Chapter 6
Marley woke up to silence and an empty cabin.
For one panicked moment, she thought he'd left. Dropped her at this safe house and disappeared back to wherever bikers went when they weren't rescuing bartenders from nomad gangs. She sat up in the unfamiliar bed, heart hammering, already cataloging what she'd do if she was alone out here—
Then she heard it. The steady rhythm of footsteps on the dock outside.
She went to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Wake was walking the perimeter. Slow, methodical, checking the tree line and the water's edge and the gravel road that wound through the pines toward the main highway. He moved like a man who'd done this a hundred times—comfortable, efficient, completely at ease in his own body.
She watched him longer than she should have.
He'd stripped off his cut and was working in just a black t-shirt, the fabric stretched across shoulders that were broader than she'd noticed last night. His hands were still scarred, still rough, but there was a grace to the way he moved that reminded her of something.
It took her a moment to place it.
He moved around the water the way she moved behind a bar. Automatic. Instinctive. Like he'd grown up here and never really left.
Lake kid, she thought. He's a lake kid who found a motorcycle club.
She let the curtain fall and turned away from the window. The bedroom was sparse—a bed, a dresser, a lamp that probably hadn't worked in years. Her duffel sat on the floor where she'd dropped it last night, and her lockbox was on the dresser, exactly where she'd left it.
She'd slept. Actually slept. Six hours without waking up to check the locks, without listening for boots on stairs, without that constant low-grade terror that had been her companion since Maddox walked into her bar.
Because Wake was out there. Keeping watch. Keeping her safe.
The thought should have annoyed her. She'd been taking care of herself since she was sixteen, when her mother finally stopped coming home and Marley realized that the Anchor was the only family she had left. She didn't need a man to protect her. Had never wanted one.
But something about the way Wake did it—steady and certain, no ego, no expectations—made it feel less like rescue and more like... partnership.
Don't go there, she told herself. He's doing his job. That's all.
She found her way to the kitchen and started cleaning.
It was what she did when her hands needed to move.
The cabin was dusty, neglected, the kind of place that got used once a year and forgotten the rest of the time.
Marley found rags under the sink and cleaning supplies in a closet, and she set to work wiping down counters and organizing cabinets and taking inventory of what was on the shelves.
Not much. Canned beans, instant coffee, a box of pasta that had probably been there since the Clinton administration. She made a mental list of what they'd need if they were staying more than a day or two, then reminded herself that she didn't know how long this would last.
Until we handle the Razorbacks, Wake had said. Could be days. Could be longer.
Longer. The word sat heavy in her chest. The Anchor was closed, her bouncer was in the hospital, and sixteen nomad bikers wanted to use her bar as their personal clubhouse. Even if the Ridgerunners dealt with Maddox, what came after?
She attacked the kitchen floor with a mop she found in the closet.
By the time she was done, the cabin looked almost livable. She'd organized the pantry, cleaned the bathroom, and found a broom to deal with the cobwebs in the corners. Her back ached and her hands smelled like pine cleaner, but her mind had finally stopped racing.
She stepped onto the porch and found Wake at the dock.
He was crouched at the edge, examining something in the water.
His bike was parked at the tree line, positioned for a quick exit, and his cut was draped over the seat.
From this angle, she could see the prospect patch on the back—PROSPECT in white letters, waiting to be replaced by something permanent.
"You clean when you're stressed," he said without looking up.
Marley stopped at the edge of the porch. "You were watching me?"
"Hard not to." He stood and turned to face her. "You've been going nonstop since you woke up."
"Idle hands get in trouble."
"That what your uncle taught you?"
The mention of her uncle sent a familiar ache through her chest. "Something like that."
Wake walked up the dock toward her, and she found herself cataloging his movements again. The easy stride, the loose shoulders, the way his eyes never stopped scanning the tree line even when he was looking at her.
"The Anchor," he said. "He leave it to you?"
"When he died, yeah. Three years ago."
"And you've been running it alone since then?"
"Running it, fixing it, keeping the lights on." She crossed her arms over her chest. "It's not much, but it's mine. Only thing I've ever had that was really mine."
Something shifted in his expression. Recognition, maybe. The look of someone who understood what it meant to build something from nothing and hold onto it with both hands.
"I get that," he said quietly.
"Do you?"
"Yeah." He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at her.
