steady. She wasn't falling apart. Wasn't screaming or crying or making his job harder. Just holding on and trusting him to get them out of this.
That trust hit him somewhere deep, somewhere he'd thought prison had killed.
Mine to protect, something growled in his chest. Mine.
He pushed the thought aside and focused on survival.
The warehouses loomed ahead, dark and hollow, their broken windows staring down like dead eyes.
Forge knew every gap in those fences, every hole in those walls, every path that looked like a dead end but wasn't. He'd studied this territory like his life depended on it—because in the outlaw world, it did.
He cut between two buildings so close together that Dana gasped, her body pressing flat against his back. The cars couldn't follow. He heard brakes screaming, doors slamming, men shouting.
They were on foot now. Good.
Forge didn't slow down. He wound through the industrial maze, taking turns at random, doubling back twice to throw off anyone trying to track their engine sound. The bike ate up the distance between danger and safety, and with every block he put behind them, his breathing came easier.
Finally, he pulled into a loading dock behind a warehouse that looked as abandoned as the rest. The door was rusted, the windows boarded, the whole building screaming condemned to anyone who didn't know better.
But the lock was new. And the security camera hidden in the shadows was Sons property.
"We're here," he said, killing the engine.
Dana's arms didn't unlock right away. She stayed pressed against him for a long moment, trembling, her breath hot against his shoulder blade.
Forge didn't rush her. He knew what an adrenaline crash felt like, knew the way your body kept screaming run even when the danger had passed. He let her hold on as long as she needed, let her use his stillness as an anchor.
When she finally pulled back, her voice was steadier than he'd expected. "Where's here?"
"Safehouse. Sons property." He swung off the bike and offered her his hand, helped her dismount on legs that were visibly shaking. "You're safe now. Nobody knows about this place except the brotherhood."
Dana looked around at the crumbling warehouse, the rusted door, the absolute darkness pressing in from all sides. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure." He led her to the door, punched a code into a keypad hidden behind a loose brick, and listened to the lock click open. "Ray's crew is good, but they're not that good. They lost us three blocks back. We've got time."
Inside, the safehouse was exactly what he'd expected from the briefings—bare bones but functional. A main room with a couch and a table. A small kitchen stocked with non-perishables. A bathroom with running water. Two bedrooms in the back, each with a bed and a lock on the door.
The Sons didn't believe in luxury. They believed in survival.
Dana stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, taking in her surroundings with the shell-shocked expression of someone whose world had just turned upside down.
Forge watched her process it—the fear, the confusion, the dawning realization that her life had changed in the space of an hour.
She was handling it better than most.
"There's food in the kitchen," he said, moving to check the windows even though he knew they were secure. Old habits. "Water, too. The bed in the back room is clean. You should try to sleep."
"Sleep." Dana laughed, the sound brittle and slightly wild. "Three men just tried to— and then we were chased— and you want me to sleep?"
"You need rest. Tomorrow's going to be harder."
Her laugh died. "Harder how?"
Forge turned to face her, and something in his expression must have shown her exactly how serious this was.
"Ray Stoltz isn't going to let this go. What happened tonight—me stepping in, you getting away—that's a challenge to everything he's built.
His crew runs on fear and respect. If word gets out that some thrift store owner escaped his enforcers because a Sons brother backed her up... "
"He has to respond," Dana finished quietly. "Or he looks weak."
"You understand."
"I grew up poor." She sank onto the couch, exhaustion finally winning over adrenaline. "I know how men like him think. Everything's about control. About making sure everyone knows what happens if you cross them."
Forge sat across from her, keeping distance between them even though every instinct was screaming at him to close it. To touch her, ground her, make sure she knew she wasn't alone anymore.
Too soon. Too much. She'd just had her world ripped apart. The last thing she needed was another man making demands on her.
"Ray and I overlapped at Graterford," he said instead, keeping his voice low and even. "He ran a crew inside. Thought he was king of the yard. Built his whole identity around being the hardest man in any room."
"Was he?"
"No." Forge's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"He was a bully. And bullies are predictable.
They pick targets they think can't fight back.
They use fear because they don't have anything else.
And when someone stands up to them—really stands up, not just posturing—they don't know what to do. "
Dana studied him with those intelligent eyes, seeing more than he was comfortable with. "You stood up to him. Inside."
"I never had to. Ray was smart enough not to test me. But he heard the stories. He knew what happened to men who tried."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "So what happens now?"
Forge leaned forward, elbows on his knees, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her breath catch visibly. "Now I call my brothers. Tell them what's happening. And then we handle Ray Stoltz the way the Sons handle everyone who threatens what's ours."
What's ours. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.
Dana's cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away. "I'm not yours."
"Not yet." The words came out before he could stop them, raw and honest and loaded with everything he shouldn't be feeling this soon. "But Ray thinks you belong to him now. Thinks he can take whatever he wants because he spent eight years inside and came out harder. He's wrong."
"And you're going to prove it?"
Forge stood, moving toward the kitchen to give himself distance, to keep himself from doing something stupid like crossing the room and kissing her until neither of them could think straight.
"Ray Stoltz was a bully inside," he said, voice hard with promise. "And I know exactly how to break bullies."