Chapter Two
Swift
Coffee didn’t fix much.
It didn’t stop the ache in my jaw from clenching it all night. It didn’t erase the images that came like a flicker behind my eyes every time the house went quiet: Britta on the floor, blood blooming fast, Tempi screaming, the smell of smoke and liquor, and panic.
Coffee didn’t make Madison feel like home, either.
But it gave my hands something to do.
I leaned against the kitchen counter with a mug cupped in both palms, letting the heat sink into my skin.
The kitchen was small in that lived-in way.
Real wood cabinets, a worn table that had probably hosted a thousand dinners and a million arguments, a little rooster-shaped salt shaker on the windowsill that made me want to laugh for no reason at all.
Britta’s mom’s house didn’t feel like a place for violence. It felt like cinnamon and laundry detergent and old TV shows you put on for background noise.
Which was exactly why I’d been on her porch for eight days, because someone had dragged violence to Britta anyway.
Twister stood next to me, also holding coffee, also leaning like the weight on his shoulders was something he’d learned to carry with his spine instead of his hands. He looked calmer than he’d been the night of the shooting.
That didn’t mean he was.
Twister was the kind of man who could smile while planning your funeral.
Britta and Tempi sat at the kitchen table, close together like they were trying to stitch normal back into place with conversation.
Tempi had her hair up in a messy bun, wearing a hoodie that looked like it had lived through a hundred late-night closes at the Badger’s Den.
Britta was in an oversized tee, one shoulder sitting slightly different because of the bandages underneath, her hair still sleep-tousled.
They were talking quietly, their voices low and familiar.
Tempi was trying to make Britta laugh.
Britta was trying not to show how tired she still was.
I watched without making it obvious. I’d learned a long time ago that women noticed more than men gave them credit for. Britta especially. She had a sharpness to her that didn’t dull just because she was healing.
Twister shifted slightly, angling his body toward me so the girls wouldn’t hear. “You seen anything?” he asked quietly.
I kept my eyes on the table as if I wasn’t listening to him at all. “No.” My voice came out low, controlled. “Nothing out of the ordinary. No cars lingering. No foot traffic that doesn’t make sense. Just neighbors walking dogs and old men jogging like they’re training for the apocalypse.”
Twister’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed hard. “You sure?”
I took a sip of coffee. It was strong. Bitter. Good. “I’m sure.”
I’d been up before the sun every day since Britta came home.
I’d watched the street until my eyes burned.
I’d watched the corner. I’d watched the neighbors’ routines.
I’d watched the mailman. I’d watched the squirrel that kept trying to climb the same tree and failing, like it was personally offended by gravity.
If someone got within a block of this place, I would know about it.
Twister’s gaze drifted to Britta. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s doing fine,” I said, and I realized I meant it. Mostly. “A lot of sleeping. She stays in her bedroom most of the time. When she’s up, she’s stubborn as hell. Which is… good.”
Twister’s eyes flicked to mine. “That’s good?”
“It means she’s still her,” I said simply. It meant she hadn’t gone quiet in the way some people did after they’d been hurt. It meant she still had fight. Even if she was exhausted.
I watched Britta reach for her mug with her good arm, fingers wrapping around it carefully. “She should be getting her stitches out in a few days,” I added.
Twister nodded once. “And after that?”
I exhaled slowly through my nose. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Who knows what she’s planning?”
Twister’s voice stayed quiet, but there was something sharp under it. “Do you think she’s gonna stay here?”
I glanced at him. Just a look. “It’s up to her.”
Twister watched me for a beat, then asked the question I knew was coming. “You planning to stay here?”
I didn’t flinch. “Wherever she is,” I said, “I’ll protect her.”
Twister went still. Not much, but enough for me to notice. The smallest pause, the tiniest shift in his posture. Then he huffed a quiet breath like he was biting back a grin. “Since when?”
I lifted one shoulder in a shrug, keeping my voice level. “Since someone shot her.”
Twister angled closer, dropping his voice even more. “What the hell is going on with that, Swift?”
I stared into my coffee like it held answers.
“I didn’t know you had an interest in Britta.”
I didn’t either. Not like this.
