5. Jade
Jade
Footsteps on the stairs wake me from a half sleep I didn’t realize I’d fallen into.
I’ve been here for almost eight hours.
Eight hours away from Mason.
The footsteps stop outside my door. A pause. Then a knock.
“Jade?” Shadow’s voice, calm and even. “We need to talk. Can you come downstairs?”
I don’t answer immediately. My mind races through possibilities. This could be it. The moment they’ve decided what to do with me. The moment everything either gets better or gets much, much worse.
“Jade?” Shadow again. “No one’s going to hurt you. We just need to talk.”
“About what?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“About the situation.”
I stand, running my hands through my tangled hair, wishing I had a mirror, a hairbrush, anything to make me feel less like a victim. My reflection in the window shows me what I already know. I look like hell. Bruised, exhausted, scared.
But I’m still standing.
“Give me a minute,” I call out.
“Take your time.”
His footsteps retreat down the stairs.
I use the bathroom quickly, splashing cold water on my face, trying to pull myself together. The scrape on my arm from the window has stopped bleeding, just a thin red line now. The bruise on my forehead has deepened to purple. I look like I’ve been in a bar fight.
Or a kidnapping.
I stare at my reflection and make a decision. Whatever happens downstairs, I need to be smart about it. These men hold all the power right now. They have my freedom, my ability to get back to Mason.
But information is power too. And maybe if I play this right, if I can get them to see me as a person instead of a problem, I can find a way out of this.
I head downstairs.
The main room is bigger than I thought, rustic and masculine in that way bachelor cabins always are.
Wood everywhere—walls, floors, exposed beams. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, currently cold and dark.
Mismatched furniture that looks comfortable but worn.
A kitchen area along the back wall with appliances that probably came with the place in the eighties.
All three men are waiting for me.
I’ve been listening to them long enough to know their names now.
The silver-haired one, Hawk, sits at the wooden dining table, hands folded in front of him, looking like he’s about to conduct a business meeting.
Shadow leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his expression softer than the other two.
Razor stands by the window, positioned so he can see both me and the outside, always watching.
They’ve showered and changed clothes. Look more human and less like the dangerous bikers who kidnapped me in a thunderstorm. But the cuts are still there, draped over the back of the couch. Satan’s Reapers patches are visible, skull and crossbones, and gothic lettering that screams danger.
“Sit,” Hawk says, gesturing to the chair across from him.
It’s not a request.
I sit, keeping my back straight, my hands visible on the table. Nonthreatening but not submissive. A balance.
Hawk studies me for a long moment. His steel-blue eyes are assessing, reading me the same way I’m trying to read him.
Up close, in daylight, I can see the gray threaded through his beard, the lines around his eyes, the scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
This is a man who’s seen violence. Caused it. Survived it.
“You know who we are?” he asks.
“Hawk, Razor, Shadow.”
“Road names. Everyone in the club has them.” He taps the table once, a decisive gesture. “But I mean, do you know what we are? What club we belong to?”
I glance at the cuts on the couch. “Satan’s Reapers.”
Something shifts in Hawk’s expression. Surprise, maybe. “You know the club?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“From where?”
I hesitate. How much do I tell them? How much do I keep to myself?
But then I remember the voices I heard through the vent this morning. They already know about the Ruthless Saints. Lying now only makes me look weak.
“I’ve been to MC events before,” I say carefully. “Seen the patches. Heard the names.”
“What events?”
“Rallies. Runs. The usual.” I meet his eyes. “My ex is—was—involved with a club.”
All three men go still. Razor moves slightly away from the window, his full attention on me now. Shadow’s arms tighten across his chest.
“What club?” Hawk’s voice has gone flat. Dangerous.
My stomach drops. This is it. The moment where everything either clicks into place or explodes.
“Ruthless Saints.”
The temperature in the room plummets.
Hawk’s jaw works like he’s chewing over words he doesn’t want to say. Shadow swears under his breath. Razor’s expression doesn’t change, but his posture shifts subtly, like a predator scenting prey.
“Your ex is Ruthless Saints,” Hawk says slowly. Not a question. A confirmation of something he already suspected.
“Was. We’re done. I left him last night. That’s why I was on the road during the storm. I was running.”
“From him.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s going to come looking for you.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Probably.”
Hawk leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face. He looks tired suddenly. Older. “Jesus Christ.”
