Chapter 4 - Hellfire
The food's good, the mood's light despite the heavy conversation we just had, but I can't focus on anything except the warmth of her thigh under my palm. Chloe keeps shooting me these little glances when she thinks I'm not looking, a blush creeping up her neck every time I squeeze gently.
"So," she says quietly, leaning closer to me, "this isn't quite what I expected from a biker dinner."
I smirk, noting how she unconsciously shifts toward me.
"What did you expect? Raw meat and bar fights?"
"Something like that," she admits, and I catch the scent of her perfume – jasmine again. "Instead, I'm eating homemade spicy food while your VP discusses Sunday dinner with his mother."
Sure enough, Butcher's voice carries down the table. "Angel, any chance I could get some of this to go? Mom would love it on Sunday."
"You still doing those Sunday visits, old man?" Crow laughs, reaching for another beer.
Butcher's expression turns serious. "All the strength and power in the world don't mean shit if you leave behind the people who matter, brother. Mom's all I got."
"I'll pack you some extra," Angel says warmly. "Maybe throw in those cookies she likes too."
I watch Chloe's reaction – surprise, then something softer. She's seeing the family side of us, the brotherhood. Not the side that puts bullets in people who cross us. Not the violence that keeps our territory safe.
She's seeing Butcher, the fierce Vice-President, planning Sunday dinner with his elderly mother. Crow, who'd kill for any of us without hesitation, teasing like a brother.
Movement catches my eye – Ruthless leaning way too close to Angel, whispering something that makes my daughter smile. My grip on Chloe's thigh tightens unconsciously.
Angel's grown and can handle herself, but seeing Ruthless's hand brush her arm makes my trigger finger itch. He has been my brother since our time in the military. He’s good in a fight and loyal to the club, but Angel... that's different territory.
"Your daughter seems close to..." Chloe hesitates, clearly trying to remember names.
"Ruthless," I finish, probably more sharply than necessary. "Yeah, I've noticed."
She picks up on my tone. "Not happy about it?"
"Not the time to discuss it." But I make a mental note to have a chat with Ruthless soon. Very soon. Maybe remind him why they call me Hellfire.
"It must be hard," she says softly, "being both a father and a club president."
There's no judgment there, just genuine curiosity. Most people see the patches, the scars, the reputation. She's looking deeper.
"Everything worth doing is hard, sweetheart."
"Is that why you're helping these people?" she asks. "The trafficking victims? Because it's hard but worth doing?"
Clever girl. I study her face, the earnest expression, the intelligence behind those green eyes.
"We might be criminals," I tell her, "but we have a code. What the Outlaws are doing... that crosses every line. There are things you don't do, no matter what side of the law you're on."
"Like what happened to Mark?" she asks.
"Kid was family. You don't hurt family. You don't traffic innocent people. And you don't let bastards like the Outlaws think they can get away with either."
She nods, then surprises me by placing her hand over mine on her thigh. The touch is gentle, almost comforting.
"Thank you for trusting me with this."
"Don't make me regret it."
"I won't." Her green eyes hold mine, and for a moment, everything else fades away – the noisy dinner, Angel's flirting, the war brewing outside.
It's just her, and the way she's looking at me like she sees past the scars and the violence to something else.
Across the table, someone drops a fork, and I notice several knowing looks being exchanged. My men aren't stupid – they can see what's happening here, even if I'm not ready to name it myself.
Butcher clears his throat beside me, breaking the moment.
"Boss, think it's time to show our new friend the evidence?"
Right. The evidence. The reason she's here. Not because of how she feels under my hand, or how her eyes seem to get darker when I'm close, or how she hasn't once flinched away from my touch.
"Yeah," I say, reluctantly removing my hand from her thigh. "Time for your education to begin, sweetheart."
But as I stand to lead her to my office, I can't help but wonder who's really getting educated here – her about our world or me about how dangerous a curvy journalist with brave eyes can be to a man like me. Either way, I have a feeling there's no going back now.
"My office," I tell her, placing my hand on her back as I guide her through the dining room.
The touch is unnecessary, but I'm finding it harder to keep my hands off her.
"Bring those files from the storage," I tell Butcher, who nods and heads off in another direction.
The walk to my office is short, but I'm acutely aware of every step, every breath, every slight movement of her body under my palm. She hesitates at the doorway, probably remembering our last encounter here.
"Different circumstances this time," I say, reading her thoughts.
"Is it?" She turns those green eyes on me. "Last time you were deciding whether to let me live. Now you're trusting me with information that could get me killed."
Smart girl. Too smart, maybe.
"The difference," I step closer, enjoying how she breathes deeply, "is that now you're under my protection."
"Your protection seems to involve a lot of touching," she whispers but doesn't move away.
"Problem with that, sweetheart?"
Before she can answer, Butcher appears with a stack of files. He seems to notice our proximity, but he doesn't comment.
