Chapter Seven
Morning came sharp and restless. Havoc rolled into the compound just after sunrise, the sky still streaked with pale gold and bruised blue. Engines were quiet for once. The place felt half-asleep, like a predator stretched out in the early light, one eye cracked open.
He cut the bike and sat there for a second longer than necessary, resting his hands on the grips, listening to the ticking of cooling metal.
She should have been here already. Ivy always was.
She liked the quiet hours. He’d noticed that fast. How she showed up early, before the compound filled with noise and movement, before the walls became witnesses instead of blank space.
It was like she needed that stillness to listen before she painted.
Havoc swung off the bike and grabbed the cardboard drink tray and paper bag from his saddlebag. Coffee. Black, one sugar. Breakfast sandwich he’d remembered she liked, even though she’d only mentioned it once, off hand, days ago.
He told himself it didn’t mean anything. That didn’t stop the faint, uncomfortable twist in his chest when he rounded the corner of the building and saw the mural wall empty.
No Ivy. There was no drop cloth spread out. No paint jars lined up like soldiers. No soft scrape of brush against brick, only the wall, half-finished, waiting. Havoc frowned and checked his watch. Then his phone. A text waited.
Morning. Running a little late today. Need to grab more supplies. Be there soon.
Relief came first, sharp and fast. Then anger followed it like a shadow. He stared at the screen longer than necessary, tightening his jaw. She was in town alone, for supplies.
His mind replayed yesterday without permission. The art store aisle. The way Hyena’s eyes had lingered on her. The grin that had carried too much familiarity. Too much interest.
Hyena was the Vice President of the Steel Jackals MC. An upstart crew with big mouths and itchy fingers, sniffing around Devil’s Crown territory like they were testing the fence. Havoc knew him well enough to know yesterday hadn’t been coincidence.
Hyena didn’t browse art stores. Havoc crushed the coffee cup in his hand.
The liquid splashed against his knuckles, hot and bitter.
He didn’t feel it. He dumped the ruined breakfast straight into the trash, barely registering the waste, then turned back toward his bike with purpose burning through him.
This was exactly why King had told him to keep an eye on her.
He didn’t bother asking permission. The Harley roared to life, shattering the morning calm.
Havoc took the road hard, speed bleeding off some of the tension but not enough.
Wind tore at him, engines howled in his ears, and his thoughts stayed fixed on one image.
Ivy. Alone. In town. He rolled into the parking lot just as the art store door swung open.
There she was, her arms full of supplies. Canvas boards tucked under one arm, paint bags slung over her shoulder. Hair pulled back, face flushed with effort.
Relief hit him so hard it made him dizzy, then anger slammed into it and wiped the softness clean.
He dismounted in one smooth motion, boots hitting pavement with a sharp crack. Ivy looked up, startled, eyes widening when she saw him striding toward her.
“Havoc?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he shot back, voice rough, edged sharp.
She blinked. “Getting supplies. Like I texted you.”
“Alone,” Havoc gritted out.
Her spine straightened instantly. “I told you I was fine.”
He stopped a foot away from her, crowding her space without touching. “You weren’t fine yesterday.”
Her eyes flashed. “I handled it.”
“No,” he snapped. “You didn’t have to. I did.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t exist in town without an escort,” she fired back.
His chest rose and fell hard. “You don’t know who that was.”
“I know he wasn’t Devil’s Crown.”
“That makes it worse,” Havoc growled. “That was Hyena. Steel Jackals VP.”
She stiffened. “So?”
“So he’s trouble,” Havoc said. “And now he knows you matter.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Her grip tightened on the supplies. “I matter to myself,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I stop living my life.”
“You don’t get it,” he said, frustration bleeding into something raw. “This isn’t about paint or errands. This is about territory. About messages.”
“And I’m what?” she shot back. “A message?”
The word landed between them like a slap.
Havoc sucked in a breath. “No.”
“Because that’s what it feels like,” Ivy said, voice tight but steady. “Like suddenly my existence is a liability.”
“That’s not what I said,” he argued.
“It’s what you’re acting like,” she pointed out.
Silence stretched, thick and buzzing.
“You could’ve told me,” she added, her voice tight but steady. “You could’ve said who he was. Instead you decided to panic and ride out like I’d already screwed up.”
The words hit harder than she probably meant them to.
