Chapter Eight
Jackson stood at the edge of the kitchen table, the burner phone pressed tight to his ear.
The voice on the other end confirmed what he already knew deep in his bones.
Whitaker had eyes on Larkin's mother now.
The crooked councilman wasn't finished with his threats, and the next move would cut straight at the journalist's heart.
Jackson ended the call without another word and turned to face Larkin.
She sat with her hands wrapped around a cooling mug of coffee, her shoulders drawn tight.
The bruises on her face had darkened overnight, but it was the look in her eyes that stopped him cold.
Fear lived there now, raw and unfiltered, and it did something to his chest that no fight ever had.
"We need to get your mom out of town," he said.
His voice came out low, steady, the same tone he used when the club faced down trouble.
Larkin looked up at him. The cup shook slightly in her grip before she set it down. "How fast can we move her?"
"Tonight," Jackson answered. He crossed the room and crouched in front of her, resting one hand on her knee. "I already have brothers on the way to her house. We'll take her somewhere quiet, somewhere Whitaker's people won't look. But we do it clean. No drama, no noise."
She nodded once, but the motion looked mechanical.
Her usual fire had dimmed, replaced by the kind of worry that made her journalist instincts useless.
Jackson stayed close, letting his thumb trace slow circles over her knee through the denim.
He hated seeing her like this. The woman who had faced down club presidents and corrupt cops now sat frozen by the thought of her mother in danger.
They left the clubhouse two hours later.
Jackson drove the truck while Larkin stared out the passenger window, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag.
The streets of Silverlake passed in a blur of familiar storefronts and quiet neighborhoods.
Jackson kept one eye on the mirrors, watching for tails, but the route stayed clear.
He had chosen a back way out of town that avoided the main roads Whitaker's men would watch.
Larkin's mother lived in a small white house at the edge of the older residential section.
Two prospects already waited in the driveway when they pulled up.
The older woman stood on the porch with a single suitcase at her feet, her expression calm despite the sudden change in plans.
Larkin rushed up the steps and pulled her mother into a tight hug.
Jackson stayed back, giving them the moment, but his gaze never left the street.
They loaded the suitcase into the truck bed and helped Larkin's mother into the back seat.
The drive to the safe house took them through Silverlake Park on the outskirts of town.
Jackson chose the route deliberately, hoping the open space would make any tail obvious.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the empty playground and the winding paths that cut through the trees.
A patrol car appeared in his rearview mirror near the park entrance.
Jackson's jaw tightened. He recognized the driver from years ago, a beat cop who had grown up on the same streets as Jackson before choosing the badge.
The man had always walked a thin line between the law and the people who paid better on the side.
Tonight the uniform looked wrong on him.
Jackson pulled the truck into a small lot near the playground and killed the engine. The patrol car stopped twenty feet away. The officer stepped out slowly, one hand resting on his holster. Larkin went rigid in her seat. Jackson reached over and squeezed her hand once before opening his door.
"Stay here," he told her, voice calm but firm. "This won't take long."
He walked toward the officer, boots crunching on the gravel. The man watched him approach with a wary look that Jackson remembered from their shared past. They had once run the same alleys as kids, though life had sent them in opposite directions since then.
"Reed," the officer said. "Didn't expect to see you out this way."
"Cut the shit, Miller," Jackson replied. "We both know why you're here. Whitaker sent you to watch the house. You tell him the woman and her mother are off limits. Anyone who touches them answers to me and the club."
Miller's hand stayed near his weapon, but his eyes flicked toward the truck. He seemed to weigh his options against the weight of Jackson's reputation. The Bastard Kings did not make idle threats, and everyone in Silverlake knew what happened to people who crossed the vice president.
"This is bigger than you, Reed," Miller said after a long pause. "Whitaker's got the department in his pocket. You keep pushing and you'll find yourself on the wrong end of a warrant."
Jackson took one step closer, his frame blocking the fading light. "Try it. See how fast the club buries every dirty secret you and your boss have. Now get back in your car and drive away before I decide you're not worth the warning."
