Chapter 6
KANE
I left my room with a smile I couldn’t quite shake.
The kind that lingered like the taste of good whiskey—warm, sharp, and entirely unexpected.
I didn’t smile without a damn reason. Especially not after kidnapping someone.
But hell if Savannah Quincy hadn’t lit a fuse in me I hadn’t realized was dry.
I hadn't expected her to fight. I thought she'd scream, cry, plead. But Savannah Quincy had looked me in the eye and gone toe-to-toe with me as though I wasn’t the monster who’d had her drugged and kidnapped less than twenty-four hours ago.
Hell, I was still half hard just thinking about the way her voice had cracked with fury when she told me I was completely off base. She’d been trembling, but she hadn’t backed down. There was fire in her. And my cock, the bastard, had taken it as an invitation.
I couldn’t get her out of my head. The rise and fall of her chest when she got worked up, how pink her mouth was when she snapped back at me. And the way her body had fit against mine when I’d pulled her in.
Fucking hell. My cock had been trying to pick a fight with my jeans the whole damn time.
I headed downstairs, rubbing the back of my neck and muttering curses under my breath.
Get a grip, Beckett.
She was my prisoner. Leverage. Bait.
I had no business wondering what those ocean-blue eyes would look like when she was coming apart under my mouth.
I tried to work all day. I really fucking did. Emails, contract negotiations, team schedules, vendor payments—none of it stuck. I kept thinking about her curled up in that bed, breathing slowly and evenly, skin soft and untouched by this world. And I kept hearing her voice, full of fight and heat.
At night, I told myself I was going to sleep in one of the spare rooms. That was the plan. The smart choice. That was sane.
But by midnight, I’d convinced myself I needed to check on her. Just for security. To make sure she hadn’t tried to climb out the window or shove a fork in a wall socket.
Security , I told myself again. That was all.
I unlocked the bedroom door quietly, stepped into the dim room, and stood there for a long minute.
Moonlight spilled through the blinds in long silver lines, falling across the bed where she lay curled on her side, her hands tucked beneath her cheek, hair fanned out across my pillow like liquid silk.
My breath caught. Fuck, she was beautiful.
I stood there like a fuckin’ fool. Just staring at her. Then I peeled off my shirt, shoved down my jeans, and stood in nothing but boxer briefs while calling myself twenty kinds of idiot. I shouldn’t get in that bed. I knew it. But my body moved before my brain could argue.
The mattress dipped beneath my weight as I lay down, staying on the edge, facing her back, rigid with restraint.
Then she moved. As if she felt the heat of my body and instinctively curled toward it. She made a soft sound in her sleep and pressed her face against my chest like she’d been doing it forever.
I froze. And then—I broke.
My arm came around her without conscious thought, dragging her close. Her body molded to mine, and she fit perfectly. Soft. Warm. My hand spread over her back, holding her tight and her round, juicy ass tucked against my hip, a temptation almost too difficult to resist.
I told myself I wouldn’t touch her.
But holding her didn’t count.
I fell asleep with Savannah tucked against me, breathing her in like a man starved of oxygen.
Awake before dawn, I slipped out of bed and locked the door behind me. No one saw. No one knew.
Except me.
The next night, I did the same damn thing.
And the one after that.
By the fourth morning, I’d stopped pretending I was going to stay away. I was fully aware I was fucked.
Bookshell Cove was an old corner store that sat tucked between a hair salon and a little deli, all weathered brick and sun-faded blue trim, dusty windows, and enough paperbacks packed inside to sink a boat.
Wind chimes jingled above the door as I stepped inside. It was one of those places that smelled like it had soaked up years of stories and the comfort they brought.
“Well, well,” came a familiar voice. “If it isn’t my favorite pain in the ass.”
Gloria Landry stood behind the register.
Her dark hair, with a few streaks of gray, was twisted into a knot on top of her head.
Her smile was wide enough to light the place without electricity.
She wore a loose cotton dress and sandals, and despite being half my size and five times less intimidating, she looked at me like she’d raised me herself.
“Morning,” I said gruffly.
She put her hands on her hips.
“You’re two days late,” she teased. “Missed your weekly. Thought I was gonna have to call Edge and ask if you fell off your bike.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said knowingly as she walked around the counter. “Too busy to stop in and say hello? I might start taking it personally.” As she stared up at my face, her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head to the side. “You sleeping enough? You look tired.”
I snorted. “I always look tired.”
“No, you usually look broody. Now you look tired and broody. That’s worse.”
I walked past the stack of new releases. “Got a list.”
Taking the paper I held out, she squinted at the names. “These aren’t your usual authors.”
I said nothing.
Her lips twitched. “They’re also all romance.”
Still said nothing.
She grinned. “Must be for someone special.”
“Just get the books, Gloria,” I muttered.
Her lips twitched like she was biting back a thousand jokes. But she just winked and patted my hand. “Give me five minutes.”
While she searched the shelves, I wandered the store. My boots thudded dully on the old wood floors. The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, doing more to move the scent of paper around than actually cool the place down.
I’d been here enough times to know every section. I liked to read—always had. My dad had handed me an engine manual when I was seven and told me not to ask for help until I finished it cover to cover.
