Chapter 2 - Emma
"When the threat is eliminated." He says, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Typical MC talk. Clinical. Detached. As if they're discussing pest control rather than what I assume means killing people. I've heard it all my life from my father, that cold, emotionless tone that makes murder sound like a business transaction.
"Right," I say, taking a sip of my coffee. It's surprisingly good for a roadside diner. "And how long does my father expect that to take? I have a life to get back to."
Wilder, or Rex, though I can't bring myself to use his real name when the road name is so fitting is staring right back at me.
He's different from my father's usual associates.
Younger, for one thing. There's an intensity to him that isn't just menace.
Like he's constantly calculating, measuring, preparing.
"Hard to say," he finally answers. "These Vultures MC aren't the type to give up easily."
"Vultures MC? Great." I lean back against the vinyl booth. "Dad's pissed off another MC now? He's really working his way through the criminal organization bingo card, isn't he?"
A muscle in his jaw tightens. "It's not a game, Emma."
"Don't you think I know that?" I snap, louder than intended. The elderly couple glances our way, and I lower my voice. "My entire life has been disrupted because of my father's choices. Again. So, excuse me if I don't show the proper respect for his latest war."
Our food arrives, saving Wilder from having to respond. The waitress sets down plates heaped with food, giving me a sympathetic smile like she thinks I'm having relationship troubles with the dangerous-looking biker across from me. If only that were the extent of my problems.
"Can I get you anything else, honey?" she asks.
"No, thank you. This looks perfect." I manage a smile, waiting until she walks away before continuing our conversation. "What's your role in all this? Dad's chauffeur service?"
Wilder takes a bite of his burger, chewing before answering. "I do whatever the club needs. Today, that means bringing you home safely."
"It's not my home," I correct him. "I haven't lived with my father since I was sixteen."
He nods, accepting this without comment, which irritates me more than if he'd argued. I take an aggressive bite of my sandwich instead of pursuing that line of conversation.
"You mentioned trafficking," I say after swallowing. "You sure my father wasn’t involved in that?"
"Not the way you're implying." Wilder's eyes harden. "He shut it down. Hard."
"And now the traffickers want revenge." I put the pieces together. "Right? That’s what you said.”
He nods, dipping a fry in ketchup. "A Club with connections to organized crime in Europe. They were running girls through our territory. Your father took exception to that."
I absorb this information, conflicted. On one hand, stopping human traffickers is objectively good. On the other hand, I know exactly how my father "takes exception" to things—with brutal, excessive violence.
"These women he saved," I say. "What happened to them?"
"Some went home to their families. Others are in protective custody with various agencies." He hesitates, then adds, "One is staying at the clubhouse."
My eyebrows shoot up. "At the clubhouse? Why?"
Wilder focuses intently on his food. "That's something you should ask your father."
"You keep saying that." I stab a fry into my ketchup. "But my father and I aren't exactly known for our heart-to-heart conversations."
"Things change." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "People change."
"Not my father." I shake my head. "Jackson Kane has been exactly the same since the day my mother left. Cold. Distant. Married to that damn club."
Wilder smirks. "You really haven't talked to him in a while, have you?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He seems to consider his words. "Just that you might find some things different than you remember."
I narrow my eyes, trying to decipher what he's not saying. Before I can press him further, his attention shifts to something behind me. His posture changes subtly: shoulders squaring, hand sliding toward his side where I assume he's carrying a weapon.
"What is it?" I ask, resisting the urge to turn around.
"Two men at the door. They've been following our car since we left the station." His voice is calm, but his eyes have gone cold. "Don't turn around. Finish your food like nothing's wrong."
My heart rate doubles instantly, but I force myself to take another bite of my sandwich. "How do you know they're following us?"
"Same car I spotted in my mirrors. Now they're here, checking every booth." He takes a casual bite of his burger, but his eyes never leave the men behind me. "You remember where the Charger is parked?"
I nod, trying to keep my breathing steady.
"Good. When I say go, you walk—don't run—to the car. Get on the passenger side. I'll be right behind you." He reaches into his pocket and slides the keys across the table. "If anything happens to me, you drive straight to Pine Haven. Call your father the minute you're on the road."
"What's going to happen to you?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Nothing, if this goes right." The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be a smile. "Ready?"
No, I'm not ready. I don't want to be in this situation. I don't want strange men following me because of who my father is. I don't want to be running for my life with a man I just met as my only protection.
But I nod anyway, because what choice do I have?
Wilder casually pulls out his wallet, drops enough cash on the table to cover our meals and a generous tip, then meets my eyes. "Go. Now."
I slide out of the booth, keeping my movements natural despite the adrenaline racing through my veins. With the car keys clutched tightly in my hand, I walk toward the door, focusing on looking normal. Just a girl leaving a diner after lunch. Nothing suspicious.
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of two men in dark jackets standing near the register. One of them turns as I pass, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long. I keep walking, pushing through the glass door into the parking lot.
The Charger sits twenty yards away, black and sleek in the afternoon sun. I maintain my pace, though every instinct screams at me to run. Behind me, I hear the diner door open again. Footsteps that aren't Wilder's. My heart hammers against my ribs.
"Miss Emma," a heavily accented voice calls. "A moment, please."
I freeze, terror washing over me in a cold wave. They know my name. I turn slowly to see them approaching, a thin smile on their faces. No sign of Wilder.
"I think you have me confused with someone else," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I don't think so." The man continues advancing, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Your father has something that belongs to us. Perhaps you can help us recover it."
My fingers tighten around the car keys, the metal edges digging into my palm. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do." He's only a few feet away now. "Why don't you come with us? We can discuss it somewhere more comfortable."