Havoc laughed once, sharp and humorless, the sound cutting through the air like broken glass.
“You think this is panic?” he demanded, voice rough.
“Yes,” Ivy said without hesitation. “I think you’re scared.”
That stopped him cold. The world narrowed, breath stalling halfway into his lungs. The truth of it punched through his ribs, finding old bruises he pretended weren’t there anymore. He hated that she saw it and that she could name it so easily when he’d spent years burying it.
Even worse, she was right. He stepped closer again, drawn in despite himself, heat and tension coiling tight between them like a live wire.
“You don’t know what scared looks like on me,” he said.
Her chin lifted, defiant but not unkind. “Then don’t make choices for me,” she said.
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” Havoc said. He forced the words out like they might still make sense if he said them right.
“I didn’t ask you to,” she shot back.
The words slid in under his armor and twisted. For a second, he couldn’t breathe.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, something bitter threading through his tone. “That’s the problem.”
Her eyes softened just a fraction, confusion flickering through her anger. The fight drained out of her shoulders, replaced by something uncertain, searching.
“What does that mean?” Ivy asked.
Havoc opened his mouth, then closed it. Everything he wasn’t ready to say crowded his throat.
The way she unsettled him and how his instincts screamed to shield her even when she didn’t want it.
Hell, the thought of losing her made something feral claw at his insides, hot and vicious and terrifyingly familiar.
Libby. He’d felt this before. The edge of fear sharpened by love. The need to control the uncontrollable. He’d sworn he’d never stand in this place again.
“Drop the supplies,” he said instead, voice low and tight.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“Drop them,” he repeated.
She stared at him for a long beat, searching his face like she might find an explanation written there. Then, slowly, she lowered the bags to the ground. Her eyes never left his.
“Why?” Ivy demanded.
Havoc didn’t answer, he simply kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle or careful. It was heat and frustration and fear colliding all at once, a desperate, reckless thing that tore out of him before he could stop it.
He fisted his hand in her jacket, dragging her flush against him, the kiss claiming and hungry and wrong in all the ways he couldn’t afford.
She made a small sound against his mouth, surprise melting into something darker, deeper.
She moved her hands up instinctively, gripping his cut, fingers digging in like she needed the anchor just as much as he did.
She kissed him back with equal intensity, lips soft and insistent, breath hitching as the world tilted.
For a heartbeat, everything else disappeared. The taste of her and the press of her body. The way his chest ached with the want of it, sharp and consuming.
Then reality crashed back in. It slammed into him full force, dragging memory and consequence along with it like barbed wire. Havoc tore himself away, lungs burning, breath coming rough and uneven like he’d just surfaced from deep water.
For one brutal second, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes shut, every muscle locked tight as if he could physically hold himself in place long enough to regain control. Her warmth still clung to him. Her breath brushed his mouth. The echo of her taste lingered, cruel and vivid.
He could already feel the old fear rearing its head, sharp and insistent. He’d sworn he would never stand on this edge again, never let himself want something that could be ripped away. Not again.
Havoc forced himself back, putting space between them like a barrier, even though every instinct in him protested. He couldn’t go through this again. Havoc knew his limits. He knew what loving someone cost him.
He’d survived once, barely. It had taken years to stitch himself back together, and some pieces had never fit right again. He couldn’t survive it a second time.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
Ivy swayed slightly, eyes dark, lips parted, breath uneven. “What was that?”
A mistake, his head screamed. A dangerous one.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” he said instead.
Her expression shifted instantly, hurt flashing hot and fast. “You kissed me.”
“I know,” he said, jaw tight. “And I shouldn’t have.”
She crossed her arms, anger snapping back into place, sharper now because it was wounded.
“Then don’t do that again,” she snapped. “Not if you don’t mean it.”
Havoc nodded stiffly. “You’re right.”
He bent down, grabbed her supplies, and thrust them into her arms more roughly than necessary, like he needed the physical movement to keep himself grounded. “Get back to the compound. I’ll follow.”
“I don’t need—” Ivy started.
“I’m not asking,” he cut in, the edge in his voice leaving no room for argument.
Their gazes locked again, tension crackling thick and unresolved between them.
“Later,” he added, voice lower now, controlled but strained. “We’ll talk later.”
She held his gaze for another second, something unreadable passing between them, then turned and walked toward her car without another word.