I’d noticed her before. I wasn’t blind. Britta was pretty in that effortless way. The kind of woman who could roll her eyes at you and still make you want to hear what she had to say. Curvy in the right places, sharp mouth, sharper brain. She had this vibe like she could hold her own in any room.
But interested?
That implied time.
Fun. Flirting. A slow burn.
And I hadn’t had room in my life for slow anything in a long time.
Then she got shot, and something in me snapped into place like it had been waiting.
I shrugged again, but my throat tightened. “I wasn’t blind before,” I said. “But having someone shot… it changes the math.”
Twister’s brow furrowed. “The math?”
“Yeah,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “It makes you realize you don’t get to assume there’ll be time later.”
Twister stared at me for a long moment. Then he gave a slow nod. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that.”
We fell silent for a beat, both of us watching the women at the table without letting them see the heaviness behind our eyes.
Britta laughed softly at something Tempi said. It wasn’t her full laugh, more like a test run. Like she was seeing if it still worked.
It did.
Twister’s voice cut in again, dragging me back to what mattered. “You got any opinions on where she should be?” he asked.
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If she’s staying here,” Twister said, “or going back to her place. You got thoughts?”
I did. Plenty. But thoughts didn’t matter as much as Britta’s choice. “I’ll keep her safe either way,” I said.
Twister’s mouth pulled to the side. “That’s not what I asked.”
I looked at him. I didn’t have to say much for him to read it. “This house is harder,” I admitted. “More angles. More windows. More ways someone could watch without being seen.”
Twister nodded. “And her apartment?”
“Contained,” I said. “One entrance. One hallway. People notice strangers.”
Twister’s gaze sharpened. “You’re saying she’d be safer there.”
“I’m saying it’d be easier to control.”
Twister’s eyes flicked back to Tempi.
“And what about Tempi?” The question carried weight.
Someone had burned her bar down. Someone had dragged her into this whether she wanted it or not.
Twister’s jaw flexed.
“Have you heard anything?” I asked, shifting topics before we spiraled into the part that made my blood run cold.
Twister’s expression hardened. “Nothing.”
He took a sip of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him from ripping someone’s throat out. “Everything’s silent. I can’t get a word out of anyone.”
I didn’t like hearing that. Silence meant planning. Silence meant eyes and ears closing ranks.
With us being new in Madison, we were the outsiders. Even if we were posted up downtown and wearing our cuts like a warning sign, that didn’t make us insiders. It just made people wary.
“We need someone local,” Twister muttered. “Someone who knows things. Someone who hears things.”
I let out a low laugh, humorless. “Tempi,” I said.
Twister’s eyes flicked to mine and he snorted quietly. “Yeah,” he said. “That didn’t exactly work out.”
I glanced toward the table where Tempi was talking, her hands moving as she spoke like she couldn’t help it. “Hard to buddy up with someone after you light her bar on fire and try to kill her best friend,” I murmured.
Twister’s laugh came out dry. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Little hiccup in the friendship-building plan.”
My mouth twitched despite myself.
Twister sighed and leaned more heavily against the counter, his voice turning serious again.
“Tempi’s been around forever,” he said. “Her dad was around before that. She knows downtown. She knows the people. But whoever’s coming at us doesn’t care.
” He glanced at Britta. “And now they’ve made Tempi and Britta the enemy too. ”
I felt my grip tighten around the mug. “They don’t get to choose that for them,” I said quietly.
Twister’s eyes narrowed. “They already did.”
He wasn’t wrong. Tempi and Britta didn’t get to opt out now. Not when someone had already put Britta in the hospital.
Twister’s gaze went cold. “We need eyes on them at all times,” he said. “Tempi and Britta.”
“I’ve got Britta,” I said immediately.
Twister’s attention sharpened, but he didn’t argue. “Good,” he said. “I’ll make sure Tempi isn’t alone either.”
As if on cue, Tempi’s voice rose at the table. “It’s too soon.”
Both Twister and I turned our heads.
Britta’s chin lifted, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not too soon,” she argued.
Twister pushed off the counter and stepped closer, his voice calm but carrying. “What is too soon?”
Tempi gestured with her mug like she was using it as a weapon. “Britta says she’s going back to her apartment on State Street.”
