21. RYDER
RYDER
The cuffs are too tight.
They bit into my wrists the whole ride here, and no one’s bothered to take them off. My arms are going numb.
CJ and I were separated the moment we stepped through the station doors, pushed into opposite ends of a hallway that stinks of sweat, old coffee, and bullshit.
The holding cell they threw me into is a small, windowless concrete box with metal bars and flickering fluorescent lights overhead. The lights hum constantly, a high-pitched buzz that gets under your skin if you let it.
I sit on the bench, legs apart, elbows on my knees, breathing slow. Controlled.
It’s what I’m trained for.
But right now? I’m two seconds from snapping.
They didn’t even try to hide what this was. They baited us. Planted that weed. Fabricated the charge against me like it was nothing. Just a flick of a report and a staged stumble, and suddenly I’m “assaulting a federal officer.”
Fucking joke.
But I’m not worried about the charge. Not right now.
I’m worried about her. Marcy.
My fists clench on instinct, skin tightening around metal. She doesn’t know yet, but it’s only a matter of time before the news hits her phone. Photos. Footage. My name. Maybe even the Devils’ names.
And when she sees it? What is she gonna think?
The last time I saw her, she was glowing. Happy. Safe. We were finally breathing again. Planning to tell her everything—Project Blackthorne, Jake, the truth. No more hiding. No more shadows.
But now? We’ve been shoved right back into the worst version of ourselves. Mug shots. Interrogations. Cuffs and silence and the weight of a thousand lies pressing down on all sides.
A door slams somewhere in the station, and someone yells in the distance.
I flex my hands, blood rushing back into my fingers. They want us to look guilty. Want her to believe we’re dangerous. That her father’s right.
But she knows us. I have to believe that. She’s smart. She feels things deeper than anyone I’ve met. If she sees those headlines, she’ll ask questions. And maybe—just maybe—she’ll look past the noise and remember who we really are.
They come for me just after the third hour. No explanation. No water. No warning.
Two officers, flanked by a smug little suit with a government badge and the posture of someone who thinks paperwork makes him God.
They unlock my cell, cuff me again—because apparently I’m still a flight risk even after sitting in a windowless box for hours—and walk me down a hallway that smells like old ink and fresh concrete.
When they shove open the door to the interrogation room, my pulse spikes, but not because of them.
Because CJ’s already inside.
He’s seated at the table, hands resting in front of him—not cuffed, but not relaxed, either. His eyes lift to mine as I enter.
That’s when I know something’s off. They always separated us before in a classic divide-and-conquer. Get different stories. Catch someone slipping.
But now? They’ve brought us in together.
The chair beside him screeches against the floor as they sit me down. I meet CJ’s eyes. No words. Just a look.
Stay quiet, the look urges.
I nod once, small.
Understood.
The two agents settle across from us. One is younger, clean-cut. The other is older, heavier, with an expression like he’s already written our convictions in his notebook. They don’t introduce themselves. Don’t explain a thing.
Just start.
“You were both present at The Den at the time of the seizure.”
CJ stays still. Silent.
“You’re both tied to the 12 Devils MC. Both former military. Both with disciplinary records.”
CJ doesn’t flinch. Neither do I.
The younger one leans in. “Let me make something clear. We don’t care about your club drama. We don’t care about your brotherhood crap.”
He says club like it’s a dirty word. They’re trying to unravel us.
Fuck them.
“What we do care about is the concerning amount of weed we found,” he continues. “How much contraband are you hiding? You can tell us upfront, and maybe we can cut you a deal with the DA.”
“You didn’t find anything else, did you?” CJ asks quietly.
“Makes you think, huh?” I say, leaning back in my chair.
The other guy scowls, making my stomach curl with satisfaction.
“Marcy Hollingbow,” the older agent continues. “You’ve all been seen with her. Photographed. There’s evidence she’s been living with one or more of you. That she’s romantically involved.”
CJ’s breathing deepens, slow and even.
“We believe she may have knowledge of illegal operations,” the agent continues. “Possibly even participating. We intend to bring her in for questioning.”
