Chapter Eight
Shadow
The rain makes it almost impossible to see the road in front of me. I should turn around and take the bike back, but I’ve been riding for a few hours now, and if I go back, it feels like I’m giving up on her. Just the thought of her sitting out in this makes me keep going.
Water lashes my face, stinging like needles where it slips past my visor.
The streets are empty except for the odd set of headlights cutting through the downpour.
I check every doorway, every bus shelter, like she might just be there, shivering with that stubborn chin lifted high, pretending she’s fine.
I’ve got no address. No plan. Just gut instinct and the kind of sick pull I can’t shake.
I swing past the church again. Kade said that’s where he saw her last, but again, there’s no sign of her. My stomach twists in knots.
Next, I circle the square, engine echoing off wet brick, eyes sweeping for a flash of white dress or that tumble of dark hair. Nothing.
By the third pass, my nerves are frayed raw. I hate this. Hate that she’s under my skin enough to have me chasing shadows through the rain. Hate that every minute I don’t find her, the worst-case scenarios get louder in my head.
I stop under a streetlight and kill the engine. Silence surrounds me, except for rain hammering the tarmac. My chest heaves.
“Where the fuck are you, Remi?” I mutter into the night.
A woman steps out from the shelter of a nearby shop doorway. I squint, trying to make out the scantily dressed figure, but as she gets closer, I realise it’s not her. “You looking for business?” she shouts over the downpour.
I shake my head. “Nah, and you shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
“Hunny, I have bills to pay. No raincheck for me.”
“I’m looking for someone,” I tell her, stuffing my hand into my pocket and pulling out a damp twenty. “Woman, around your age. Brown hair, long. She’s underweight, probably wearing a white dress. No coat.”
She takes the offered cash and stuffs it in her bra. “You’re the second guy to come looking,” she says with a smirk.
I narrow my eyes. “Oh yeah, who was the first?”
She arches her brow. “Another biker. Not the same patch as you, though,” she tells me, nodding to my kutte. “I only took note cos there was a car parked right over there,” she says with a nod, “and after the biker left, she got out the car.”
I glance over my shoulder to where she points. “She was at Steels?” I ask. “Did she go inside?”
She shakes her head. “No. She stood there for a while, though, then it started to rain and she ran off in the direction of the park.”
I pull another twenty out and stuff it in her hand. “Thanks. Anyone else comes looking, you didn’t see her . . . or me. We clear?”
She nods, smiling. “Anytime you want company, you come find me.”
I turn the bike around and park it outside Steels. The new sign flickers as I remove my helmet and head inside.
The doorman fist-bumps me as I pass, and then Shooter greets me as I enter. “Hey, brother. Axel never said anyone was coming by.”
“Have you seen Remi?” I ask.
He frowns. “The new girl from the bar?” I nod. “Nah, she ain’t in here, brother. I’ve been on since it opened.” I groan. “You need me to help find her?”
I pat him on the shoulder, shaking my head, and then I turn and trudge back out into the rain, passing my bike and heading for the park.
The park’s a swamp. The grass is churned to mud, with puddles deep enough to drown my boots. The trees sway under the weight of the storm, branches creaking like they might snap.
I’ve almost given up hope when I spot it.
A small shape curled beneath one of the old oaks, knees tucked tight, head bowed. The white fabric of her dress clings like second skin, see-through in the rain. For a second, she doesn’t move, just shivers like the cold’s hollowing her out.
“Remi.”
Her head snaps up, eyes red, cheeks blotched, but the tears vanish the second she recognises me. She straightens and wipes her face with the back of her hand, chin tipping up like she’s fine. Like I didn’t just catch her crying.
“Shadow,” she says, her voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” I bite out, striding closer. Up close, she’s worse. Soaked through, her lips are pale, almost blue, and her arms are wrapped tight across her chest. My jaw tightens. “Christ, you’re drenched.”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, though her teeth chatter between the words.
I crouch in front of her, the rain dripping off my kutte. “You’re not fine. You’re cold and wet. Your dress is half fucking see-through, Remi.” My eyes flick down, against my better judgement, then back up. Fury surges.
Her smirk wobbles. “Enjoying the view, Grumpzilla?”
“Not like this,” I growl, shrugging out of my kutte and draping it around her shoulders. It swamps her, heavy but warm, and she doesn’t fight it, telling me just how cold she really feels.
