2. Reyes
Reyes
The ride to the safehouse takes twenty minutes, and every second of it tests my self-control.
Shannon’s body is pressed against my back, her arms wrapped around my waist to keep herself and the kid steady.
Her thighs bracket my hips, and even through denim and leather, I feel the heat of her.
Every time I take a turn or hit a bump, she tightens her grip, and it’s all I can do to keep my mind on the road.
This is a complication I don’t need. A woman running from trouble is the kind of problem that gets a man killed. Smart thing would be to drop her at a shelter, maybe slip her some cash, and walk away clean.
But when she mentioned the kid being hungry, when I saw how she rocked him and whispered promises she might not be able to keep—hell. I’ve never been accused of being smart.
The safehouse sits about five miles outside Jackson Ridge, tucked back in the trees where nobody goes looking.
The club uses it for business that needs to stay off the books—witness protection of sorts, though the kind of witnesses we deal with aren’t talking to cops.
It’s not fancy, but it’s secure and stocked with everything someone might need to lay low for a while.
I kill the engine and help Shannon climb off first, then lift the kid down.
He’s still half-asleep, clinging to his mother like a monkey.
A normal kid would be excited about the motorcycle ride, asking a million questions.
This one just accepts it all with the kind of quiet that comes from learning not to make waves.
That pisses me off more than it should.
“Come on,” I say, fishing keys from my pocket. “Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”
The interior’s clean and functional—a real bed with decent linens, a kitchen table with four chairs, a couch that doesn’t look like it came from a dumpster.
The club keeps the place stocked with basics, and Tank makes sure it stays in good condition.
We’ve put up witnesses here, informants, sometimes club family when things get hot.
It’s meant for people who need to disappear for a while.
Shannon steps inside and immediately starts cataloging exits, angles, potential weapons. Smart woman.
Under the warm light, Shannon looks even smaller than she did in the freight yard.
Maybe five-foot-four in boots, with long golden brown braids that catch the light.
Her skin is that warm mahogany brown that speaks of mixed heritage, and even exhausted and scared, she’s beautiful in a way that hollows out my chest.
Beautiful, and marked.
There’s a bruise along her left cheekbone, faded to yellow-green but still visible. Another one circles her right wrist like a bracelet. Could be from anything—a fall, an accident, rough handling during whatever sent her running.
Or someone put hands on her.
My jaw clenches before I can stop it. I don’t know what happened, but I’ve got theories. And if those theories are right, whoever’s chasing her is going to have a real bad day when I meet him.
“Bathroom’s through there,” I manage, nodding toward the back corner. “Towels are clean. Water gets hot if you give it a minute.”
Shannon nods, still holding the kid. “Thank you.”
“Kitchen’s stocked with basics. Canned soup, sandwich stuff, whatever you need. Help yourself.”
“We’re fine.”
“No, you’re not.” The words come out harder than I intended, and she flinches. I force my voice level. “When’s the last time either of you had a hot meal?”
She lifts her chin, and I catch a glimpse of the fire that’s been keeping her going. “We’ll manage.”
“I’m sure you will. But you don’t have to. Not tonight.”
For a moment, something flickers across her face—hope, maybe, or just bone-deep exhaustion. Then the walls go back up, and she’s all business again.
“Where should we…?” She gestures around the space.
“Bed’s yours. I’ll take the couch.” The bed’s a queen, plenty big enough for her and the kid. The couch isn’t much, but I’ve slept in worse places. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She nods, then carries the kid toward the bathroom. She moves carefully as she goes, like everything hurts but she’s not about to admit it. The kid hasn’t said a word since we got here, just watches everything with those too-old eyes.
Someone’s hunting them. Someone with enough reach to make a woman this careful, this scared. Someone who thinks he’s got a claim on what isn’t his.
I don’t know the details yet, but I will. Shannon’s going to tell me everything, even if I have to drag it out of her one word at a time. Because whatever bastard put those bruises on her face is going to answer for it.
And if he shows up looking for what he thinks is his, he’s going to find out exactly why they call me Savior.
It’s past midnight when I hear her moving around in the kitchen.
