Chapter 5
The safehouse was a narrow row home in Fishtown, wedged between a tattoo parlor and a bodega that had seen better decades. Riot walked through every room twice before he let Mandy step inside—checking windows, doors, sight lines, all the places where trouble could come through.
Clean. Secure. Far enough from Jenny's apartment that Trevor's crew would have to start from scratch to find them.
"It's not much," he said, watching Mandy take in the sparse living room. Secondhand couch, folding table, kitchen that was more of a suggestion than an actual room. "But it's off the grid. Nobody connects this place to the club."
"It's perfect." She set down her duffel bag and turned to him with that smile—the one that made his chest do strange things. "Honestly, after three weeks of jumping at every sound, I'd sleep in a cardboard box if it meant feeling safe."
"You're safe here." The words came out rougher than he intended. A promise. A vow. "Nothing's getting through that door while I'm breathing."
Something flickered in her eyes—warmth, maybe, or the beginning of trust. Then she squared her shoulders and headed for the kitchen like a woman on a mission.
"What are you doing?"
"Making dinner." She was already opening cabinets, taking inventory. "There's pasta, some canned sauce, looks like enough for two. When did you eat last?"
Riot tried to remember. Breakfast? Yesterday? Time got slippery when his head was full of threats and plans and the need to keep her safe. "I'm fine."
"That's not an answer." She pointed at the folding table. "Sit. You've been running around protecting me all day. The least I can do is feed you."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." Her voice softened, but the stubborn set of her jaw didn't. "I need to. Being useful keeps me sane, okay? If I just sit here thinking about Trevor and his crew and everything that could go wrong, I'm going to lose my mind. So please. Let me make you dinner."
Riot sat.
He watched her move through the tiny kitchen—filling a pot with water, hunting for a can opener, humming something soft under her breath.
She was still scared. He could see it in the tension across her shoulders, the way her eyes kept flicking toward the windows.
But she was pushing through it, refusing to let the fear paralyze her.
Backbone. This woman had more backbone than men twice her size.
"You do this a lot?" he asked. "Cook for people?"
"All the time. Occupational hazard of cleaning houses—you get to know people's kitchens better than your own.
" She found the can opener and attacked the sauce with more force than necessary.
"Mrs. Patterson used to insist I stay for lunch every Tuesday.
Said I was too skinny, needed feeding up.
She makes the best grilled cheese I've ever tasted. "
"Makes? Present tense?"
Mandy's hands stilled on the can. "She's one of my clients. Was. Is." She shook her head. "I've been canceling on her for three weeks. Told her I had the flu, then a family emergency, then the flu again. She probably thinks I'm dying."
"You'll get back to her." Riot didn't know why he said it—didn't know if it was true—but the words came out anyway. "When this is over. You'll get your life back."
"You sound sure about that."
"I am."
She turned to look at him, really look, and Riot felt the weight of her gaze like a physical touch. Brown eyes with gold flecks, searching his face for something she needed to find.
"Why?" she asked. "Why are you so sure?"
Because the alternative was unacceptable. Because Trevor Boone and his crew had threatened something Riot hadn't known he was capable of protecting. Because every time she smiled through her fear, something in his chest cracked open a little wider.
He didn't say any of that. Instead, he shrugged and said, "Because I don't lose."
Her laugh was surprised, almost startled out of her. "Modest too."
"Never claimed to be modest."
She shook her head, still smiling, and went back to the pasta.
Riot watched her work and tried to remember the last time he'd sat still this long without wanting to crawl out of his skin.
The restless energy was still there—it was always there—but it felt different tonight.
Quieter. Like her presence was turning down the volume on the constant noise in his head.
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting across from each other at the folding table, bowls of pasta between them. The sauce was from a can and the noodles were slightly overcooked, but Riot couldn't remember the last time food tasted this good.
"So," Mandy said, twirling spaghetti around her fork. "Are we going to talk about your hands?"
Riot glanced down. His knuckles were wrapped in fresh tape—he'd changed the bandages before they left the compound—but the damage was obvious. Bruising visible around the edges, the shape of old scars beneath the white fabric.
"What about them?"
"They're a mess." She said it matter-of-factly, without judgment. "Split knuckles, scar tissue, the kind of damage that comes from hitting things for years. And you can't sit still for more than thirty seconds. I've been watching you bounce your leg since we sat down."
Riot made himself stop bouncing. It lasted about five seconds before the movement started again.
"I fight," he said. "It's what I do."
"I got that. The question is why." She set down her fork and leaned forward, elbows on the table, that searching gaze pinning him in place. "You've got more energy than anyone I've ever met. It's like you're vibrating at a frequency the rest of us can't hear. What happens if you stop?"
