Chapter 6
The air suddenly felt thin, icy, impossible to pull deep enough into my lungs.
I stood frozen behind the counter, fingers gripping the metal edge so hard my nails dug in until they ached.
The private investigator stood barely two feet away, his sharp tailored trench coat glaringly out of place against my worn wooden counter.
This was the man from the lane last night.
The shadow beneath the oak. He still held his phone, thumb hovering over the screen – ready to call the muscle he’d brought down from London, ready to drag me back to the life I’d escaped.
But Rage had delayed him from hitting that button.
My breath hitched sharp as the bell above the door chimed.
Grey afternoon light vanished instantly as Rage filled the whole frame. His broad shoulders brushed the woodwork on either side. He wore his heavy cut over a dark hoodie, the white Rage patch stark against the black leather, damp with fine rain from outside.
He didn’t glance at the P.I. Didn’t look at the briefcase. Just planted his heavy boots firm on the lino and stopped dead.
His dark eyes swept fast around the room – then locked straight on me.
My heart hammered wild, desperate rhythm against my ribs.
He saw the fear draining the colour from my face, leaving my freckles standing out bright as stars against pale skin.
He followed my gaze, his jaw tightening as his eyes landed on that glossy gala photo sitting right between us on the counter.
Then something shifted in his expression that made my breath catch completely.
His scarred jaw stayed set hard, but his gaze sharpened, narrowed.
A flicker so fast I almost missed it – recognition.
Understanding. He knew this wasn’t just some random customer.
He knew exactly what kind of monster had walked in here, and exactly what danger I was in. And he looked ready to tear it apart.
He didn’t storm in like some mindless brute. Just slid one hand slow into his hoodie pocket, easy, deliberate. Never once took his eyes off the investigator’s back. I had no idea what he was reaching for – but I prayed for it with everything I had.
“Can I help you with something, mate?” the London man asked, his smooth upper-class tone carrying a hint of impatient condescension.
He didn’t even turn fully, just flicked one dismissive look over his shoulder.
“The lady and I are having a private conversation. Perhaps you could go find your caffeine elsewhere today.”
Rage didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Just moved forward with that eerie, silent grace no man his size had any right to have, slipping straight into his usual corner table like he belonged there more than anyone else ever could.
He sat, pulled the wooden chair in close, and folded his tattooed forearms flat on the surface.
“I’ll take my usual,” he rumbled, voice so deep it made the glass display cases hum. “Double shot.”
The P.I. let out an annoyed huff, turning back to me and lifting his phone again. “Right. As I was saying – the car’s waiting down the lane. Don’t make this messy.”
He lifted the phone to his ear – but the call never connected.
Before the first ring, a low thrumming roar rolled down the high street. At first it was distant, sounding like thunder far off over the hills. Seconds later it swelled, deepened, grew into a fierce window-rattling growl that shook the very floorboards beneath my feet.
My eyes snapped straight to the window.
Out of the mist and rain, a wall of steel and leather came roaring like an army.
Six… eight… ten custom bikes tore down the cobbles, headlights cutting beams through the grey like predatory eyes.
They didn’t park neatly at the kerb. They pulled right up, front tyres inches from the shop front, killing their engines in perfect unison.
That deafening cut left ringing silence hanging heavy in the air.
The investigator went still. His polished, smug mask fractured the second he saw them. Through the glass, a dozen hard-faced men stood tall, adjusting cuts emblazoned with the Iron Angels MC logo. They didn’t look like locals out for a ride. They looked like kings who’d just ridden to war.
The door was kicked wide open, banging hard against the wall.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped through first, authority rolling off him in waves – Reaper, the President, the one Rage answered to.
Beside him was Hacker, a sharp knowing smirk pulling at his mouth.
Then Bones, arms crossed tight over his chest. One by one they filed in, filling every inch of space until the whole shop smelled of rain, motor oil, and raw power.
Then another stepped forward – the man they called Tiny. And he was anything but small. Standing close to seven foot, he had to duck just to get through the frame, seeming to take up every spare breath in the room.
None of them looked at me. They didn’t need to. Just lined up behind the investigator like a solid wall of muscle and menace.
The P.I. slowly lowered his phone. His smug grin vanished completely as he realised he was hopelessly outnumbered, trapped in a room full of wolves. He swallowed hard, pale blue eyes darting frantically from the wall of bikers, over to me, then finally landing on Rage sitting calm in the corner.
Rage hadn’t stood up. Hadn’t reached for a weapon. Just picked up the napkin I’d left earlier, twisting it slow between his fingers. His dark gaze stayed locked on the other man, cold, dead, promising pain if he so much as breathed wrong.
“You’re in the wrong territory, city boy,” Reaper rumbled from the centre of the room, his voice calm, dripping with quiet lethal authority.
I leaned back against the espresso machine, my chest swelling with something bright and fierce I’d never felt before. The monsters I’d run from had found me at last – but for the first time in my life, I wasn’t facing them alone. The Iron Angels were here. Rage was standing guard.
Rose had been right all along. I wasn’t as unprotected as I thought.