Jax & Knox (Iron Reapers MC: Bloodlines #6)

Chapter 1

ONE

AINSLEY REED

The first blow catches me across the cheekbone.

I don't see it coming, I never do, but I feel the explosion of pain that radiates through my skull like a lightning strike.

My head snaps to the side and I stumble backward, catching myself on the kitchen counter.

The edge digs into my lower back, sharp and unforgiving, but it's nothing compared to the throbbing in my face.

"You think you can just ignore me?" Justin's voice is low, controlled. That's the worst part. He never yells. Never loses his composure. He's a cop, after all. Cops don't lose control. They enforce it.

I press my palm against my cheek, feeling the heat already blooming under my skin. My eyes water but I blink the tears back. Crying only makes it worse.

"I wasn't ignoring you," I say quietly, keeping my voice steady. "I was feeding Owen. He was—"

"Don't." He steps closer, his uniform still crisp and pressed, his badge gleaming under the kitchen light.

He looks every inch the upstanding officer.

Clean-cut. Respectable. A pillar of the fucking community.

"Don't make excuses. You know what pisses me off more than you ignoring me? You lying about it."

"I'm not lying.”

His hand shoots out and grabs my jaw, fingers digging into the tender flesh. He forces my head up, making me look at him. His eyes are cold. Empty. Like looking into the void.

"You calling me a liar, Ainsley?"

My heart hammers against my ribs. "No."

"No, what ?"

I swallow hard, tasting copper. I must've bitten my tongue. "No, sir."

He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "That's my good girl."

Then he shoves me backward. I catch myself again, this time against the refrigerator. The magnets, cheap plastic letters Owen likes to play with, clatter to the floor.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" Justin adjusts his duty belt, checking his gun, his taser, his cuffs. All the tools of his trade. All the things that make him untouchable. "A fucking embarrassment. Can't even keep the house clean. Can't keep yourself together. Look at you."

I don't look. I know what I'd see. Greasy hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

Dark circles under my eyes. The same oversized hoodie I've been wearing for three days because it hides the bruises.

The stretch marks on my stomach that he loves to point out whenever he wants to remind me that no one else would ever want me.

"You're lucky I keep you around," he continues, his tone almost conversational now.

Like we're discussing the weather. "Lucky I didn't kick your ass to the curb the second you got knocked up.

You think anyone else would put up with your shit?

With his shit?" He jerks his chin toward the hallway, where Owen's room is.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. I can take a lot. I've taken a lot. But he doesn't get to talk about my son.

"Don't," I whisper.

Justin's eyes narrow. "Don't what?"

"Don't talk about Owen."

For a second, I think he's going to hit me again. His jaw tightens, his shoulders tense. But then he laughs, a short, sharp bark of sound that makes my skin crawl.

"You've got some balls, I'll give you that.

" He steps closer, invading my space, and I can smell his cologne.

Expensive. The kind that comes in a black bottle with a fancy name.

He leans in, his breath hot against my ear.

"But you better remember who's in charge here, Ainsley.

You and that kid? You're mine. And if you ever try to leave me, I will fucking end you. Understand?"

I nod. It's all I can do.

"Good." He straightens, smoothing down his uniform shirt. "I've got the night shift. I'll be back in the morning. And when I get home, this place better be spotless. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

He grabs his keys from the counter, checks his phone, and heads for the door. He pauses in the doorway, glancing back at me with that same empty smile.

"Oh, and Ainsley? If you even think about calling anyone, remember, I'm a cop. Who do you think they're going to believe?"

Then he's gone.

The door slams shut behind him and I stand there, frozen, listening to the sound of his car starting in the driveway. The engine revs. Tires crunch on gravel. And then… silence.

I count to sixty in my head. Then I count again. And again.

When I'm sure he's really gone, I move.

My hands are shaking as I pull the duffel bag out from under the bed.

It's been packed for two weeks, hidden beneath a pile of old blankets and winter clothes Justin never bothers to look through.

I've been planning this. Waiting for the right moment.

Waiting for him to work a night shift so I'd have enough time to get far enough away that he couldn't catch me before morning.

I grab the bag and sling it over my shoulder, wincing as the strap digs into the bruise on my collarbone. Then I move to Owen's room.