"She's not going anywhere with you." Wilder's voice cuts through the parking lot as he emerges from the diner, his hand resting on what I now see is a gun holstered under his leather cut.
The man’s smile falters. "This doesn't concern you."
"The president's daughter always concerns me." Wilder moves to stand between me and the man. "Walk away now, and you might live to report back to Charles."
At the mention of Charles, something dangerous flashes in the man's eyes. His hand drifts toward his jacket.
"Emma," Wilder says without turning, "get in the car."
I back toward the Charger, keys ready, unable to tear my eyes from the scene unfolding before me. The second man has moved, circling to flank Wilder.
"Last chance," Wilder warns them. "Walk away."
The first man laughs. "Two against one. I like these odds."
"You shouldn't," Wilder says, and he draws his gun.
What happens next is a blur. The Vultures MC lunge forward. A shot rings out, then another. I scream as the first man crumples to the ground, clutching his leg. The second tackles Wilder, sending them both crashing into a nearby car. The gun skitters across the pavement.
I fumble with the keys, finally getting the door open and throwing myself into the passenger seat. Through the windshield, I watch in horror as Wilder and the man grapple violently, trading brutal blows.
Despite his younger age and obvious strength, Wilder fights with a calculated precision that's terrifying to witness. He blocks a wild punch, counters with an elbow to the man's face, then follows with a knee to the stomach that doubles the larger man over.
But the enemy isn't finished. He pulls something from his jacket—a knife, its blade catching the sunlight. Wilder sees it too late, barely twisting away as the knife slashes across his arm, tearing through his shirt. Blood immediately darkens the fabric.
I should start the car. I should be ready to flee if Wilder loses this fight. Instead, I'm frozen, watching as this man I barely know bleeds defending me.
Wilder doesn't even flinch at the wound. He grabs the man's knife arm, twists it at an unnatural angle until I hear a sickening crack. The knife falls. The man howls. Wilder follows with a devastating punch that sends the man sprawling unconscious on the asphalt.
Only then does he retrieve his gun, keeping it trained on both men as he backs toward the car. His t-shirt is stained crimson down one sleeve, but his face shows no pain, only cold focus.
He slides into the driver's seat beside me, wincing slightly as he yanks the door shut. "Give me the keys."
I hand them over, too stunned to speak. He starts the engine, throws the car into reverse, and peels out of the parking lot, tires squealing on asphalt.
"Are you hit?" he asks, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.
"What? No, I'm fine." I find my voice at last. "But you're bleeding."
"It's just a cut." He accelerates onto the highway, pushing the Charger well beyond the speed limit. "Should've known they'd have someone watching the station. Damn it."
"They knew my name," I say, the reality of the situation finally hitting me. "They were waiting for me."
Wilder's face darkens. "They've done their homework. We need to call your father."
He pulls a phone from his pocket, tossing it to me. "Speed dial one."
My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the phone, but I manage to hit the button. It rings twice before my father's gruff voice answers.
"Wilder? What's wrong?"
Hearing my father's voice sends a complicated surge of emotions through me—resentment, anger, but mostly relief now.
"It's Emma," I say, hating how small my voice sounds. "We were attacked at a diner about thirty minutes outside Oakridge. Two men. Vultures MC."
"Are you hurt?" The edge in his voice is one I recognize, tightly controlled panic.
"No, but your man is. Knife wound to the arm." I glance at Wilder, who's scanning the road ahead with intense concentration, his injured arm leaving smears of blood on the steering wheel. "He shot one of them. Knocked out the other."
"Put Wilder on."
I hold the phone out. "He wants to talk to you."
Wilder takes it with his bloodied hand. "We're heading your way, Prez. Yeah. Yeah. No, superficial. They made her, though. Knew her by name." He listens for a moment. "Copy that. ETA forty minutes if the road stays clear."
He hands the phone back to me. "He wants to talk to you again."
I put the phone to my ear, steeling myself. "I'm here."
"Emma." My father's voice is rough with emotion. "I'm sorry this happened. We're going to lock down the clubhouse. You'll be safe here, I promise."
"Until the threat is eliminated?" I repeat Wilder's words, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
"Yes." He doesn't hesitate. "Until every last one of them is in the ground."
"That's what I was afraid of." I close my eyes briefly. "See you soon, Dad."
I end the call before he can respond, dropping the phone into my lap. We drive in silence for several minutes, the speedometer hovering around ninety. Finally, I find the courage to look directly at Wilder's injured arm.
"We need to stop the bleeding," I say. "Pull over."
"Not yet. Need more distance first."
"You're dripping blood all over the car," I argue. "At least let me wrap it while you drive."
He glances at me, then nods toward the glove compartment. "First aid kit in there."
I retrieve the kit, pleasantly surprised to find it well-stocked. "Take off your cut. I need to see the wound."
Wilder shrugs out of his leather vest with a barely perceptible grimace, keeping his eyes on the road. The slash runs across his upper arm, maybe four inches long but not dangerously deep. His t-shirt is ruined, the entire sleeve now soaked in crimson.
"Looks worse than it is," he says, noticing my expression.
"You need stitches."
"Blade can do that when we get back. He was in the military and learned a few things."
Of course he was. Because why would any of my father's "brothers" have normal backgrounds?
I tear open an antiseptic wipe. "This will sting."
"I'll manage," he says dryly.
When I press the wipe to his wound, he doesn't flinch, doesn't even tense. I clean away as much blood as I can, then wrap a pressure bandage around his arm, working as the car speeds down the highway.
"You've done this before," he observes.
"First aid training is part of my forensics program." I secure the bandage with medical tape. "Plus, I grew up with Jackson Kane as a father. Blood isn't exactly new to me."