Chapter Three
Jackson kept to the shadows across the street from the bar, his massive frame half-hidden behind a rusted pickup truck.
The neon sign above the door flickered and buzzed, casting a sickly red glow over the cracked sidewalk.
He had followed Larkin here after the prospect called in her location, and now his gut twisted with a mix of anger and something hotter.
She had no business walking into a place like this alone, especially not with the Vipers circling.
Through the grimy front window he could see her.
Larkin sat at a corner table, her auburn curls loose tonight, glasses perched on her nose as she leaned toward a nervous-looking man in a cheap suit.
Her notebook lay open between them. Jackson's jaw clenched.
The informant had the twitchy look of someone ready to bolt, but Larkin kept pressing, her sharp green eyes locked on his face.
Two men in Viper cuts pushed through the front door a few minutes later.
They were young, prospects by the looks of them, all swagger and bad decisions.
Jackson's hands curled into fists at his sides.
He watched them spot Larkin and change course, their grins ugly under the dim lights.
They slid into the booth beside her without asking, one on each side, boxing her in.
Larkin's shoulders stiffened, but she did not shrink.
Jackson could not hear the words, but he saw her mouth move, that quick, biting tone he already knew too well.
One of the prospects leaned closer, his hand brushing her arm.
She said something sharp enough to make the man pull back, but the second one laughed and reached for her notebook.
She moved fast. Her knee came up hard under the table, catching the reaching hand with a force that made the prospect curse loud enough for the sound to carry outside.
Jackson's chest tightened with a fierce kind of pride even as worry flooded him.
She could handle herself, but two against one was never fair odds.
A third man stepped out of the back hallway, older and meaner, a knife already in his hand.
He moved toward Larkin's table with purpose, and Jackson was already crossing the street before he realized he had decided to move.
The door banged open under his palm. The smell of stale beer and sweat hit him first, then the low murmur of voices that died as heads turned his way.
Jackson's eyes locked on the man with the knife.
"Back off," he growled, voice low and edged with the kind of promise that made smart men listen.
The prospect nearest Larkin tried to stand, but Jackson was faster.
His fist connected with the man's jaw in a clean, brutal arc.
Bone met bone with a sickening crack. The second prospect lunged, and Jackson caught him by the throat, slamming him back against the booth hard enough to rattle the table.
The man with the knife came in low, blade flashing.
Jackson twisted aside, grabbed the wrist, and twisted until the knife clattered to the floor.
He drove his knee into the man's gut, then followed with an elbow to the temple that dropped him like a sack of bricks.
Blood smeared the dirty floor. The two prospects groaned and stayed down, faces pale under the bruises already forming.
Larkin stared up at him, chest rising fast, notebook clutched tight against her. "I had it handled," she said, voice tight but steady.
"Bullshit." Jackson grabbed her arm, not rough but firm, and hauled her toward the door. "We're leaving. Now."
She yanked back once, but he did not let go. Outside the air felt cooler, cleaner. He dragged her across the street to where his bike waited, then turned and shoved her against the seat with controlled force. His body caged hers without quite touching, his blue eyes blazing.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded. "That bar is Viper territory. You walk in there alone and you might as well paint a target on your back."
Larkin's chin lifted. "I was getting information. Real information. The kind your club seems too busy flexing muscle to bother with."
"Information that almost got you carved up." Jackson's voice dropped lower, rougher. "You think those three were the only ones watching? Whitaker's got eyes everywhere, and the Vipers are happy to do his dirty work."
She shoved at his chest, and the contact sent heat straight through him. "I don't need you riding in like some leather-clad savior. I can take care of myself."
"Not tonight you couldn't." He leaned closer, breath brushing her temple. "Get on the bike. We're going to your place. This conversation isn't finished."
Larkin glared at him for a long moment, then swung her leg over the seat with a muttered curse.
Jackson climbed on in front of her, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
The roar filled the night. Her arms came around his waist, her body pressed tight against his back, and every curve of her registered like a brand.
The ride to her apartment passed in tense silence.
Jackson's mind raced between fury at the danger she had put herself in and the sharp, unwanted pull he felt every time she touched him.
By the time he killed the engine outside her building, the tension had coiled so tight in his chest he could barely breathe around it.
Inside, the apartment was small and cluttered with books. Shelves lined every wall, papers stacked on the coffee table, a half-empty coffee mug beside her laptop. Larkin dropped her keys on the counter and rounded on him the second the door shut.
"You had no right to drag me out of there. That informant was about to give me names, dates, everything. Now he's probably long gone."
Jackson slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the cramped space. "He was setting you up. The Vipers knew you were coming. That whole meet was a trap."
Her eyes widened for a split second before narrowing again. "You don't know that."
"I do." He stepped closer, boots heavy on the worn floorboards. "I've seen their work before. They send the young ones in first to rattle the target, then the knife comes out. You were lucky I showed when I did."
Larkin threw her notebook onto the couch. "Lucky? I was handling it until you charged in swinging. Now I have no lead, no story, and three very pissed-off Vipers who know my face."
Jackson moved fast. He crossed the remaining distance in two strides and slammed his palm flat against the wall beside her head.
The sound cracked through the room. Larkin froze, back pressed to the wall, green eyes locked on his.
Her breath came quick and shallow. The space between them shrank until he could smell the vanilla on her skin again, mixed with the sharp tang of adrenaline.
"You put yourself in danger," he said quietly, voice like gravel dragged over steel. "Again. And I'm done watching it happen."
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. "What are you going to do about it?"
The question hung between them, heavy with everything they had not said since that first night at the clubhouse.
Jackson's gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again.
For one heartbeat he wanted to close the distance, to taste the defiance right off her tongue.
Instead he stayed exactly where he was, jaw tight, every muscle locked.
"Turn around," he ordered.
Larkin blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." His free hand settled at her hip, turning her firmly until she faced the wall. "Hands on the wall. You want to play with fire, darlin', you're going to learn the cost."
She hesitated, but her hands rose and pressed flat against the plaster. Jackson stepped in close behind her, his broad chest nearly touching her back. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, the slight tremble in her shoulders that was not fear.
"You put yourself at risk tonight," he said against her ear. "You ignored the warning I gave you. That ends here."
His hand slid down her side, then lower, gripping the curve of her ass through her jeans. Larkin sucked in a sharp breath but did not pull away. Jackson gave her one last chance to speak, to tell him to stop. When she stayed silent, he brought his palm down in a firm, measured slap.
The sound echoed. Larkin's body jerked forward, but she stayed in place. Jackson rubbed the spot he had struck, then delivered another, harder this time. Heat bloomed under his hand. He could feel her breathing change, the quick catch in her throat that told him everything he needed to know.
"Count," he said.
"One," she whispered.
Another slap, the sting sharp and deliberate. "Two."
Jackson worked methodically, each strike landing with precision, building heat and tension in equal measure.
Larkin's voice grew breathier with every number, her body arching back into his touch instead of away from it.
By the time she reached ten, her skin was warm beneath the denim, and the air in the apartment had grown thick with something electric and raw.
He pressed closer, his hardness unmistakable against her. "You understand now?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, Sir."
Jackson's hand slid around to her stomach, holding her steady against him. The submission in her voice hit him harder than any punch. He had known there was fire in her, but this, the way she bent under his control while still burning, lit something deep and possessive in his chest.
"Good girl," he murmured against her neck. His beard brushed her skin, and she shivered. "Next time you decide to chase a lead, you come to me first. No more solo missions. No more putting yourself in the line of fire without backup."
Larkin nodded, cheek pressed to the wall. "I understand."