10. Razor
Razor
Hawk’s been outside for two hours.
I watch him through the kitchen window, standing at the tree line, cigarette after cigarette. He’s on his fifth, maybe sixth. Hard to tell from here. But the pile of butts at his feet says he’s been out there long enough to work through half a pack.
Chain-smoking. Staring into the woods. Classic avoidance behavior.
Can’t blame him. Finding out the woman you kidnapped is your son’s ex? The woman you’re protecting is the same one your son’s been beating for four years? That’s the kind of mindfuck that requires nicotine and solitude to process.
But we don’t have time for processing. We’ve got twelve hours until Reaper’s deadline. Twelve hours to figure out how to keep Jade alive, keep ourselves out of violation, and somehow navigate the fact that Tyler Geddes is actively hunting for a woman his father is currently hiding.
This situation was complicated before. Now it’s a goddamn nightmare.
Inside, Jade’s in her room. Been up there since the explosion this morning. Shadow tried to bring her lunch an hour ago. She told him to fuck off through the closed door.
Fair enough.
I grab my jacket, head outside. Hawk doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach, just keeps staring into the trees like they might have answers.
I pull out my own cigarettes, light one, lean against the tree beside him. The silence stretches. Comfortable. I don’t need to fill it with words. Neither does Hawk, usually.
But today, the silence is heavy with things that need saying.
I let five minutes pass. Then: “You knew she looked familiar.”
Hawk doesn’t respond immediately. Just takes another drag, exhales smoke into the cold air.
“Yeah,” he finally admits. “I did.”
“When?”
“The moment I saw her face at the gas station. Something about her…” He trails off. “Didn’t place it until later. Until after we got here and I had time to actually look at her.”
“And?”
“Road Rally. Last summer. June, maybe July. Satan’s Reapers and Ruthless Saints both showed up.
Neutral ground, supposed to be no conflict.
” He flicks ash off his cigarette. “Tyler was there. Saw him across the lot with a woman. Dark hair, small, pretty. She looked scared. He was being possessive. Hand on her arm, pulling her close every time another man looked her way.”
“That was Jade.”
“Yeah. That was Jade.”
He takes another drag, and I can see him back there now. Replaying the memory. Processing what he saw with what he knows now.
“She was wearing this yellow sundress,” he continues, voice distant.
“Looked out of place at a biker rally. Too bright. Too innocent. Like she didn’t belong there but was trying to blend in anyway.
Tyler had his hand on her lower back. Kept it there the whole time I watched them.
Not gentle. Controlling. Like he was steering her, making sure she didn’t wander off. ”
“You watched them.”
“For about ten minutes. They were getting food from one of the vendors. Tyler was talking to some Ruthless Saints members, and she was just standing there beside him. Silent. Trying to make herself smaller. I remember thinking she looked like she wanted to disappear.”
“But you didn’t approach.”
“No.” His jaw tightens. “Tyler saw me looking. Made eye contact across the lot. Didn’t wave. Didn’t acknowledge me. Just stared for a second, then turned back to his conversation. Pulled Jade closer. Like he was claiming her. Making sure I knew she was his.”
“And you let it go.”
“I told myself it wasn’t my business. That Tyler was an adult making his own choices. That maybe the woman was just uncomfortable in crowds. That I was reading too much into body language.” He crushes his cigarette under his boot. “I told myself a lot of things that day.”
“To justify not getting involved.”
“Yeah.”
The admission hangs between us. I take a drag, letting him sit with it.
“I almost went over there,” Hawk says quietly.
“Almost walked up to them, said hello, checked on her. Asked if everything was okay. But then Tyler moved his hand from her back to her arm. Gripped it. Not hard enough that anyone else would notice. But I saw her flinch. Saw the way she went very still, like she was bracing for something.”
“And?”
“And I walked away.” He lights another cigarette with shaking hands. “Told myself that if she wanted out, she’d leave. That women in bad situations have resources, hotlines, shelters. That it wasn’t my responsibility to save her from my own son.”
“You knew something was wrong.”
“I suspected. But suspecting isn’t the same as knowing. And knowing would mean having to do something about it. Would mean confronting Tyler. Admitting that the kid I failed turned into someone who hurts women.” He exhales smoke. “Easier to walk away. Easier to tell myself I was wrong.”
