Riot’s Storm (Savage Riders MC #10)

Chapter 1 - Alice

The evening air is cool against my flushed cheeks as Biscuit pulls me down Main Street, his tail wagging like he's never been happier in his entire life. Which, knowing Biscuit, might actually be true.

Every walk is the best walk. Every fire hydrant is a discovery. Every fallen leaf is a gift from the universe specifically for him.

I wish I had even a fraction of his optimism.

"Slow down, buddy," I say, but there's no real force behind it.

He knows it too, glancing back at me with his tongue lolling out, one ear flopped over in that way that made me fall in love with him the second I saw him at the shelter.

That was three months ago. Three months since I walked into that building with my eyes still puffy from crying and my heart feeling like something I'd dropped on concrete. Three months since I looked at this ridiculous, oversized ball of golden fur and thought, *Yes. You. You're mine now.*

My ex had always said no to a dog. Too much mess, too much responsibility, too much everything. Funny how "too much" was his favorite phrase for anything I wanted, but never seemed to apply to the twenty-two-year-old he was sleeping with behind my back.

I shake my head, forcing the thought away. I've gotten good at that, the mental redirect, the shift of focus. Dr. Morrison, my therapist, says it's a healthy coping mechanism. My best friend Claire says I'm bottling things up and one day I'm going to explode like a shaken soda can.

They're probably both right.

Biscuit stops to investigate a particularly interesting spot near Murphy's Grill, and I let him, pulling my cardigan tighter around myself.

October in Blackwater Falls means the temperature drops the second the sun does, and I'm already regretting not grabbing my heavier jacket.

But the walk is part of my routine now, same time every evening, same route through town.

Routine is safe. Routine is predictable. Routine doesn't lie to you or make you feel like you're fundamentally unlovable because you happen to take up more space than some arbitrary standard says you should.

"All done?" I ask Biscuit, who looks up at me with pure adoration, like I just asked him the most profound question in the universe.

We start walking again, past the grill, past the hardware store that's been run by the same family for three generations, past the flower shop that makes my classroom smell amazing every Monday morning when I stop in for fresh blooms for my desk.

This town is mine in a way nothing else has ever been. I was born here, grew up here, teach here. My parents left me their house when they died. The only truly solid thing I have that's completely, entirely mine.

My space. My walls. My furniture arranged exactly how I want it.

No one to tell me the couch should face the other direction or that I really should consider getting rid of my mother's old bookshelf because it doesn't "fit the aesthetic."

I'm so lost in thought that I almost don't notice when Biscuit's whole body goes tense beside me.

"What's wrong, buddy?" I ask, looking down at him. His ears are back, his tail has stopped wagging, and he's pressing against my legs in a way he never does unless something is wrong.

That's when I hear the footsteps behind me.

"Evening, sweetheart."

The voice makes my skin crawl. I turn, keeping my hand on Biscuit's collar, and find three men I've never seen before standing too close.

Not locals. I know every face in this town, every regular, every troublemaker.

These men are strangers, and something about the way they're looking at me makes my heart start to pound.

"Can I help you?" I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds.

The one who spoke—tall, greasy hair, smile that doesn't reach his eyes takes a step closer. "Just being friendly. Nice dog you got there."

"Thank you." I take a step back, pulling Biscuit with me. "We're just heading home."

"Aw, don't be like that." Another one moves to my left, cutting off that angle. "We're new in town. Just looking for some company. Someone to show us around."

My throat feels tight. Main Street isn't empty, but it's not crowded either. The dinner rush at Murphy's is dying down, and most people are inside now that the temperature has dropped.

"I don't think so," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You should try the visitor's center. They have maps."

"Maps are boring." The third one—shorter, stockier, mean eyes—moves to my right. They're surrounding me now, a loose triangle with me and Biscuit at the center. "We'd rather have a personal guide. Especially one as pretty as you."

Biscuit whimpers, pressing harder against my legs, and that somehow makes it worse. My dog is scared because I'm scared, and these men can see it, can smell it on me like blood in the water.

"I need you to back up," I say, louder now. "Leave me alone."

They laugh. Actually laugh, like I've said something hilarious.

"Come on, sweetheart, don't be rude. We're just talking."

"I said no." My voice cracks on the word, and I hate myself for it, hate how I sound like prey, like something small and helpless.

The first man reaches toward me, and I flinch back—

And then suddenly he's not there anymore.

A hand, scarred knuckles, calloused palms, grabs the man's shoulder and yanks him backward so hard he stumbles. The hand belongs to someone I've never seen before, someone who's just stepped between me and the three men like he appeared out of nowhere.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a leather jacket and jeans that have seen better days. Dark hair, a few days of stubble, and eyes that look like they've seen too much of the world and didn't like what they found.

"She said no," the stranger says, and his voice is quiet. Dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up for entirely different reasons than the three men did.

"Who the hell are you?" the greasy-haired man demands, recovering his balance.

"Someone who heard her say no three times." The stranger doesn't move, doesn't shift his weight or his position. He's between them and me like a wall, solid and immovable. "Now you're going to walk away."

"Or what?" The stocky one steps forward, squaring up. "You gonna make us, tough guy?"

The stranger doesn't answer. He just stands there, waiting, and there's something in his stillness that makes me believe he's done this before. Many times before.

"I'm gonna ask one more time," he says. "Walk. Away."

The greasy-haired man spits on the ground. "Screw this. Three on one, asshole. You sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah," the stranger says simply. "I'm sure."

Everything happens so fast I almost can't track it.

The stocky one swings first. A wide, sloppy haymaker that the stranger ducks under like he saw it coming from a mile away. His return punch is precise, catching the stocky man right in his belly. The man goes down gasping, clutching his stomach.

The mean-eyed one is smarter, coming in low and fast, but the stranger pivots, brings his knee up, and I hear the crack of impact even from where I'm standing. Mean-eyes drops like someone cut his strings.

Two down in under five seconds.

The greasy-haired man pulls a knife. Oh God, he has a knife, and my hands tightens on Biscuit's collar hard.

The stranger doesn't even look surprised. He watches the blade like it's just another variable in an equation he's already solved. When greasy-hair lunges, the stranger moves. He catches the knife hand, twists, and there's another crack that makes me flinch. The knife clatters to the pavement.

But greasy-hair is tougher than he looks, or maybe just meaner.

He doesn't go down, doesn't back off. Instead, he tackles the stranger, and they both hit the ground hard enough that I feel it in my chest. They roll, trading punches, and I can see the stranger is tired.

He's breathing hard, there's blood in the corner of his mouth, and his movements are just a fraction slower than they were thirty seconds ago.

He's going to lose. This man who stepped in to help me, who didn't even know my name, is going to lose because he's fighting on fumes and—

The roar of motorcycle engines cuts through the air like thunder.

I know that sound. Everyone in Blackwater Falls knows that sound.

The Savage Riders MC are coming.