Chapter Eight
King told himself not to go. All the way through the MC meeting, through the plans, through the promises of blood and vengeance, he repeated it like a mantra. Don’t go to her. Don’t make it worse. Don’t let her see you weak.
But by the time the meeting ended and the clubhouse noise rose again, his boots were already carrying him to his bike.
The night pressed cold against his face as he rode, engine rumbling beneath him like a second heartbeat. Streetlights blurred past, the city half-asleep, unaware of the war being drawn in its veins.
He should’ve been thinking strategy, counterattacks, timing. Instead, all he saw was Lena, her eyes blazing, chin high, daring him to tell her she didn’t matter.
King had told himself she was better off free. He’d told himself she wasn’t his to claim. None of that changed the way the hollow inside him clawed wider with every mile between them.
By the time he reached her apartment building, King knew he was a fool. He knew he had no right and still, he swung his leg off the bike and stalked up the narrow stairwell like a man heading into battle.
Her door was shut tight, but he could hear movement inside. He knocked once, hard enough to rattle the frame. Silence.
“Lena,” he growled out her name.
For a long moment, nothing. Then the lock clicked, and the door jerked open.
She stood there barefoot in worn jeans and a loose sweater, her hair pulled back, eyes red-rimmed like she’d been crying but damned if she’d admit it. Her gaze hit him like a blade, sharp and cold.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Lena demanded.
King’s chest tightened. He hadn’t thought through what he’d say, only that he needed to see her. Now, under her glare, every excuse felt thin.
“I heard about The Pit Stop,” King said finally. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Her laugh was brittle, bitter. “Okay? The place I worked at for three years is nothing but ash, and Rick just called to tell me he can’t afford to rebuild.
That means no job, no paycheck. The only other job I had?
Working the bar at your clubhouse. Which I don’t have anymore either, since I don’t exactly fit in there. ”
“Lena—” King began.
“No.” She cut him off, arms folding across her chest. “You don’t get to walk in here and pretend you give a damn when you’re the one who pushed me out in the first place.”
King felt the words land heavy, deserved as they were. He’d thought he was protecting her by letting her go, but looking at her now, devastation and fury wrapped up in a woman who’d already been through too much, he saw it for what it was. Cowardice.
King stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I never wanted this for you. The Pit Stop, the Serpents, the danger. You think I don’t know what I did to you, dragging you into my world?” King asked.
Her chin lifted. “I dragged myself in. I made that choice.”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t a mistake,” he said.
Her arms dropped, her hands curling into fists. “A mistake,” she repeated, her voice shaking with rage. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A weakness. Something to regret.”
King flinched like she’d struck him.
“You’re not—” He broke off, gritting his teeth. The truth was there, burning his throat, but he couldn’t force it out. Not when saying it meant tearing down every wall he’d built to survive.
She stepped back, shaking her head. “Save it. You’re the one who said I’d thank you someday for walking away. Well, guess what? I don’t. Not today, not ever.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, but she stood tall, shoulders squared, as if daring him to see her break.
“Lena...”
“Get out, King,” she ordered.
The finality in her tone sliced through him. He stood there for a beat longer, searching her face for some sign she didn’t mean it. But all he saw was the same fire that had drawn him in from the start. The fire that would burn him alive if he wasn’t careful.
Slowly, he nodded. “All right,” King said. He knew when to admit defeat.
He turned and walked out, the slam of her door behind him echoing like a gunshot.
The stairwell felt colder on the way down. His boots hit the pavement heavy, his chest a storm of fury and hollow ache. King should’ve stayed away. He should’ve never let himself want her in the first place.
But as he swung back onto his bike, his instincts screamed against leaving her unprotected. The Serpents had already come at her once. They’d torch her world again if they thought it would hurt him.
King would be damned if he let that happen. He pulled out his phone and dialed. It rang once before Rage picked up.
“Yeah, Prez?”
King’s gaze lingered on Lena’s window, light glowing faintly behind the curtain. “She’s not alone in this, not anymore. I want eyes on her apartment twenty-four-seven. She doesn’t need to know, but if a Serpent so much as breathes in her direction, I want to hear about it first.”
Rage grunted. “Consider it done.”
King hung up, slid the phone back into his pocket, and revved the engine.
As he pulled away, the ache inside him only deepened. He’d given her what she wanted. Distance. But he wasn’t fool enough to let her out of his sight.
She thought she was his weakness. Maybe she was, but she was also the only thing left worth bleeding for.
****
Lena woke to a quiet apartment. It was the first morning in a long time without the sound of motorcycles revving outside. Without the constant shuffle of boots through the clubhouse halls, without the rowdy, ever-present background noise of men who thrived on chaos.
