Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
ELENA
The ride to the clubhouse feels endless.
Not because Ryder is slow. Because fear stretches every second thin.
I keep my arms locked around him, my cheek pressed to the back of his leather cut as the Harley eats up miles of backroad.
Wind tears through my damp hair. My ribs ache.
My bandaged feet throb. But I don’t loosen my grip. Not once.
Behind us, headlights flash between trees. Then vanish. Then appear again. Grant’s men. Ryder leans into a sharp bend, and I bite back a scream, holding tighter. His left hand briefly covers mine at his stomach. One squeeze. I’ve got you. No words. Still, I understand.
The road opens up, and suddenly the roar of more engines fills the air. Motorcycles. A line of them. They come from the opposite direction like thunder rolling across the asphalt. For one terrifying second, I think we’re trapped.
Then the riders split around us, surrounding Ryder’s bike like a moving wall of leather and steel. One huge biker rides beside us, scarred face hard as stone. Another gives Ryder a sharp nod. Grant’s SUVs slow. Then fall back. The bikers don’t. They escort us the rest of the way.
By the time we pull into the Sons of Havoc clubhouse, my whole body is shaking so badly I can barely get off the bike. Ryder kills the engine and turns slightly.
“You’re safe.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to. But safe has always been temporary. A man strides toward us from the clubhouse porch. Dark hair, with sharp eyes and an air of authority in every step. The others move around him without question.
“Ryder,” he says.
“Bishop.”
So this is the president. His gaze shifts to me, and something in his expression hardens when he sees my bruises. Not disgust. Rage. Carefully controlled.
“You Elena Delmont?” I nod.
His voice gentles. “You’re under club protection now.”
My throat closes. Just like that. No questions, judgement or making me prove I deserve help. Ryder gets off the bike first, then turns and offers me his hand. I take it. In front of everyone. His fingers close around mine, warm and steady.
The clubhouse is loud inside. Music, voices, glasses, boots against wooden floors. It should overwhelm me. It does. But Ryder stays beside me. A woman with dark hair and kind eyes appears carrying a hoodie.
“I’m Ivy,” she says. “Put this on, sweetheart. You look frozen.”
I stare at the hoodie. Kindness still feels suspicious. Ryder’s thumb brushes once against my knuckles. I take it.
“Thank you.”
Ivy smiles softly. “No thanks needed.”
Another woman brings tea. Someone else brings food. A huge biker named Beast stands near the door, arms folded, staring out at the lot like he personally hopes Grant walks in. A man with tattooed fingers and a laptop sits at the bar.
“Knuckles,” Ryder says. “Need everything you can get on Grant Holloway.”
Knuckles looks at my bruised face, then back to Ryder. His usual smirk fades.
“Yeah. I’m on it.”
Bishop leads us into the back room. The table is long, scarred, covered in maps and empty glasses. Ryder doesn’t sit until I do. Bishop notices. So do I.
“Tell me what you can,” Bishop says.
My stomach twists. Ryder’s hand stays resting on the table near mine. Not touching. Close enough if I need him. So I tell them. Not everything. Not the worst things. But enough. Grant.
The wedding, I tell them about the inheritance, all the documents and the threats. The room gets quieter with every word. When I finish, Bishop leans back, eyes cold.
“Rich prick thinks marriage makes a woman property.”
Beast growls from the doorway. “Point me at him.”
A strange sound escapes me. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. Every man in the room looks at me.
Heat burns my cheeks. “Sorry.”
“For what?” Ryder asks.
“I don’t know.”
His expression tightens. Like that answer hurts him. Bishop stands.
“Room upstairs is yours. Nobody goes near it without Ryder or Ivy. You need something, you ask. You want to leave, nobody stops you. You want us to burn his life down, we start tonight.”
My lips part. “I don’t know what I want.”
Bishop nods once. “Then we keep you breathing until you do.”
And somehow that is the most reassuring thing anyone has said to me all day.
That night, Ivy takes me upstairs. The room is simple. Clean bed. Thick curtains. A lock on the door. I stare at the lock too long. Ivy notices.
“You can lock it from the inside.”
Grant locked doors from the outside. My eyes sting. Ivy squeezes my arm gently, then leaves me alone. For ten minutes, I stand in silence. Then a soft knock comes. My whole body jumps.
“Elena,” Ryder says through the door. “It’s me.”
Relief hits so hard my knees weaken. I open it. He stands in the hallway holding my backpack.
“Forgot this downstairs.”
“Thank you.”
He hands it over but doesn’t step inside.
“You good?” No, but how can I tell him that.
“Yes.” His eyebrow lifts.
I let out a shaky breath. “Not really.”
Something in him softens.
“Want me outside the door?”
I should say no. I should be normal. But nothing about this is normal.
“Yes.”
He nods once like that’s all he needed. “Then sleep.”
I close the door, lock it, and press my back against the wood. On the other side, Ryder settles down against the wall. Guarding me. Not claiming. Not caging. Guarding. For the first time since I ran, I sleep for longer than an hour.