My eyes snapped to Britta. Surprise hit me so fast I didn’t bother hiding it.
She didn’t look away.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t apologize.
Of course she didn’t.
Britta squared her shoulders, carefully, and said, “It’s not too soon.”
Tempi looked like she wanted to launch herself across the table and physically glue Britta to the chair.
Britta kept going. “I love my mom,” she said, tone dry but sincere. “But I think I need at least a few more years living on my own before coming back home to take care of her when she’s old and gray.”
Tempi laughed, but it came out edged. “Your mom is far from needing anyone to take care of her.” Then she pointed at Britta. “You, on the other hand, need all the help you can get right now after being shot.”
Britta rolled her eyes. “I’m getting better every day,” she insisted. “I need to start getting back to normal and not lying around in bed all day.”
Twister moved toward the table, resting a hand lightly on the back of a chair like he was trying to keep his tone from turning into a command.
“Maybe you should stay here until you at least get your stitches out,” Tempi suggested.
Britta scoffed and shook her head. “No.” Just one word, but it landed like a stamp.
“I’m not sticking around for that long,” she continued.
“Besides, it’s not like my mom is home taking care of me around the clock.
She leaves for work at eight-thirty, and then she isn’t home until six-thirty.
I’m alone most of the time.” Her eyes slid to me. “Well,” she added, “for the most part.”
Tempi followed Britta’s gaze to me, her expression unreadable. Then she asked, “What do you think about Britta going back to her apartment?”
The question wasn’t just curiosity.
It was a test.
Tempi loved Britta like family. She was scared. She was guilty. She was trying to control the uncontrollable.
I understood that.
But Britta wasn’t Tempi’s to control.
Britta was… Britta.
I kept my face neutral and shrugged. “If that’s what she wants to do,” I said, “then that’s what she’ll do.”
Britta’s eyes narrowed slightly, like she was waiting for the “but.”
I didn’t give it to her. “I can protect her anywhere.”
Tempi’s lips quirked, not quite convinced.
Twister stepped in smoothly because that was what he did when he wanted to guide a situation without turning it into a fight. “She’s well enough to go back to her apartment, Tempi,” Twister said. “Besides, she’ll be closer to you and the bar if she goes back.”
Tempi sighed like she hated that he was right. “Fine,” she said reluctantly. “You’re right.” Then she added, “And she’ll also be closer to Tyson since he lives in the same building as she does.”
Tyson. Britta’s older brother.
He’d been over a few times since she got shot.
Big guy, protective, eyes that didn’t like me.
He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to.
The way he watched me said plenty. He thought I was danger.
Or he thought I was just another man who’d show up in Britta’s life and make it complicated. Maybe he wasn’t wrong.
Britta laughed. “Thank you,” she said, her voice sarcastic. “Although I’m not asking for your permission.”
Tempi’s shoulders sagged. She reached across the table and squeezed Britta’s hand. “I’m sorry,” Tempi said, quieter now. “I don’t mean to be overprotective. I just… this is all my fault.”
Britta scoffed. “As if.” She leaned back carefully, then looked at Twister and me, her eyes sharp. “Your hot biker started all of this,” she said, nodding at Twister like he was a headline in a newspaper, “and I know he and his biker brothers will be the ones to finish it, right?”
There it was.
That spunk.
That spark.
It had dulled this past week. Not gone, but muted under pain and exhaustion. Seeing it flare up now did something in my chest I didn’t have a name for.
Twister’s face hardened. “This wasn’t a war we started,” he said. “But yes. We plan on finishing it.”
Britta nodded once, satisfied. “Good,” she said simply. “Then I’ll be moving back to my apartment tomorrow.”
Tempi opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again.
Twister gave a slow nod. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.
Britta looked at me.
I didn’t smile. I didn’t soften my expression.
But my voice came out steady. “Tomorrow,” I echoed.
Because if that was what she wanted, I’d make it happen. And I’d make sure she stayed breathing.
No matter where she slept.
No matter whose porch I had to sit on.
No matter how long it took Madison to learn that the Saint’s Outlaws didn’t leave once they planted roots.
Britta wasn’t just recovering; she was reclaiming.
And I wasn’t about to be the man who stood in her way.
I was going to be the man who stood in front of her.