Something inside me snaps, but I don’t move. CJ’s eyes flick toward me. Now is not the time.
“She’s innocent,” CJ says, low and dangerous.
“She’s involved,” the agent replies calmly. “And people who involve themselves in criminal organizations tend to get… hurt.”
CJ’s chair scrapes back slightly as he leans forward, elbows on the table. “You lay one hand on her—one finger—and I will personally make sure the fallout buries you, your boss, and the son of a bitch who sent you.”
The room goes still. The younger agent’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t rise.
I speak for the first time, voice steady. “You don’t want a war with us. You think you do, but you don’t.”
The older agent smiles. Just a twitch. “Then tell us what we want to know.”
CJ leans back again, crossing his arms. “We’ve said enough.”
The agents stare at us, trying to find cracks, weaknesses, slips. But there’s nothing left to give.
And they know it. They leave, muttering to each other, but we aren’t left alone for too long.
The door creaks open again. This time, it’s not another cop or federal agent.
It’s him.
Jake Hollingbow.
He walks in like he owns the place—like the raid, the cameras, the cuffs, the chaos—none of it touched him.
His suit’s still perfect. Not a speck of dirt on his loafers.
His face carries that same tight smirk he wore when they dragged CJ away.
It takes everything in me not to launch across the table.
CJ stiffens next to me, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t speak.
Not yet.
Jake stops on the opposite side of the table, hands in his pockets, the picture of smug restraint.
“I thought a more… personal conversation might do the trick,” he says, smooth as oil on a windshield. “You’ve made this mess loud enough.” He looks to CJ first. “I’ll get the cops off your ass. The charges, the press, all of it.”
CJ lifts a brow, silent.
Jake leans in slightly. “On one condition. You break things off with Marcy.”
I feel CJ go still beside me.
Jake shrugs. “Though, for the life of me, I can’t figure out what you see in her. She was always a little soft. A little slow. Certainly not built for your world.”
CJ smiles. Not his usual smirk.
Not the one that says, Careful, I’m thinking about decking you.
This one’s slow. Dangerous. Full of something I rarely see in him. Joy.
“See,” CJ says quietly, “I didn’t just fall for her. I’m in deep. And every time I look at her, I see someone real. Strong. The kind of woman who walks through fire and doesn’t ask anyone to carry her. I’ll go to any lengths for her, you understand?”
I glance at CJ. Holy shit, it can’t be more evident. He’s in love with Marcy, just like I am.
Fuck.
Jake’s face twists like he’s just bitten into something rotten.
“What’s your ploy here?” I ask, speaking up. “You send your lapdogs to threaten us with dragging Marcy into this. Now you’re here pretending you care. What is it?”
Jake straightens. “She’s my daughter.”
CJ lets out a bitter laugh. “You only care about your reputation.”
Jake opens his mouth, but I don’t let him speak.
“You forget,” I say coldly, “I know what you did. We all do. You think Project Blackthorne is a secret?”
That wipes the smirk clean off his face. Jake pales, and his eyes flick toward the door like someone might be listening.
“Shut up,” he hisses. “You say a word, and I’ll have you court-martialed, extradited, and locked in a black site for the rest of your damn life.”
CJ leans in, voice calm, eyes locked on Jake like a laser. “Do I look like I care?”
Jake swallows.
“All I have to do is point the press in the right direction,” CJ says. “Mention the name. Let them start digging. You know what they’ll find. What you used taxpayer money for. What you covered up while men like us bled in the dirt.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Jake hisses. “You signed an oath?—”
CJ’s fists clench on the table. “You tainted my club with drugs. You put our people at risk. You dragged Marcy into this.” He rises now, slow and terrifying. “My father’s legacy, you tried to poison it. You better make damn sure I don’t walk out of here, Jake. Because if I do…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. Jake’s breathing hard now. Sweating. Losing ground.
“You expose me, you ruin Marcy, too,” Jake throws back.
CJ’s voice lowers. “I’m sure when I tell her everything, you won’t have to worry about me ruining you.” He smiles again. “She’ll do it herself.”