Chapter Four
The compound was starting to feel less like a prison and more like a fortress.
Josie sat on the narrow bed in the room Anvil had given her, Diesel sprawled across her feet, watching the late afternoon light filter through reinforced windows.
She'd slept six hours—more than she'd managed in weeks—and woken to find a plate of food outside her door and the low rumble of motorcycle engines somewhere in the distance.
The Savages were preparing for war. Because of her.
She still couldn't quite wrap her head around it.
Diesel's ears pricked up a full second before Josie heard the engines. Different from the bikes she'd been hearing all day—rougher, less coordinated, coming fast down the single road that led to the compound.
She was on her feet and moving toward the window when the shouting started.
"—want the woman! Send her out and nobody gets hurt!"
Josie's blood went cold.
She reached for the door handle, some instinct screaming at her to run, to hide, to do something —
The door swung open before she touched it.
Anvil filled the frame, his massive body blocking her view of the hallway, one hand already pushing her back into the room.
"Stay here."
"Those men—"
"I know who they are." His voice was flat. Calm in a way that was more terrifying than shouting. "Stay in this room. Don't come out until I come get you."
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a solid click.
Josie stood frozen for half a second. Then she moved to the window.
Six men had rolled through the compound's front gate in two trucks, and they were standing in the middle of the yard like they owned the place.
The one in front—trucker's build, mean face, the same man who'd asked about her schedule two days ago—was shouting at a wall of Savage brothers who'd materialized from every corner of the compound.
Harlan Weeks. She remembered the name from the church meeting.
"We just want to talk to her!" Harlan's voice carried across the yard. "She saw things she wasn't supposed to see. We need to know what she told people."
"She's not available." That was Permafrost, stepping forward with the kind of cold authority that made the air feel ten degrees colder. "And you're trespassing."
"This doesn't have to be a problem. Just send her out, let us have a conversation, and we're gone."
"She's under our protection. That makes her unavailable."
Harlan's face twisted. "You don't want this fight. Brogan's got resources you can't match. Men, money, product moving through half the state. You're a bunch of bikers playing outlaw in the woods."
"And you're six men standing in a compound full of those bikers." Permafrost's voice didn't change. "Count the guns pointed at you right now. Take your time."
Josie watched Harlan's eyes sweep the compound, watched his expression shift as he realized exactly how many weapons had appeared in the hands of men who'd seemed unarmed thirty seconds ago.
Anvil stood at the front of the group, close enough to Harlan that he could have reached out and grabbed him. His hands hung loose at his sides, but there was something coiled in his posture—violence waiting to happen, held back by nothing but will.
"This isn't over," Harlan said. "Brogan doesn't let witnesses walk away. You can protect her for a day, a week, maybe a month. But eventually you'll slip. And when you do, we'll be there."
"Looking forward to it." Anvil's voice was soft. Almost gentle. "Now get the fuck off our property before I decide this conversation is over."
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then Harlan turned, gestured to his men, and climbed back into his truck. The engines roared to life, gravel sprayed, and the six men who'd come demanding Josie's head retreated through the gate they'd been bold enough to drive through.
The compound stayed frozen for another thirty seconds. Then Permafrost barked orders, brothers dispersed, and the machinery of defense began reconfiguring itself.
Josie's door opened.
Anvil filled the frame again, but this time his expression was different. Harder. Decided.
"Pack your things."
"What things? Everything I own burned two nights ago."
Something flickered in his eyes—acknowledgment, maybe. "Then get your dog. We're leaving."
"Leaving where?"
"Somewhere safer than this."
Josie wanted to argue. Wanted to demand explanations, details, some illusion of control over a situation that had spiraled so far beyond her ability to manage that she could barely remember what control felt like.
But she looked at Anvil's face—at the tension in his jaw, the certainty in his eyes—and she understood that arguing wasn't going to change anything.
"Okay," she said. "Lead the way."
The hunting cabin was forty minutes from the compound on roads that didn't appear on any map.
Josie sat behind Anvil on his bike, her arms wrapped around his waist, Diesel secured in a sidecar that one of the brothers had attached before they left. The trees pressed in from both sides as they climbed deeper into wilderness, the road narrowing until it was barely more than a trail.
When they finally stopped, the cabin was a shadow against the darker shadows of the pines.
"Home sweet home," Anvil said, killing the engine.
"This is your idea of safer?"
"This is my idea of hidden." He swung off the bike and offered her his hand. "Brogan's people would need a week to find this place, and by then, we'll have dealt with the problem."
Josie took his hand, letting him help her down even though she didn't need it. His palm was rough with calluses, warm despite the evening chill, and he held on a beat longer than necessary before releasing her.
"You've got a lot of confidence in your timeline."
"I've got confidence in my brothers." He moved toward the cabin, pulling keys from his cut. "And I've got confidence that Brogan just made the mistake of showing up at our front door. Permafrost doesn't let insults like that stand."
The cabin was small—one main room with a wood stove, a single bed against the far wall, a bathroom through a narrow door. Hunting trophies on the walls, a gun rack by the door, the smell of pine and wood smoke embedded in everything.
Josie stood in the middle of the space while Anvil checked windows, tested locks, moved through the cabin with the practiced efficiency of a man who'd secured more rooms than he could count.
Diesel found a spot near the wood stove and collapsed with a groan of contentment.
"Smart dog," Anvil said.
"He knows when he's found somewhere safe." Josie watched him finish his circuit, coming to rest near the door with his back to the wall. "Does he?"
"Does he what?"
"Know he's somewhere safe. Or is this just another temporary stop before everything goes wrong again?"
Anvil was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower than before.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll die trying to prevent it." His eyes met hers across the small room. "That's the best I've got."
Something shifted in Josie's chest—a crack in the wall she'd built around herself, the wall that kept everyone at arm's length because close meant vulnerable and vulnerable meant pain.
This man had put himself between her and armed men. Twice now. He'd given up his night to stand guard outside her door. He'd brought her to his club, argued for her protection, and now he was hiding her in a cabin in the middle of nowhere because someone wanted her dead.
And he was looking at her like she mattered.
Not like she was a problem to be solved or a witness to be managed or a loose end that might get him killed.
Like she mattered .
"One bed," she said, because the silence was getting heavy and she needed to fill it with something.
"I'll take the floor."
"That's—"
"Not up for debate." His voice was firm but not harsh. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be long."
He turned away, busying himself with the wood stove, feeding logs into the belly of it until the fire crackled and warmth began spreading through the small space.
Josie sat on the edge of the bed, watching him work.
She should be terrified. Should be planning escape routes, calculating survival odds, figuring out how to disappear before Brogan's men found this cabin and finished what they'd started.
Instead, she found herself watching the way Anvil moved—controlled, careful, every motion serving a purpose. The way the firelight caught the angles of his face. The way he kept positioning himself between her and the door, even here, even when there was nothing outside but trees and silence.
He felt her watching and looked up.
Their eyes met across the small room.
And Josie realized, with a clarity that should have scared her more than it did, that she was more worried about being alone with a man who watched her like she mattered than she was about the drug dealers trying to kill her.