He's asleep in his crib, his little fists curled up by his face, his mouth slightly open. He looks so peaceful. So innocent. He has no idea what kind of monster lives in this house. And if I have anything to say about it, he never will.

"Hey, baby," I whisper, reaching down to scoop him up. He stirs, making a soft whimpering sound, but he doesn't wake. I press a kiss to his forehead, breathing in that sweet baby smell, milk and lotion and something uniquely him . "We're going on an adventure, okay? Just you and me."

I grab his diaper bag, already packed with everything I could fit, and head for the door.

The beater car is parked two blocks away, tucked behind an abandoned gas station.

A woman from the shelter helped me get it.

I don't even know her name. She just handed me the keys one day and told me to be safe.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to hug her. But I didn't. I just took the keys and said thank you.

The walk feels like it takes forever. Every sound makes me jump. Every car that passes makes my heart stop. I keep expecting to see Justin's patrol car rounding the corner, his face twisted in rage as he realizes what I've done.

But he doesn't come.

When I finally reach the car, I strap Owen into the secondhand car seat I bought at a thrift store and throw the bags in the back. My hands are still shaking as I slide into the driver's seat and turn the key.

The engine sputters. Coughs. Then roars to life.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Okay," I whisper to myself. "Okay. We can do this."

I pull out onto the road and drive.

By the time the sun starts to set, I've been driving for hours.

I don't have a plan. Not really. I just know I need to get as far away from Jackson as possible. Maybe I'll head to Detroit. Or Chicago. Somewhere big enough that I can disappear. Somewhere Justin won't think to look.

Owen woke up about an hour ago and he's been fussy ever since.

I can't blame him. It's hot as hell in this car, the air conditioning gave out about fifty miles back, and he's probably hungry.

I've got formula and bottles in the diaper bag, but I can't exactly pull over and feed him on the side of the highway. Not when every second counts.

"I know, baby," I say, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. His little face is red and scrunched up, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I know. Just a little longer, okay? We'll stop soon. I promise."

But even as I say it, I feel the car start to shudder.

"No," I whisper. "No, no, no. Come on. Don't do this."

The shuddering gets worse. The engine makes a horrible grinding sound and then, smoke. Thick, black smoke starts pouring out from under the hood.

"Fuck!"

I pull over onto the shoulder, my heart pounding. The car rolls to a stop and I turn off the engine, but the smoke keeps coming. I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out, popping the hood. More smoke billows out, making me cough.

I don't know shit about cars. I don't know what I'm looking at. All I know is that this piece of shit just died and I'm stranded on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere with a screaming baby and no way to call for help because I left my phone at the house so Justin couldn't track me.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to punch something.

Instead, I take a deep breath and go to the backseat to get Owen.

"It's okay," I tell him, even though it's not. Even though nothing is okay. "We're okay."

He's wailing now, his little face bright red, and I bounce him gently, trying to soothe him. But he's hot and tired and hungry and I don't blame him for being pissed off.

I hear the rumble of engines before I see them.

Two motorcycles. Big, loud Harleys that sound like thunder as they approach. My stomach drops. I've seen enough crime shows to know that a woman alone on the side of the road is a target. And I've got a baby with me.

I set Owen back in his car seat, he screams louder, and grab the tire iron from the trunk. My hands are sweating as I grip it, holding it low by my side.

The motorcycles slow down and pull onto the shoulder behind my car. Two men get off, both wearing black leather cuts with patches I can't quite make out in the fading light. They're big. Tall. Intimidating as hell.

"Stay back," I say, my voice shaking. I raise the tire iron. "I mean it. Stay the fuck back."

The taller one, dark hair, green eyes, a face that's too handsome for his own good, holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Easy," he says. His voice is deep, smooth. The kind of voice that could talk you into anything. "We're not here to hurt you."

"Bullshit."

The other one, shorter, leaner, with intense hazel eyes and a scar cutting through his left eyebrow, steps forward. I tighten my grip on the tire iron.

"We saw your car smoking," he says. His voice is rougher, more clipped. "Thought you might need help."

"I don't need your help."

"Yeah?" The green-eyed one tilts his head, his gaze flicking to the smoking hood of my car. "Because it looks like you do."