I’ve been lying on the couch for hours, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the safehouse settling. The kid’s been asleep since his head hit the pillow, but Shannon’s been restless. Tossing, turning, getting up to check the locks every hour like clockwork.
I get it. When you’re running, sleep feels like surrender.
I pad to the kitchen in bare feet. She’s standing at the counter with her back to me.
She’s changed into an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her thighs, and her braids are loose around her shoulders.
In the dim light filtering through the window, she looks younger.
Vulnerable in a way that makes something protective flare in my chest.
“Can’t sleep?”
She jumps, spinning around with her hand pressed to her heart. “Jesus. You move like a ghost.”
“Occupational hazard.” I lean against the doorframe, keeping my distance. She’s skittish enough without me crowding her. “You hungry? I could heat up some soup.”
“I’m fine.”
“Right. That’s why you’re standing in a dark kitchen at midnight looking like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
Her mouth twitches—almost a smile. “I’m not used to… this.”
“What? Indoor plumbing?”
“Kindness from strangers.”
The simple honesty in those words hits harder than it should. I move to the stove, pulling down a can of soup and a pot. “You want to tell me what you’re running from?”
Silence stretches between us while I work. Shannon stays by the counter, arms wrapped around herself like armor. When the soup starts to simmer, she finally speaks.
“It wasn’t an accident.” Her voice is so quiet I almost miss it. “Aiden’s arm. It wasn’t an accident.”
I keep stirring, keeping my movements calm and steady. “I know.”
“You know?”
“The way you positioned yourself when I asked about it. The way you answered. Nobody talks about a playground accident like they’re confessing to murder.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “He’s coming.”
Two words that tell me everything and nothing. “Who?”
“Someone who thinks he owns me.” Her laugh is bitter, broken. “Someone who doesn’t like being told no.”
I pour the soup into two bowls, slide one across the counter to her. “How long were you together?”
“Two months.” She wraps her hands around the bowl like it’s an anchor. “We dated for two months, and he thought that gave him the right to make decisions about my son.”
Two months. Hell. I’ve had one-night stands that lasted longer than that.
“What kind of decisions?”
Shannon’s grip tightens on the bowl. “Discipline. Structure. All the things a boy needs, according to him.” Her voice goes flat, detached. “Aiden spilled juice on his uniform. Accident. Just being three years old. But that was disrespectful, apparently. Required correction.”
The rage that fills me is white-hot and instant. I set my spoon down carefully, afraid I’ll break something if I keep holding it. “So you left.”
“So I left.” She takes a sip of soup, hands shaking slightly. “Packed everything I could carry and ran.”
“Good.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “Good?”
“You protected your kid. That’s what a good mother does.”
Tears well up in her eyes, and she blinks them back furiously. “He says I’m overreacting. That it was just discipline, that I’m too soft on Aiden. That if I don’t come back, he’ll make sure I lose custody.”
“He can try.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. “But threats are just words unless he’s got the power to back them up.”
Shannon’s laugh is hollow. “He’s military police. He’s got friends, connections, authority. I’m a single mother with no money and no family. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
That explains the reach, the confidence. Guys like that think the uniform makes them untouchable. Think it gives them the right to push around anyone who can’t push back.
They’re usually right.
“You expecting him to find you here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He’s resourceful.” She sets the bowl down, barely touched. “I keep thinking I should keep running, but my car’s dead and I’ve got eighteen dollars and a three-year-old who doesn’t understand why we can’t go home.”
“You expecting me to throw you out?”
She meets my eyes for the first time since she started talking. “Aren’t you?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe relief. “Why?”
Because someone should have helped you sooner. Because that kid deserves better than to grow up afraid. Because the way you fought for him reminds me of someone I used to know.
“Let me worry about that,” I say instead.
We finish the soup in silence, her confession a raw nerve between us. When she gets up to wash the bowls, I watch her move around the small kitchen like she belongs here. Like this could be normal, domestic, safe.
It’s a dangerous thought.
“Shannon?”
She turns, hands still dripping from the sink.
“You did the right thing. Leaving. Protecting him. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Her smile is small and sad and beautiful. “Thank you.”