She meets my eyes then, and for a beat, she looks young, breakable. My chest tightens.
“You don’t get it,” she mutters, voice shaking. “I don’t need saving.”
“Too bad,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I’m doing it anyway.”
She huffs, but her body leans into mine as I pull her up from the mud. And when her knees buckle, I scoop her against me, ignoring her weak protests.
The rain keeps hammering, but I don’t feel it anymore. Not with her in my arms, curled into me like I’m the only thing tethering her to the world.
We get to my bike, and she’s so cold, she can hardly swing her leg over, so I keep her in my arms, sitting her sideways and tucking her against me. I put the spare helmet on her head, and once I’m satisfied she’s secure, I start the engine and take the quickest route back to the clubhouse.
I don’t stop to explain as I carry her inside. I don’t even nod to anyone. I just march through the clubhouse with her in my arms, dripping rain across the floor. Brothers glance up, but one look at my face and they keep their mouths shut.
I continue on up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door closed behind us.
And then I go right into the bathroom, setting her down against the sink unit while I reach inside the shower to turn it on.
The mirror fogs as I crank the water to hot.
Steam billows out, mixing with the storm still clinging to us.
Remi’s still shaking when I turn to look at her.
Her entire body vibrates while her teeth chatter.
Her hands fumble at the hem of her soaked dress, but she can’t get it up, her fingers too stiff and still trembling.
Her chin wobbles as silent tears streak her cheeks, but she doesn’t make a sound. Instead, she just stares at the tiled floor like it’s swallowing her whole. Like she’s giving up.
“Hey,” I say quietly, crouching in front of her. “It’s no big deal. You’re frozen solid. Let me help.”
Her eyes flick to mine. They’re wide, glassy, uncertain. Then she nods once.
Carefully, I peel the wet fabric up over her body. It clings like a second skin, forcing me to take it slow. I keep my gaze steady on her face, not her thin, pale frame, even though I see enough to make my chest ache.
“You’re alright,” I murmur, tossing the ruined dress aside. “Just you and me here, nothing else matters right now.”
She sways when she tries to step towards the shower, and I catch her elbow just in time, steadying her. “Easy.”
She grips the wall like it’s the only thing holding her upright, but even then, she’s too weak. My gut twists. There’s no way I’m leaving her like this.
I drag a chair in from the corner and set it under the spray. “Sit.”
She lowers herself carefully, still shivering, her hair plastered to her face. I strip off my shirt, boots, and jeans, until I’m down to my boxers, and climb in with her.
The heat slams into us, scalding at first then easing into something close to relief. I take the shampoo and lather it into her hair, my fingers working through the tangles. She sits silent, eyes closed, leaning into my touch like she doesn’t have the strength to fight it.
I rinse her hair then let the water pour over her shoulders, her arms, her legs. I take the bar of soap and lather it in my hands, crouching before her to run the soapy suds over her legs and feet, washing away the mud.
When she’s done, and when the shakes finally start to ease, I wrap her in the biggest towel I own, lifting her back into my arms. She’s lighter than she should be. Too light.
In my room, I set her gently on the bed. Keeping the towel tight around her to cover her modesty, I help dry her hair and arms with a smaller towel, never lingering longer than I should.
She doesn’t speak but closes her eyes like she’s enjoying being taken care of, and I wonder when the last time was that someone did that for her.
Something settles in my chest, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel like an enforcer, like the bastard who dishes out pain for a living.
I just feel like a man who found someone worth protecting. And that’s when I realise . . . I’m screwed.
Remi
No one’s ever taken care of me. Not like this.
Mum tried, in her own way, I guess, but the truth is she was always more interested in whichever bloke was warming her bed that week. I learned early not to expect gentle hands, not to lean on anyone. You rely on people, they let you down. Every single time.
And yet, here I am, wrapped in a towel the size of a duvet, Shadow’s—no, Logan’s—hands moving carefully over my arms, my hair, never lingering too long, never taking more than I’m willing to give. His touch is tender, almost cautious. Like I’m breakable. Like I matter.
It’s nice. Too nice.
Dangerously nice.
Because I know how this story ends. Men are sweet until they get what they want, then the mask slips and they turn cruel, or bored, or both. I’ve built my armour too carefully to let some grumpy biker strip it away with clean towels and shampoo.
I fix my stare on the wall while he works, forcing myself to stay cold and indifferent even though my chest aches at the care in his movements.