"Everything we have on their operation," he says, placing the files on my desk. "Going back two months."
"Thanks," I say, not moving back from Chloe. "That'll be all."
Butcher's lips twitch like he's suppressing a smile. "Sure thing, Boss. I'll make sure no one disturbs you while you... brief our new ally."
Once he's gone, Chloe lets out a breath. "He thinks..."
"He thinks a lot of things," I cut her off, finally stepping away to round my desk. "Most of them probably true."
A blush creeps up her neck again, and I find myself wanting to trace it with my fingers, my lips... I push the thought away.
"Sit," I gesture to the chair across from me. "Time to show you what we're really up against."
She sits, pulling out her notebook, and just like that, she's all business.
"Tell me everything."
And I do. For the next hour, I lay out everything we know about the Outlaws' operation: the shipping schedules, the front companies, the cops who might have been bribed or threatened. She takes detailed notes, asking sharp questions that tell me she's already forming the story in her mind.
"This is bigger than I thought," she finally says, looking at the evidence spread across my desk. "Much bigger."
"Too big for you?" I smirk, watching her reaction.
She ignores my teasing and lifts her chin, that fire I first saw in her blazing again.
"No. But I'll need time to verify everything independently. Cross-reference the shipping manifests, track down the companies..."
"You'll have whatever you need," I tell her. "But you don't do anything without clearing it with me first. The Outlaws have eyes and ears everywhere."
"You care about my safety that much?" she asks, a hint of teasing in her voice.
I fix her with a hard look.
"Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I barely know you." The words come out harsher than intended, but it's better this way. "What I care about is making sure the Outlaws get what's coming to them. Can't do that if they kill my journalist before she writes the story."
"Your journalist?" She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying my attempt at detachment.
"Club asset," I correct myself, leaning back in my chair. "Nothing more."
She studies me for a moment, those green eyes too perceptive for my liking.
"Is that why your hand was on my thigh all through dinner? Because I'm a club asset?"
Damn her for calling me out. "You trying to make something of this, little girl?"
"No," she says, standing up and gathering her notes. "Just wondering why a man who 'barely knows me' seems so intent on touching me every chance he gets."
The challenge in her voice makes something stir inside me – something dangerous, something I need to keep in check. I rise too, coming around the desk to tower over her. Part of me wants to show her exactly why they call me Hellfire, but another part knows that would be a mistake. She's not some club groupie or casual distraction. She's...complicated.
"Careful, sweetheart. You're playing with fire."
"Am I?" she whispers. "Playing with fire?"
Before I can stop myself, my hand is on her chin, tilting her face up until those green eyes meet mine. This close, I can see her pulse hammering in her throat, feel her quick breaths against my chest. My bulge throbs, and I know she can tell – her eyes darken as they drop briefly to where my jeans are getting uncomfortably tight.
Fuck. I'm the president of Iron & Blood MC. I've built a reputation on control, on never showing weakness. Yet here I am, practically panting over a curvy journalist half my age.
I force myself to step back, dropping my hand. "It's getting late. I'll drive you home."
"Actually..." she bites her lip, and the gesture nearly breaks my resolve. "Could we maybe take your bike instead?"
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. "Why?"
A shy smile plays across her lips. "I've never been on a motorcycle before. The adrenaline must be incredible."
"Adrenaline junkie, are you?" I can't help but smirk. "That explains a lot about why you were hiding behind my dumpster."
"So?" She looks up at me, eyes wide with hope. "Will you take me?"
The double meaning in her words isn't lost on me, and from her blush, she realizes it, too. I should say no. Should keep my distance, keep this professional. But the thought of her pressed against my back, arms wrapped around me...
"Fine," I growl. "But you follow my instructions exactly. And we're not discussing this with anyone else."
Her face lights up, and something in my chest tightens. My heart actually skips a beat at her excited expression, and I curse internally. This situation is dangerous – she's dangerous.
Not because she's a journalist who could expose our operations but because of how she makes me feel. How she makes me want things I haven't enjoyed in years.
"Let me grab you a jacket," I say, moving toward the door before I can do something stupid like pull her back against me. "It gets cold on the bike."
As we walk out of the office, the bar goes quiet again. Crow and Wrath, the troublemaking brothers, are practically giggling like schoolgirls, but one look from me keeps their mouths shut. They might be two of my best fighters, but they know better than to push me right now.
Angel catches my eye from behind the bar, giving me an exaggerated wink. I shake my head at her. She's been on my case for years about "settling down," trying to set me up with every single woman she deems worthy of her father.
She must be loving this – the big bad Hellfire escorting a pretty young thing to his bike.
But watching Chloe practically bounce with excitement as we head toward my bike, I find myself not giving a damn about their reactions. Let them think what they want.
Right now, all I care about is the way she's looking at my Harley like it's Christmas morning.