Nobody had ever asked him that before. Not like this—not with genuine curiosity instead of concern or fear. Most people looked at his restlessness and saw a problem to be managed. Mandy looked at it like a puzzle she wanted to understand.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've never been able to stop long enough to find out."
"Never?"
"There was this one time." Riot pushed pasta around his bowl, not hungry anymore. "Amateur MMA. I had an 11-1 record, was moving up the ranks, had sponsors talking about going pro. Then I fought this guy—Dave Willis, middleweight out of Jersey—and something happened."
"What kind of something?"
"I won." Riot's jaw tightened. "Knockout in the second round. Clean hit, ref called the fight, it was over. Except I didn't stop."
Mandy didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just watched him with those steady eyes.
"I kept hitting him," Riot said. "He was down, he was done, and I couldn't make myself stop.
Took three guys to pull me off, and by the time they did, Dave was in an ambulance and I was banned from sanctioned fighting for life.
" He forced himself to meet her gaze. "Excessive violence, they called it. Like there's any other kind."
The silence stretched between them. Riot waited for the judgment—the careful distance, the fear that always crept into people's eyes when they realized what he was capable of.
It didn't come.
"What made you keep hitting?" Mandy asked. "Was it anger? Adrenaline?"
"Neither." The word scraped out of him like a confession.
"It felt good. The violence, the impact, the way everything else went quiet when my fists were moving.
For the first time in my life, my head was completely silent.
No noise, no restless energy, just... peace.
" He laughed, bitter and sharp. "I almost killed a man because beating him unconscious was the only thing that ever made me feel calm. "
Mandy was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and laid her hand over his—small fingers covering his battered knuckles, warmth seeping through the tape.
"That sounds exhausting," she said. "Living with that kind of noise in your head all the time."
Riot stared at their hands. His scarred and wrapped, hers soft and steady. The contrast should have been jarring. Instead, it felt like something clicking into place.
"You're not scared of me?"
"Should I be?"
"Most people are. When they find out."
Mandy squeezed his hand. "You've spent the last twenty-four hours putting yourself between me and people who want to kill me.
You argued for me in front of your whole club, gave up your own bed so I'd have somewhere safe to sleep, and you're sitting here eating my terrible pasta without complaint.
" Her smile was gentle. "I think I can handle knowing you have a temper. "
"It's more than a temper."
"I know." She didn't look away. "I grew up in foster care.
Bounced between twelve homes before I aged out at eighteen.
I've seen tempers, and I've seen violence, and I've seen men who hurt people because they liked it.
" Her thumb traced a circle on the back of his hand.
"That's not you. You're not looking for excuses to hurt people. You're looking for a reason not to."
Something cracked in Riot's chest. Something that had been locked down so tight he'd forgotten it was there.
"The Sons help," he said roughly. "Give me somewhere to point it. Something to fight for instead of just... fighting."
"And now you're fighting for me."
"Yeah." He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers. "I am."
They stayed like that for a long moment—hands intertwined across the table, the remains of dinner cooling between them.
Riot could feel his pulse beating against her palm, could see the flutter of her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat.
The restless energy was still there, but it was different now.
Focused. Directed at her in a way that had nothing to do with violence.
Eventually, exhaustion won. Mandy's eyes started to droop, her grip on his hand loosening, and Riot realized she probably hadn't slept properly in weeks.
"Couch," he said. "Get some rest."
"What about you?"
"I'll be here." He stood, pulling her up with him, guiding her toward the worn sofa with a hand on her lower back. "Nothing's getting past me. I promise."
She settled onto the couch with a sigh, curling into the cushions like a cat seeking warmth. Riot grabbed a blanket from the closet and draped it over her, tucking the edges around her shoulders.
"Riot?" Her voice was already thick with sleep.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For everything."
He didn't answer. Didn't know what to say. So he just settled into the armchair across from her and watched as her breathing evened out, her face relaxing into something peaceful for the first time since he'd met her.
She was beautiful like this. Unguarded. The fear smoothed away, the stubborn cheerfulness replaced by simple calm. Freckles scattered across her nose, strawberry blonde hair falling across her cheek, lips slightly parted.
His.
The thought came unbidden, fierce and primal, and Riot didn't try to fight it. He'd spent his whole life looking for something to quiet the noise in his head, something to focus the chaos that never stopped churning. He'd found it in fighting, in the club, in violence with purpose.
But watching Mandy sleep—peaceful and safe because he was standing guard—the quiet was different. Deeper. The kind of silence that came from something being right instead of something being beaten into submission.
He didn't have words for what he was feeling. Didn't know if words existed for this strange ache in his chest, this fierce need to protect her, this warmth that spread through him every time she smiled.
But sitting in the dark, watching her breathe, Riot knew one thing for certain.
He'd burn the world down before he let anyone take this from him.