"I worked at a marina for eight years. Started when I was twenty, learned everything about engines, became the best mechanic on the lake.
When the owner died, I thought—" He shook his head.
"Doesn't matter what I thought. His son took over and handed my job to his buddy.
Eight years, and I walked out with a handshake and a 'good luck. '"
Marley studied him. The bitterness in his voice was old, worn down to something quieter. But it was still there.
"So you joined a motorcycle club."
"The Ridgerunners don't promote by bloodline." He held her gaze. "You earn your patch through work. Through loyalty. Through proving you belong." A pause. "I've been proving it for two years. Still waiting on that vote."
"And if they vote no?"
"They won't."
The certainty in his voice made her stomach flip. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly what he'd do to get it. No doubts, no second-guessing, no backup plans.
"Must be nice," she said. "Being that sure about something."
"What are you sure about?"
Nothing, she almost said. I've never been sure about anything in my life.
But that wasn't true, was it?
"The Anchor," she said instead. "I'm sure about the Anchor. It's a dive bar on a back road with sticky floors and a broken pool table, and it should have closed a dozen times. But I kept it open. Kept it running. Because—"
She stopped, not sure how to finish.
"Because it's yours," Wake said. "And you don't let go of what's yours."
The way he looked at her when he said it made her breath catch.
Yours. The word hung between them, loaded with something neither of them was ready to name.
Marley broke eye contact first. "I should check on—something. Inside."
"Marley."
Her name in his mouth stopped her cold. She turned back.
"When this is over," he said, "you'll get your bar back. I promise."
She wanted to tell him not to make promises he couldn't keep. Wanted to remind him that she'd learned a long time ago not to trust men who made things sound simple.
Instead, she nodded. "I'll hold you to that."
She went back inside and busied herself making coffee with the ancient supplies in the pantry. Through the window, she watched Wake return to his patrol. Dock to tree line to road and back again, an endless circuit that said he'd keep walking it all day if he had to.
The afternoon passed slowly. Marley found a paperback novel in the bedroom closet—some thriller with a cracked spine—and tried to read it on the porch while Wake kept watch. She gave up after twenty pages, too distracted by his presence, too aware of every time he walked past.
He brought her water without being asked. Made them both sandwiches from the meager supplies she'd found. Sat beside her on the porch steps while they ate, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"You don't talk much," she said.
"Neither do you."
"I talk for a living."
"That's different." He finished his sandwich and dusted off his hands. "You talk to keep people comfortable. To keep them drinking. That's not the same as saying what you mean."
She stared at him. "You've known me two days."
"Long enough."
Long enough for what? The question burned on her tongue, but she didn't ask it.
The sun dropped toward the tree line. Orange light painted the water, and the cicadas started their evening chorus. Marley was helping Wake gather their supplies from the porch when she heard it.
Engines. Distant, but getting closer. The unmistakable rumble of motorcycles pushing hard up a gravel road.
Wake's head snapped toward the sound. His whole body went rigid—not fear, she realized, but readiness. The coiled tension of a man who'd been waiting for a fight and was almost relieved it had arrived.
"Inside," he said.
"Like hell."
He turned to look at her, something fierce in his eyes. "Marley—"
"It's not your bar they took." She met his gaze without flinching. "It's not your bouncer they broke. I'm not hiding in a bedroom while you handle my problem."
For a moment she thought he was going to argue. His jaw worked, muscles tightening, that protective fury she'd seen in him warring with something else.
Respect, maybe. Or something more.
"Stay behind me," he said finally. "And if I tell you to run, you run."
"We'll see."
The engines were louder now. Close. Marley could hear the crunch of gravel as the bikes hit the private road that led to the cabin.
Wake grabbed his cut from the bike and shrugged into it. Then he pulled his gun from his waistband and moved toward the dock, positioning himself where he could see both the water and the road.
Marley went to the cabin door. Her hand closed around a bottle from the kitchen—the one good whiskey she'd found in the back of a cabinet—and she planted herself at the threshold.
Let them come.
She'd been running scared for three days. Pouring drinks and smiling through her teeth and watching her bar get turned into a clubhouse for men who treated her like furniture.
Not anymore.
Wake caught her eye from the dock. Something passed between them—understanding, acknowledgment, the wordless agreement of two people about to face a fight together.
Then the first bike crested the hill, and Marley tightened her grip on the bottle.