She had wanted quiet, had demanded her freedom, but lying in her small apartment now, the emptiness pressed down like a weight. Her phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. No messages or calls.
She shoved the covers back and swung her legs over the side of the bed, staring at the peeling paint on her wall. For years, this place had been her refuge.
Her own space where no one told her who to be. But after The Pit Stop and the clubhouse, it felt different. Smaller. As if the walls had shrunk while she was gone.
The call from Rick the night before echoed in her head. His voice had been hollow, defeated. “It’s gone, Lena. Insurance might cover some, but it won’t be enough. I can’t rebuild, not with the Serpents breathing down our necks.”
She’d worked there for three years. Pouring drinks, managing schedules, smoothing over fights between regulars who didn’t know when to quit. It hadn’t been glamorous, but it was steady. Familiar. Family, in its own way.
Now it was just ash.
She dragged herself into the kitchen, brewed coffee she barely tasted, and sat at the tiny table with her laptop. Maybe she could find another bartending gig.
The town had bars on every corner. However, a quick search confirmed what she already knew. Most places weren’t hiring, and the ones that were didn’t pay enough to cover rent.
Her savings wouldn’t last long.
The thought made her chest squeeze tight. She’d always prided herself on standing on her own, never relying on anyone, not her mother, not her ex, not King. But for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure she could keep her balance.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. Mom.
She hesitated, thumb hovering. How was she going to tell her mom she no longer had a job? That she wouldn’t be able to pay her hospital bills, let alone her own rent? Still, ignoring the call wasn’t an option. She swiped to answer.
“Hey,” Lena answered.
“Lena, honey.” Her mom’s voice was soft, worried. “I heard about the fire. Are you okay?”
Lena pressed her fingers to her temple. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I lost my job, Mom. Both of them. I’m ... working on it.”
There was a pause. “You know we can find a solution together. Maybe I can ring up my friend Marry Anne, see if the bookstore’s hiring?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Lena said tightly. “I always do.”
Her mom sighed, that long-suffering sound Lena had grown up hearing. “All right. But if you need me, I’m here.”
They hung up, leaving Lena staring at the chipped mug in her hands. She hated how small she felt, how unmoored.
By the afternoon, she forced herself out of the apartment. Sitting there, stewing in her own thoughts, wasn’t helping. She walked the streets aimlessly, the air carrying a bite that hinted at fall.
She stopped at a couple of bars, asked about work. No luck. One manager offered her a polite smile and a free drink but shook his head at the resumé she slid across the counter.
The rejection didn’t surprise her, but it stung anyway.
On the way home, she caught a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision. A man leaning against the corner of a building, smoke curling from his cigarette. He looked away when her eyes met his.
Maybe nothing. Just a city street.
But halfway up her block, she saw another man across the road, pretending to check his phone. He wore a leather vest, the kind she’d come to recognize.
Her stomach dropped. MC.
Her pulse jumped, hot anger chasing the fear. King. It had to be. He didn’t trust her to handle her own life, didn’t believe she could protect herself.
She quickened her pace, fumbled her key into the lock, and slammed her apartment door shut behind her.
For a long moment, she leaned against it, breath coming hard.
She wanted to scream. To cry. To punch something.
Instead, she grabbed her phone and threw it onto the couch. The screen lit up briefly with her reflection. Tired eyes, clenched jaw, a woman holding herself together with thread.
King had called her a weakness. She’d believed him. Maybe part of her still did. But that didn’t mean she’d let him control her, not anymore.
The next morning, she woke early and forced herself into action. She dressed sharp, pulled her hair back, and marched into every café, bar, and restaurant within walking distance. By noon, she had a handful of applications filled out, a few polite brush-offs, and one tentative maybe.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Still, the sense of being watched lingered. At the laundromat, a guy in a dark hoodie sat two rows over, eyes flicking to her whenever she moved. On the way home, she swore she caught the same flash of a cigarette ember from the alley.
She told herself she was imagining it. That paranoia was just another scar from the clubhouse, from living too close to men who thrived on shadows and violence.
But deep down, she knew better. By the time evening fell, exhaustion dragged at her bones. She sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
She wanted to believe she was free. She wanted to believe she’d carved out a life on her own terms.
But the truth pressed heavy. No matter how far she ran, King’s world had already marked her.
Worse than the fear, worse than the anger, was the ache that wouldn’t go away. The ache of missing him, even when she knew she shouldn’t.
Lena curled onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow, and told herself it would pass. That she could survive this. She had to.