The standoff stretched between them. Miller's fingers flexed once near the holster before he lowered his hand. He gave a single nod, turned, and climbed into the patrol car. The engine started with a low rumble, and the car pulled out of the lot without another word.
Jackson returned to the truck and slid behind the wheel. Larkin's mother sat quiet in the back, her face pale but composed. Larkin reached for his arm the moment he closed the door, her fingers gripping tight. "Is it over?" she asked.
"For now," he said. He started the engine and pulled back onto the road, putting distance between them and the park. The rest of the drive passed in silence broken only by the occasional direction from Larkin as they navigated to the safe house outside city limits.
Once her mother was settled inside with two prospects standing guard, Larkin finally let the tension break.
She stepped onto the front porch and covered her face with both hands.
Jackson followed her out, closing the door behind them to give her mother privacy.
The night air felt cool against his skin, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain.
Larkin turned into his chest without warning.
Her shoulders shook once, then again, the first real tears she had allowed herself in days.
Jackson wrapped his arms around her and held her close, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other stroked slow lines down her spine.
He had never been good with words in moments like this, but he stayed solid, letting her lean into him until the shaking eased.
"I won't let them touch her," he murmured against her hair. "Or you. Whitaker wants a war, he'll get one. I'll burn every street in this town before I let that bastard reach your family again."
She lifted her face to look at him. The fear still lingered in her eyes, but something else had joined it. Trust. The kind that came hard and stayed rare. Jackson brushed a thumb across her damp cheek, then lowered his mouth to hers.
The kiss started gentle, a quiet promise in the middle of the chaos.
Then heat flared between them, the same fierce need that had burned through every encounter since the first night.
Larkin's hands slid under his shirt, nails dragging across his back as she pressed closer.
Jackson backed her against the porch railing, his body shielding her from the cool night air while his mouth claimed hers with growing hunger.
They moved inside the small guest cabin attached to the main house, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
Clothes came off in hurried motions, landing in a scattered trail across the wooden floor.
Jackson lifted her onto the narrow bed and followed her down, his weight settling over her in the way she had come to crave.
His hands mapped every bruise and curve with careful pressure, turning each touch into something that grounded them both in the present.
Larkin arched beneath him, her legs wrapping around his hips as he pushed inside her.
The connection felt deeper than before, stripped of the barriers they had once kept between them.
She met every thrust with the same urgency, her breath hitching when his hand slid between them to find the spot that made her tighten around him.
Jackson kept his pace steady, driving her higher until she came with a broken sound against his shoulder.
He followed soon after, burying his face in her neck as the release rolled through him.
For several minutes they stayed locked together, skin damp and hearts still racing.
Jackson rolled to his side and pulled her against his chest, one arm draped over her waist. Outside, the night settled over the safe house, quiet and watchful.
Across town, in the house Sinner shared with Annabelle, the president stood in the kitchen with a glass of whiskey untouched on the counter.
Annabelle moved around him, her steps careful, one hand resting lightly on the small curve of her stomach.
She had told him the news earlier that evening, and the weight of it still hung between them.
"You're worried," she said, pausing beside him. "I can see it in the way you keep checking the windows."
Sinner set the glass down without drinking. "Larkin ran into Vipers last night. Jackson barely got her out. Now Whitaker's circling closer, and I have you and the baby to think about."
Annabelle reached for his hand and placed it over the gentle swell beneath her shirt. "I know you want to wrap us in bulletproof glass, but I can take care of myself. The baby too. I've been doing it long enough to know my own strength."
He looked down at their joined hands, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles.
The argument sat between them, familiar and unresolved, but the love that held them together stayed stronger than the fear.
Sinner pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and for a moment the world outside their door felt distant.
Back at the safe house, Larkin lay awake in Jackson's arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The extraction had worked. Her mother was safe. Yet the fight ahead stretched long and uncertain, and she knew the next move would demand everything they had left to give.