Chapter Six
Jackson didn't wait for backup. He didn't call Sinner or round up the brothers like protocol demanded.
Something inside him had snapped the moment he saw Larkin's blood on that notebook, and now the only thing driving him was the need to reach her before the Vipers could break what little the world hadn't already taken.
He followed the old rail line on foot until the tracks veered toward an abandoned stretch of industrial lots.
The map in his head, the one built from years of enforcing club territory, pointed him toward a basement bunker the Vipers had used before. Tonight it would become their grave.
The night air burned cold in his lungs as he moved between rusted shipping containers and chain link fences.
His boots made almost no sound. Every instinct he had honed as an enforcer, before he became the club VP, now sharpened into something far more lethal.
He reached the concrete stairwell that dropped into the earth beneath an old mechanic's shop and paused only long enough to listen.
Voices drifted upward, low and cruel. One of them belonged to Hawk Landry.
Jackson descended without hesitation. The first Viper stood guard at the bottom landing, a wiry kid who barely had time to turn before Jackson's fist connected with his throat.
The kid dropped without a sound. Jackson caught him and lowered him quietly to the floor, then moved deeper into the dim corridor.
Two more guards waited near a metal door.
One reached for his gun. Jackson slammed the man's head into the concrete wall hard enough to crack bone, then drove his elbow into the second guard's sternum.
The fight lasted seconds. The bodies stayed down.
He pushed through the door and found himself in a low-ceilinged room lit by a single bare bulb.
Larkin sat tied to a metal chair in the center of the space, her wrists bound behind her, a cut along her cheekbone still bleeding.
Hawk Landry circled her slowly, that same sick grin twisting his face, taunting Larkin with all the things he would do to her once Whitaker was done questioning her.
Two other Vipers stood near the walls, arms crossed, enjoying the show.
"You really thought you could steal from us and walk away?" Hawk's voice rasped like sandpaper. "Whitaker wants you alive for now. But he didn't say anything about keeping you pretty."
Larkin lifted her chin even though her lip was split. "Go to hell, you meth-head piece of shit."
Hawk laughed and backhanded her across the face. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. Jackson's vision went white at the edges.
He stepped fully into the light. "Step away from her."
Every head turned. Hawk's eyes widened for half a second before that grin returned, meaner now. "Well look who finally showed up. Jackson Reed, the big bad VP. A little late to the party, ain't you?"
Jackson didn't answer. He moved straight for the nearest Viper, grabbed him by the cut, and drove a knee into his gut so hard the man folded.
The second Viper pulled a knife. Jackson caught his wrist, twisted until the blade clattered to the floor, then drove his forehead into the man's nose.
Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed across the concrete.
Hawk lunged forward and tackled Jackson from the side.
They hit the ground hard, rolling across dirty concrete while fists flew.
Hawk landed a solid punch to Jackson's ribs, then another to his jaw.
Pain flared bright and hot, but the sharp sting only fed the fire in his chest, sending a fresh surge of adrenaline rushing through his veins.
He got his forearm under Hawk's chin and shoved upward until the man gagged.
Then he rolled them both and drove his elbow into Hawk's sternum with everything he had.
Hawk gasped for air. Jackson hauled him up by the front of his cut and slammed him backward into the nearest wall.
Plaster cracked. Hawk's head bounced off the surface and he sagged, eyes rolling.
Jackson didn't stop. He drove his fist into Hawk's stomach once, twice, then grabbed him by the hair and hurled him sideways.
Hawk's body crashed through the rotted drywall into the next room, disappearing in a cloud of dust and splintered wood.
The remaining Vipers were already down or running.
Jackson didn't chase them. He turned back to Larkin and dropped to his knees in front of her chair.
His hands shook as he worked at the ropes binding her wrists.
The knots were tight. He had to force his fingers to cooperate.
When the last rope finally fell away, Larkin sagged forward into his arms. He caught her carefully, pulling her against his chest like she might break if he held her too hard.
"I got you," he said against her hair. "You're safe now."
She didn't answer right away. Her body trembled against him, whether from adrenaline or pain he couldn't tell. When she finally spoke her voice came out hoarse. "Took you long enough, Reed."
Jackson almost laughed. Almost. Instead he pressed his forehead to hers and breathed her in, the scent of her skin and the faint trace of blood mixing into something that made his chest ache.
He helped her to her feet, kept one arm around her waist, and guided her toward the corridor.
They stepped over the bodies he'd left behind without looking back.