I read it twice in one day.
Gloria came back with a stack. “New releases by four of the authors on your list. Fifth one’s a reprint, but it’s got a bonus epilogue. You want ’em all?”
I nodded once.
“You want me to wrap these?”
“Appreciate it,” I muttered.
She laughed and pulled out kraft paper and twine. “So no one gives you shit?”
“So no one opens their mouth.”
She wrapped the books fast, bagged them up, and leaned on the counter with a smirk. “Tell your mystery girl she’s got excellent taste in fiction. These are spicy.”
“Of course they are,” I grunted.
Her smile turned softer than her sarcasm. “Whoever she is…she’s lucky.”
I didn’t answer.
But she didn’t expect me to.
As I stepped outside, the sun beat down hard, and the salty air off the gulf tangled in my beard. I was halfway to my bike when a voice called out from across the street.
“Yo, Kane!”
I turned to see Dale Rourke, owner of the beach shop across from Bookshell Cove, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Heard you have a new driver for the pro team,” he said. “Can’t wait to see him run at Redline Speedway next week.”
I smirked. “You’ll see him.”
He gave me a thumbs-up, then turned back to unlock his store.
I swung a leg over my Harley, dropped the bag into the saddle compartment, and fired up the engine. The roar echoed off the walls as I peeled out, headed back to the compound.
When I pulled through the gates, brothers were moving between the main building and the garage where we kept our bikes to protect them and do small repairs. The hum of an engine being tuned bled into the air like background music.
I parked, cut the engine, and stalked inside.
Axle, Jax, and Nitro were already waiting in my office when I got back.
Jax was perched on the edge of the desk, fingers tapping his phone, his glasses sitting on the top of his head.
Axle was stretched out in one of the leather chairs, feet crossed, calm as always.
Nitro leaned against the wall, arms crossed and expression dark.
I set the bag down behind my desk and dropped onto the chair.
“Update?” I asked Jax.
“I’ve been doing a deeper dive into the companies we do business with and found one that I don’t recognize, but they have shown up a fuck of a lot in the past six months.
Bayfront Logistics. I went digging into their finances.
They show unfiled invoices and private transfers.
I traced it back to a secure account owned by an LLC called CR Enterprises.
Their fingerprints are on multiple transfers, and they signed off on a few equipment shipments that were never real—dummy invoices designed to shift money. ”
“The name on the LLC?” I asked.
Jax didn’t look up. “Henry Allen. He’s a manager of operations for one of your legitimate racing subsidiaries—specifically the vendor logistics and sponsorship coordination arm for multiple events and track supply contracts.
” Jax paused, dropping his glasses onto his nose as his eyes scanned the screen once more before narrowing.
“He handled the vendor contracts for your Tallahassee tracks. The ones you’ve been getting the offers on. ”
My blood cooled. I knew Allen. Trusted him, even.
Slick talker with a clean record. Had a way of making sponsors open their wallets and bureaucrats back off.
He’d been with me since I started expanding the legal circuit.
Helped secure permits, file LLCs, and coordinate regional vendors.
He’d handled major sponsor contacts and payouts without issue—I never had a reason to doubt him.
Honestly, I’d never really liked him much as a person, but I respected Allen as a “necessary evil” who kept the above-ground side smooth.
Now, though…
“You sure?” I asked even though I already knew the answer.
Jax turned the screen toward me. “Positive. He didn’t use his real name on the registration. But the IP address that filed the paperwork came from his home office. Sloppy.”
Edge whistled low. “And here I thought that smug bastard was just good at schmoozing sponsors.”
I stared at the name for a long second. Henry Allen . The motherfucker had been sitting at my table. Eating off my plate. Smiling while he stabbed me in the back.
“I want him watched,” I said. “Don’t spook him. Don’t make contact. Just keep eyes on him. If he twitches, I want to know.”
“Will do,” Jax confirmed.
“Hear anything on Devon?”
He shook his head, frustration tightening his mouth. “Still nothing. No movement. No chatter. No burner pings. If Quincy knows we have her, he’s not showing it."
“Maybe he doesn’t know yet,” Nitro offered.
“Could be,” Jax muttered. “Drift made sure the message got out. We were seen. Someone had to pass the word. Could be he’s just that good at hiding.”
“Unless he’s dead,” Axle offered, not unkindly. Just practical.
I didn’t like that thought.
Not because I gave a shit about Devon Quincy.
But because of how it would affect Savannah.
Axle leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So what happens if ten days come and go? What do we do then? You keeping her?”
I thought about Savannah. Her mouth. Her eyes. Her fire. The way she curled into me each night like she belonged there.
I thought about the books in the bag. The fact that I knew her favorite authors.
And how I wasn’t sure I’d ever met a woman I wanted more.
I didn’t want to give her back.
Not sure I could.
But I didn’t say that.
Instead, I looked up at my brothers and said, “We cross that bridge when we come to it.”
They nodded, trusting me like they always did.
But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure what the fuck I was going to do next.
Even as we moved on to other things—new shipment logistics, race scheduling, intel on a crew sniffing around the Tallahassee circuit—I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
The woman upstairs in my bed.
And the growing part of me that wanted to keep her there.
Forever.