4. Demi
DEMI
Two weeks.
Two weeks of sneaking out after dark, of burner phones and back roads and lies I'm getting way too good at telling. Two weeks of King's hands on my body, his mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear saying things that make me forget every reason this is a terrible idea.
Two weeks of falling for a man who could get me killed.
Tonight, I'm curled up in his bed at the clubhouse, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and watching him get dressed. It's late — past midnight — and I need to leave soon, get back before anyone notices I'm gone. But I can't make myself move. Not yet.
"You're staring," he says without turning around.
"You're worth staring at."
He glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, and I grin at him. He shakes his head, but I catch the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as he pulls on his jeans.
"Keep looking at me like that and you're not leaving this room."
"Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"It's a promise."
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. I laugh a lot when I'm with him. More than I have in years, maybe ever. There's something about being here, in this room, in this bed, that makes me feel lighter. Like I can finally breathe.
This is new. The easiness between us. The first few times were all urgency and desperation — fast and hard and hungry, like we were both afraid it would disappear if we slowed down.
But somewhere along the way, things shifted.
Now there's this. Lazy conversations in the dark.
Him making me coffee before I leave. The way he pulls me against his chest when we're done and just holds me, like he's not ready to let go.
Inside jokes that nobody else would understand. The way he says my name — soft, possessive, like it belongs to him now.
Real feelings. The kind I swore I'd never let myself have for a man like him.
"What time do you have to be back?" he asks, buckling his belt.
"Before sunrise. My father's been watching me closer lately."
His jaw tightens at the mention of Rocky, but he doesn't say anything. We have an unspoken rule — we don't talk about the clubs, the rivalry, all the reasons this thing between us is impossible. When I'm here, none of that exists. It's just us.
But it's getting harder to pretend.
"Come here," he says.
I climb out of bed and pad across the floor to him, the concrete cold under my bare feet. He pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me, and I let myself sink into the warmth of him. I press my cheek against his heartbeat and close my eyes.
"I don't like you driving back alone this late," he murmurs against my hair.
"I've done it a dozen times."
"Doesn't mean I like it."
I pull back to look at him. "Are you worried about me?"
"Always."
The word is simple, but the weight behind it makes my chest ache. This man — this dangerous, powerful, impossible man — worries about me. Thinks about me when I'm not here. Wants to keep me safe.
I reach up and trace the scar through his eyebrow, the one I've kissed a hundred times now. "You know I can take care of myself."
"I know." He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to take care of you anyway."
I'm in so much trouble. Because I don't want him to stop.
"I'll be fine," I say softly. "I'm always fine."
"You better be." He cups my face in his hands and kisses me — slow and deep, the kind of kiss that feels more like a promise than a goodbye. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and serious. "Text me when you get home."
"I will."
I get dressed while he watches, neither of us saying much. The silence isn't awkward — it's comfortable, lived-in. Like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.
That thought should scare me. It doesn't.
At the door, I pause and look back at him. He's standing by the bed, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Something soft underneath all that hardness. Something that looks a lot like what I'm feeling.
"Same time tomorrow?" I ask.
"I'll be here."
I slip out into the hallway, careful to avoid the main room where the brothers might still be drinking. The back exit is my usual route — out through the storage area, across the lot to where I park my car two blocks away. Nobody sees me come, nobody sees me go.
That's the theory, anyway.
The drive home is quiet, the desert dark on either side of the highway. I keep the radio off, letting myself replay the last few hours. King's hands. King's voice. The way he held me after, like he wasn't ready to let go. Like I mattered.
I never thought I'd have this. Growing up in the club, I saw what love looked like for the old ladies — waiting, worrying, turning a blind eye to things they didn't want to know.
My own mother couldn't handle it. She left when I was nine, disappeared in the middle of the night and never looked back.
I swore I'd never be that woman. Never let myself get tangled up with a man who'd always put the club first.
And now here I am, falling for the president of a rival MC. The one man guaranteed to destroy everything if my father ever finds out.
I'm an idiot. A happy, satisfied, thoroughly fucked idiot.
But I can't seem to stop.
The next morning, I'm sitting at the kitchen table in my father's house, nursing a cup of coffee and trying not to look like I got three hours of sleep.
Rocky's in the other room with a few of his brothers — Chains, the club president, and a couple others whose names I've never bothered to learn.
They've been holed up in there since before I woke up, voices low and serious, and normally I wouldn't think twice about it.
Club business is club business. I learned a long time ago not to ask questions.
But something feels different today. The energy in the house is off. Tense in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. And when I walked past the door earlier, the conversation stopped dead until I was out of earshot.
I should leave it alone. Whatever they're planning, it's not my concern.
But curiosity — or maybe something deeper, some instinct I can't name — gets the better of me.
I move quietly down the hall, coffee cup in hand like I'm just passing through. The door to my father's office is cracked open — just a few inches, but enough. I stop just outside, pressing my back against the wall, and listen.
"—shipment comes in Thursday night." That's Chains, his gravelly voice unmistakable. "The Sons are moving grey market parts through the old warehouse on Route 10. Big money. Cash deal. We hit them there, we send a message they won't forget."
My blood runs cold.
"How many men on their side?" my father asks.
"Six, maybe eight. We bring twelve. Catch them off guard, take them before they know what's happening."
"And King?"
The name hits me like a punch to the chest. I press harder against the wall, my coffee sloshing in the cup.
