Prologue #2
We clasp forearms, the kind of grip that isn’t sentimental but means something anyway. Then he mounts up and heads back east, disappearing into the flow of traffic.
And I keep going. Alone. For whatever reason, I find peace in solitude. It’s probably what makes me most dangerous of all.
Arkansas looks like it’s trying to lull you. It gives this illusion of safety and family. Trees and hills, soft green rolling past like it’s all harmless.
It’s not. No place is. Not when men like us move through it. Playing the games we play in the name of brotherhood, business, or just boredom.
I hit Bella Vista just before midnight, the long gone, the moon lighting the way to the motel. My phone buzzes once—Country Boy’s name.
I don’t answer while I’m riding. He knows this. Very few of us will. I pull into a parking spot, kill the engine, and call him back.
“I’m here,” I say.
Country Boy’s exhale is loud in my ear. “Meet?”
“Now.”
“Be careful.”
“I always am,” I lie.
He hangs up without saying goodbye. That’s Country Boy. No softness. No wasted words. It’s why he’s President.
I walk next door to the diner Wrath picked—low building, neon sign, parking lot half full. The kind of place where no one looks twice at a biker because they’ve seen worse.
Wrath is inside. Big bastard with a hard face and eyes that don’t miss much. Saints patch on his cut, shoulders squared like he’s never known the meaning of relaxed.
He stands when he sees me.
“Miles,” he says.
“Wrath.”
We shake hands. His grip is iron, testing. Mine doesn’t give. Same shit we have done the last two meetings.
“Appreciate you coming,” he states casually.
“Country Boy doesn’t appreciate it,” I tell him.
Wrath’s mouth twitches. “Presidents rarely do.”
We slide into a booth away from the windows. Coffee comes. Food doesn’t. This isn’t that kind of stop.
Wrath leans in. “Saints need a transport moved. Not small. Not light.”
I keep my face neutral. “Route?”
“Through your territory,” he says. “In pieces. Quiet. No big convoys.”
“Who’s buying?” I ask.
Wrath’s eyes sharpen. “You asking like a treasurer or like a cop?”
I smile without warmth. “Like a man who doesn’t want heat on his books. And I’m asking as a Hellion who has boundaries and don’t work with or for just anyone.”
Wrath nods once, approving. “Buyer’s solid. Payment’s clean. We use you because your roads are tight and your men aren’t sloppy. Tripp’s been given the information on the buyer to approve the transport. I wanted you because you get in and get out with my money without a trace.”
That’s almost a compliment.
“Terms?” I ask.
He lays it out—numbers, timing, drop points.
It’s all business. It’s all risk. I do the math in my head, weighing profit against trouble, deciding what I’ll take back to Country Boy and the table since he’s wanting our club specifically.
Most private transports like this go through Tripp or Rex, the Catawba Hellions President, and they get whatever charter Tripp decides is on rotation.
Obviously, we made an impression on Wrath with the previous shipments for him to request me personally.
When we’re done, Wrath leans back in his chair. “Saint’s Outlaws have nothing but respect for the Hellions,” he shares. “This can be good for both of us.”
“Depends on the money,” I answer.
Wrath grins. “Always does.”
We shake again. He leaves first, slipping out the side door like he was never there. I wait a minute, then follow. Different exits. Different directions. Old habits.
Outside, the air’s cooler, the sky bruised with evening. My bike sits where I left it, gleaming under the parking lot light.
I take three steps toward it. That’s when the world tilts. Something feels off. A shadow moves fast to my left, too fast.
Pain slams into my side, sharp and immediate, and for a second my brain refuses to label it. Like if I don’t name it, it won’t be real. The searing burn hits instantly. Then I feel the warmth. The liquid pooling in my hand.
Blood.
I twist, hand going back instinctively, but another hit comes, harder, driving the blade deeper.
“Son of a—” My breath cuts off as someone grabs my cut and yanks me back.
There are more of them. I register patches, different colors, wrong insignia. A different motorcycle club, not Saint’s Outlaws, not Hellions. My vision blurs, but I focus on the men moving trying to take in their cut details. The reaper insignia. The Nameless Ones MC.
They didn’t want Wrath.
They wanted the Hellion who came alone.
A fist connects with my mouth. Stars burst behind my eyes. I spit blood and swing anyway, knuckles cracking against someone’s cheek. He staggers. Another one laughs.
“Look at him,” a voice says. “Thought he could walk in here like he owned the place.”
I try to reach my gun. My hand comes up slick and empty because I can’t get a grip. Something heavy smashes into the back of my head. The sound is like a bat hitting meat.
Light explodes. My knees buckle. I hit the ground, gravel cutting into my cheek. My vision swims, edges going dark.
Boots circle me.
I hear them talking, voices muffled like I’m underwater.
“Should we finish it?” someone asks.
A pause. Then the voice I’ll remember forever, casual as an order at the diner. “Leave him here,” he states. “Let him bleed out.”
My eyelids flutter. I try to move. I can’t.
The last thing I see is the smear of their patches walking away—bright against the dark—before the world goes black.
Pain drags me back first. It’s not sharp anymore—too deep for that. It’s heavy, wet, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I take in a deep breath and regret it immediately. My ribs scream. My head throbs like someone rang a bell inside my skull and forgot to stop.
I blink up at the Arkansas sky, stars smeared and doubled. For a second, I don’t know where I am. Then memory slams in.
The diner. The knife. The voice—leave him here to bleed out.
“Yeah,” I mutter hoarsely to the emptiness around me. “Fuck you too.”
My side is soaked. I don’t need to look to know it’s bad. Warmth spreads every time my heart beats, and that’s the problem—too much warmth. Too much blood leaving places it should stay.