I study him. Hawk’s a good man by our standards. Loyal. Protective of the people he claims. But he’s also carrying a mountain of guilt about Tyler. About failing as a father. About choosing the club over his kid and watching that kid turn into someone he doesn’t recognize.
That guilt makes him blind sometimes. Makes him avoid what he doesn’t want to see.
“I’ve been watching her,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. Clinical. “Since we grabbed her. Reading her tells.”
“And?”
“Old bruises. Not from the crash or the bike ride. From before. Yellow-green ones on her upper arms. Finger-shaped. Someone grabbed her hard enough to leave marks that are still visible a week later.”
Hawk’s hands clench into fists.
“She flinches,” I continue. “At sudden movements. Loud noises. When Shadow dropped that pan this morning, she jumped like she’d been hit.
That’s not normal startle response. That’s trauma response.
The kind you develop when violence is unpredictable.
When you never know what’s going to set someone off. ”
“Keep going.”
“She checks exits. Every room she enters, first thing she does is locate the doors, the windows, the escape routes. I’ve seen her do it a dozen times.
Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, doesn’t matter.
She maps the space, finds the exits, calculates how fast she could get out if she needed to.
Classic behavior for someone who’s had to run before.
Someone who’s learned that staying means getting hurt. ”
I take another drag, letting the observations sink in.
“The way she holds herself around men,” I add.
“Defensive. Ready to fight or flee at any moment. She doesn’t trust easy touch.
When I grabbed her wrist yesterday to stop her from bolting, she tried to twist out of it before her brain even processed what was happening.
Muscle memory. The kind you get from being grabbed too many times.
From having to break holds to protect yourself. ”
Hawk’s not looking at me anymore. Just staring at his cigarette like it might explode.
“And the hypervigilance,” I continue. “She tracks movement constantly. Knows where each of us is at all times. Last night at dinner, her eyes kept darting between the three of us, monitoring, assessing threat levels. That’s survival mode.
That’s someone who’s learned the hard way that letting your guard down gets you hurt. ”
“I’ve seen it too,” Hawk admits quietly. “The way she tenses when I get too close. The way she positions herself near exits. I just didn’t want to believe it meant what I thought it meant.”
“It means Tyler’s been hurting her,” I say flatly. “Probably for years. The bruises, the flinching, the hypervigilance—that doesn’t happen overnight. That’s sustained abuse. Consistent fear. The kind that rewires your nervous system, teaches your body to stay in fight-or-flight mode permanently.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you didn’t do anything about it six months ago when you saw her with him.”
“I didn’t know for sure?—”
“You knew enough.” My voice is hard now. No softening this. “You saw the signs. You chose not to see them because seeing them would mean confronting your son. Would mean admitting that the kid you failed turned into exactly what you were afraid he’d become.”
Hawk’s jaw works. “You’re right.”
“I know I’m right.”
“So what now?” He finally looks at me. “You want me to say I fucked up? I fucked up. I saw her with Tyler and I told myself it wasn’t my problem. That I’d given up on him years ago and whatever he did was his responsibility, not mine. I was wrong.”
“Being wrong doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know that too.”
We smoke in silence for another minute. The wind picks up, rustling through the trees, carrying the smell of pine and earth and the promise of rain.
“She’s trapped here,” I say eventually. “Tyler’s hunting her. Actively. That photo he sent out? That’s not just a missing person alert. That’s a bounty. He’s offering money for information, which means every lowlife with connections is looking for her now.”
“I know.”
“And we’re the ones keeping her here. Keeping her from running, from disappearing, from doing whatever she thinks she needs to do to survive.” I crush my cigarette under my boot. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Keep her alive. Get her home to her kid. That hasn’t changed.”
“Even though she’s Tyler’s ex.”
“Especially because she’s Tyler’s ex.” Hawk’s voice hardens. “If he did what she says he did—and based on what you’re describing, I believe her—then he doesn’t get to keep her. He doesn’t get to hunt her down and drag her back. She’s done with him. She made that choice Friday night when she ran.”
“And you’re going to make sure she stays done with him.”
“Yeah.”
I light another cigarette. “That’s going to put you at war with your own son.”
“I’ve been at war with my son for years. This just makes it official.”
Fair enough.
“There’s something else,” I say.
“What?”
“You feel something for her.”
Hawk goes very still. “What are you talking about?”