"Intel says he'll be there personally. Overseeing the deal." Chains pauses. "Time to put that arrogant prick in the ground while we've got the chance."
I can't breathe. My lungs have stopped working.
"What's the play?" my father asks. "We going in hot?"
"Full force. No warning. They won't see us coming until it's too late."
There's a pause. I can picture my father nodding, that cold look in his eyes he gets when he's made up his mind about something.
"Rocky, you good with this?" Chains asks.
"I've been waiting years for a chance to put the Sons in their place." My father's voice is hard. Final. "Thursday night, we end this."
I back away from the door on shaking legs. My heart is hammering so loud I'm sure they can hear it through the walls. I make it to my bedroom, close the door behind me as quietly as I can, and press my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Thursday. That's two days from now.
Two days until my father and his club ambush the man I'm falling in love with.
Twelve men against six. Full force. No warning.
King won't see it coming. He'll walk into that warehouse thinking it's just another deal, and they'll be waiting for him.
They're going to kill him.
I spend the next forty-eight hours in a fog.
I go through the motions — eating meals I don't taste, sleeping in fits and starts, pretending everything is fine while my insides are screaming.
My father doesn't notice anything's wrong.
He's too focused on Thursday, too amped up about finally getting one over on the Sons of Ruin.
Every time he mentions it — a comment about checking weapons, a phone call about timing — I want to throw up.
I try to convince myself it's not my problem.
That whatever happens between the clubs is beyond my control.
I'm just Rocky's daughter — I don't have a say in any of this.
I'm not a patched member. I'm not part of the business.
What happens Thursday night is between the Road Kings and the Sons of Ruin, and it has nothing to do with me.
But every time I close my eyes, I see King.
The way he looked at me that last night, soft and unguarded in a way I don't think many people get to see. The way he said always when I asked if he worried about me. The way he kissed my palm like it was something sacred.
He trusts me. He's let me into his bed, his clubhouse, his life. He's shown me pieces of himself that I'm pretty sure no one else has seen.
And if I don't warn him, he's going to walk into a trap and die.
The choice should be impossible. Blood versus... whatever this is. My father versus the man I've been sneaking around with for two weeks. Everything I've known my whole life versus something that's barely begun.
But the thing is, it's not impossible at all.
It's the easiest decision I've ever made.
I'm just terrified of what comes after.
Thursday afternoon, I tell my father I'm going to Tina's for the evening. He barely looks up from his phone — too busy coordinating with Chains, running through the plan one more time.
"Be back by ten," he says absently. "I might be out late."
Yeah. I know exactly where you'll be.
"Sure, Dad."
I drive to the Sons of Ruin clubhouse with my hands shaking on the wheel. I've never come here during the day before. Never walked through the front door where anyone could see me. But I don't have time to be careful. I don't have time to be smart.
The prospect at the door recognizes me — same guy from before, the one who let me in that first night without knowing who I was. He knows now. His eyes go wide when he sees me approaching in broad daylight.
"I need to see King," I say before he can speak. "Now. It's urgent."
He hesitates, clearly unsure what to do with Rocky's daughter showing up demanding to see his president. I can see him weighing his options — turn me away, make me wait, ask questions I don't have time to answer.
"Please," I say, and something in my voice must convince him, because he nods and steps aside.
"He's in the back. I'll take you."
The main room is half-full of brothers — drinking, playing cards, working on bike parts at a table in the corner.
Every single one of them stops what they're doing when I walk through.
I feel their eyes on me, the weight of their suspicion and curiosity.
Rocky's daughter, here in the middle of the day, asking for their president.
I keep my chin up and my eyes forward, following the prospect down the hall to King's office.
He knocks once, then opens the door.
"Prez. You've got a visitor."
King looks up from his desk — and freezes.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. I watch his expression shift from surprise to concern to something darker as he reads my face. He knows something's wrong. He's always been able to read me.
"Leave us," he says to the prospect. His voice is calm, controlled, but I can hear the tension underneath.
The door closes behind me. We're alone.
"Demi." He's on his feet and around the desk before I can blink, his hands reaching for me. "What's wrong? What happened?"
I open my mouth to answer, and to my horror, I start to cry.
He pulls me against his chest immediately, holding me tight, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other wraps around my waist. "Hey. Hey. I've got you. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Just talk to me."
"I'm sorry," I choke out against his shirt. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know where else to go."
"Sorry for what?" He pulls back just enough to tilt my face up to his, his thumbs brushing away my tears. "Demi. Talk to me. What happened?"
I take a breath. Then another. I force myself to stop crying, to find the words.
And then I tell him everything.
The overheard conversation. The ambush planned for tonight. The warehouse on Route 10. Twelve Road Kings against however many Sons show up. The plan to hit them hard, hit them fast, before they know what's coming.
The plan to kill him.
His face goes cold as I talk. Hard. The soft man who held me all those nights disappears, replaced by the president. The one who makes the hard calls. The one who keeps his club alive.
When I finish, the silence stretches between us like a blade.
"You came here to warn me," he says finally. His voice is flat. Unreadable.
"Yes."
"You betrayed your own father. Your own club. For me."
I flinch at the word betrayed, but I don't look away. "Yes."
He stares at me for a long moment. I don't know what I expected — gratitude, maybe. Or anger that I'd put myself at risk. Suspicion that this could be a setup, a trap.
What I don't expect is his hands cupping my face, gentle as anything, his eyes searching mine.
"You just betrayed your whole family to save my ass," he says.
And then he kisses me like it's the only answer he has.