“This complicates things,” Shadow says to Hawk, his voice low.
“You think?” Razor’s voice is dry as dust.
I look between the three of them, trying to understand. “Why does it matter? So my ex is in a rival club. That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“It’s got everything to do with you,” Hawk says. “You’re a witness to a federal weapons sting. The Ruthless Saints were there last night. They saw you. If they figure out you’re connected to one of their own?—”
“They’ll use it,” I finish, understanding dawning cold and sick in my stomach. “They’ll use me to get to you. Or you’ll use me to get to him.”
“Or both.”
Great. Just great. I’ve gone from being Tyler’s prisoner to being leverage in a war between motorcycle clubs.
“My ex doesn’t know where I am,” I say, trying to salvage something from this disaster. “I disappeared before he could track me. He doesn’t know you have me.”
“His club was there last night,” Razor says from the window. “They saw Hawk grab you. Saw us take you. They’ll connect the dots.”
“So what does that mean for me?”
Hawk’s eyes are cold. “It means you’re valuable to a lot of dangerous people right now. The Feds want you as a witness. The Ruthless Saints want you dead or as leverage. And my club—” He stops himself.
“Your club wants me dead too,” I finish for him. “I heard you this morning. Through the vent. Your president gave the order to eliminate the witness.”
Shadow winces. Razor’s expression doesn’t change.
Hawk nods. “Reaper gave the order,” he confirms. “I’m not following it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t kill innocent people.” He says it simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You didn’t ask to see what you saw. Didn’t ask to be in the middle of this. You’re collateral damage. I don’t eliminate collateral damage.”
“How noble of you.”
“It’s not nobility. It’s practicality. You’re more useful alive than dead.”
“Useful how?”
“We’re still figuring that out.”
There it is again. That phrase. Figuring it out. Like my life is a puzzle they’re trying to solve.
I take a breath. Then another. Force myself to think past the fear, anger, and exhaustion.
“Okay,” I say. “So here’s the situation as I understand it.
You kidnapped me because leaving me at the gas station meant I’d either get arrested by the Feds or killed by the Ruthless Saints.
Your club wants me dead. The Ruthless Saints want me dead.
The Feds want me as a witness. And my ex is going to lose his mind when he finds out I’m missing.
” I count off on my fingers. “Does that about sum it up?”
“Pretty much,” Shadow says.
“So what do you want from me?”
Hawk leans forward, elbows on the table. “Right now? I want you to trust that keeping you here is the safest option for everyone.”
“Trust you. The men who kidnapped me.”
“Yeah.”
I laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. “That’s a hell of an ask.”
“I know.”
We stare at each other across the table. Two people on opposite sides of an impossible situation, trying to find common ground.
“I need something,” I say finally.
“What?”
“I need to make a call to my sister. She’s expecting me. If I don’t check in, she’s going to call the police. And then the Feds will know I’m missing and they’ll start looking.”
Hawk considers this. “What are you going to tell her?”
“That I’m fine. That I had car trouble and I’m staying with a friend until I can get it sorted.”
“She’ll believe that?”
“She won’t have a choice. I’ll make her believe it.”
Hawk looks at Razor, then at Shadow. Some kind of silent communication passes between them. Finally, Hawk nods. “One call. Supervised. You say anything that tips her off to where you are or who you’re with, the call ends, and you don’t get another chance.”
“Fine.”
“And you mention the cops, the Feds, anything about last night, same thing.”
“I understand.”
“Who’s Mason?” Hawk asks suddenly.
The question hits me like a physical blow. I must have let something slip. Some mention I don’t remember making.
“Why?”
“You mentioned him. Earlier. To Razor. Said someone needed you. Who is he?”
I could lie. Could make up a story. But they’re going to find out eventually, and lying now only makes me look like I have something to hide.
“He’s my son.”
The words fall into silence.
Shadow’s expression softens immediately. Hawk’s eyes narrow, calculating. Razor moves from the window to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting down, as if this conversation just became a lot more serious.
“You have a kid,” Hawk says.
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Four.”
“Where is he?”
“With my sister. Linda. The one I need to call.”
Hawk leans back again, processing. “Your ex know about him?”
“He’s been in Mason’s life since he was a baby. He—” I stop myself. Don’t tell them too much. Don’t give them ammunition. “Mason thinks he’s his father.”
“But he’s not,” Razor says. Not a question.
“No.”
“Does your ex think he is?”