I press a hand to the wound and hiss. My fingers come away slick. Black dots dance at the edge of my vision.
Stitches. I need stitches. And I need them fast.
Lying here isn’t an option. Neither is dying in a parking lot. I roll onto my knees, the movement stealing my breath, and crawl the rest of the way to my bike.
Every inch hurts.
I haul myself upright, using the handlebars like a crutch, forehead resting against the tank while the world steadies. My hands are shaking now. That’s new. Fuck.
“Come on,” I growl at my body. “Don’t quit on me now.”
I swing a leg over the seat with a sound that’s halfway between a curse and a groan, then fire the engine. The vibration rattles straight through my bones. I almost black out before I get moving.
The hospital lights cut through the dark a few minutes later, bright and unforgiving. I slow as I pull into the lot, logic fighting instinct. I park and slide off my bike, but leaning into it, praying I got the kickstand all the way down to hold her in place.
I don’t go inside.
Inside means forms. Questions. Security. Police. Cameras. A whole trail of attention I can’t afford—not bleeding like this, not alone, not in a state that isn’t mine.
I circle once, then park near employee parking and kill the engine. My pulse pounds loud in my ears. I lean forward, breathing shallow, waiting for the spinning to stop. The sun is coming up, shift change is here. I fight to stay lucid.
Footsteps. A door opens.
I lift my head. She steps out like she’s running on fumes—scrubs wrinkled, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, bag slung over one shoulder. She looks tired in a way that’s familiar. The kind that comes from long shifts and not enough rest.
Her gaze catches on me.
On the bike. On the blood.
She freezes. “Sir?” she says carefully. “Are you—”
I pull the gun. Her breath stutters, but she doesn’t scream. Doesn’t bolt. Just goes very still, eyes flicking from my face to the weapon and back.
“Get in your car,” I order standing upright and moving closer to her. My voice sounds rough even to me. “Drive.”
Her pulse jumps in her throat. I can see it. But her hands stay steady as she sets her bag down and reaches for her keys.
“Okay,” she says. That’s it. No hysterics. No begging.
I frown despite myself. “You always this calm when a stranger points a gun at you?”
She glances at the blood soaking my shirt. “You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
She opens the driver’s door. “I work in the ER. Panic doesn’t help.”
I grunt and slide into the passenger seat, every movement lighting up my side. She gets in, starts the car, and pulls out like this is just another errand she didn’t plan on.
“Closest hotel,” I tell her.
She hesitates. Just for a second. “I have more supplies at home,” she shares.
“No,” I snap. “Hotel.”
She keeps driving, eyes forward. “I live five minutes from here.”
“I said—”
“I know what you said,” she interrupts, calm as ever. “But a hotel means other people. Cameras. Front desks. I’m guessing you don’t want that.”
My jaw tightens. She’s not wrong. I don’t like that she’s not wrong.
“I live alone,” she continues. “Except my grandfather. He’s eighty. Bedridden. Parkinson’s. His caregiver leaves at eight. I can send her home early. Then you come inside. It’ll just be us. He will never lay eyes on you. I’ll try to help you.”
I stare at her profile, at the steady line of her jaw, the way her hands don’t shake on the wheel.
“You’re either incredibly brave,” I state, “extremely stupid, delusional from exhaustion, or you’ve got a death wish. Which is it?”
She shrugs. “You’re already hurt. If you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it in the parking lot.
You want help. I took an oath to help. So I’ll do what I can and you can be on your way and I can go to sleep.
But bottom line, if you were going to shoot me, I wouldn’t be here talking now.
So put the gun up because you’re wasting energy. ”
That lands.
I laugh—a short, rough sound that turns into a wince. “How often do you get kidnapped that you’ve got this kind of plan ready?”
“First time,” she shares. “But I improvise well. I read books, the women tend to have a good time with it. But I’m not having sex with you, just so we get that clear now.”
I watch the road slide by, weigh my options, feel another warm spill of blood soak into my shirt.
“Fine,” I state finally. “We do it your way.”
She exhales, just a little. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” I mutter. “I’m still holding the gun.”
“I noticed.”
Her house is exactly where she said it would be. Small. Modest. One story, with a narrow driveway and a porch light that flickers like it’s on its last leg. No neighbors peeking through curtains. No barking dogs. Quiet.
She parks and turns off the engine. “Caregiver’s inside,” she says. “Let me talk to her. Stay in the car until she backs out.”
I nod, keeping the gun low but visible. She steps out, moving with purpose, and disappears inside. I sit there, pain gnawing, every instinct screaming that this is a bad idea.
The door opens again a few minutes later, an older woman steps out wearing scrubs, moves to her car, and leaves. The nurse from the hospital emerges not long after that.
“She’s gone,” the nurse says softly. “I told her I’ve got it.”
I follow her inside.
The house smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee. Clean, but worn. Lived in. The living room opens up immediately, and my gaze locks on the hospital bed set up near the window.
An old man lies there, thin and pale, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Machines hum softly beside him. He doesn’t stir when we enter.
“You weren’t lying,” I state quietly as I follow her into a back bedroom.
“No,” she replies. “A lot of things, but not a liar. Never seems to get anyone very far in life to be anything other than honest.”
She sets her bag down, turns to face me. Up close, I notice the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth like she’s been holding herself together for a long time.
“I’m Danae,” she introduces. “I’m an RN. I can clean the wound. I can stitch if it’s not too deep. I can’t promise anything beyond that.”
I lower the gun.
“Do what you can,” I say. “I don’t plan on dying in your bedroom.”
Her lips twitch, just a little. “Good, really isn’t on my bingo card for this year.”
She gestures to a chair. “Sit.”
I obey.
And for the first time since coming too in the parking lot, I let myself believe I might actually make it through the night.