Outside, the night had grown colder. Jackson led her to a beat-up truck he'd hot-wired earlier and helped her into the passenger seat.
She didn't protest when he reached across and buckled her in.
The safe house sat on the far edge of Silverlake where the trees grew thick and the road turned to gravel.
Jackson had kept the place for years, a single-story cabin hidden behind a wall of pines.
No one in the club knew about it. He pulled the truck around back and killed the engine.
For a long moment neither of them moved.
The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight was fading, leaving something raw and unsteady in its place.
He got out first and came around to her side.
When he opened the door she looked up at him with those sharp green eyes, and something inside him cracked open completely.
He lifted her into his arms without asking.
She didn't fight him. Her head settled against his shoulder as he carried her inside, kicked the door shut behind them, and took her straight to the bedroom at the back of the cabin.
The room was small and simple. A large bed took up most of the space.
Jackson laid her down carefully, then straightened and looked at her.
Her clothes were torn. Bruises were already forming along her arms and one side of her face.
The sight of them made his hands curl into fists again.
He forced himself to breathe. She was alive. She was here. That had to be enough.
Larkin reached for him. Her fingers found the front of his cut and pulled.
Jackson went willingly, bracing his hands on either side of her on the mattress.
Their mouths met in something that wasn't gentle.
It was desperate. She tasted like blood and defiance and something he didn't have words for.
His hands moved over her torn shirt, pushing the fabric aside until he found warm skin beneath.
She arched up into his touch with a low sound that went straight through him.
He stripped the ruined clothes from her body with shaking hands.
Every new bruise he uncovered made something savage twist in his chest. He kissed each one, pressed his mouth to the marks Hawk had left, and let the rage fuel something else.
Something hotter. Something that demanded he claim her right here, right now, so the world would know she belonged to him and only him.
Larkin pulled at his clothes with equal urgency.
His cut hit the floor. His shirt followed.
When he finally settled between her thighs she was already reaching for him, guiding him where she needed him most. Jackson pushed inside her in one long, slow thrust that made them both groan.
For a moment he stayed perfectly still, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard.
Then she whispered his name and he started to move.
There was nothing careful about it. The relief of having her alive and whole beneath him mixed with the terror of almost losing her, and the combination burned away every ounce of restraint he'd ever possessed.
He drove into her with raw intensity, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangled in her hair.
She met him thrust for thrust, her nails digging into his back, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. Every sound she made drove him higher.
Every time she said his name like a prayer he felt something inside him shift permanently.
He marked her with his mouth, sucking bruises into the soft skin of her throat and shoulder.
She didn't protest. If anything she pulled him closer, urging him deeper, harder.
When her release hit she cried out and clenched around him so tightly he nearly lost control.
He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside her with a guttural sound that echoed off the cabin walls.
They stayed locked together for a long time afterward, hearts hammering against each other.
Jackson finally rolled to his side and pulled her with him, keeping her tucked against his chest. His hand stroked slowly down her back, tracing the line of her spine.
She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said quietly. The words came out rough. "When I saw your blood on that notebook I thought they had already..."
"They didn't," she whispered against his skin. "I'm here."
He tightened his hold on her. "You're not leaving my sight again. Not until this is over."
Larkin lifted her head and looked at him. There was something new in her eyes, something soft that hadn't been there before. "Is that an order, Sir?"
"It's a fact." He brushed a curl away from her face with surprising gentleness. "You're mine now. Whether you like it or not."
She studied him for a moment, then leaned in and kissed him slow and deep. When she pulled back she was smiling faintly. "I guess I can live with that."
They didn't speak much after that. The exhaustion of the night finally caught up with both of them.
Jackson pulled the blanket over their bodies and settled her against him.
Larkin's breathing evened out first. He stayed awake a while longer, watching the rise and fall of her chest, memorizing the feel of her in his arms. Somewhere in the distance a car passed on the main road.
The world outside still burned with danger and unfinished business.
Inside the cabin, for the first time in years, Jackson Reed let himself rest.
He found the ledger later, tucked inside the inner pocket of his cut where he'd shoved it during the fight.
The leather was worn and the pages were filled with the same coded numbers Larkin had described.
Proof. Real, tangible proof that could bring down Whitaker if they played it right.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight he had something more important to protect.
He set the ledger on the nightstand and pulled Larkin closer, letting sleep finally claim him.
Outside, the wind moved through the pines and carried the distant sound of motorcycles. The war had begun. But in this small, hidden room, two broken people had found something worth fighting for. Something that might just be strong enough to survive the fire coming for them both.