The scream tore from Rebekah’s throat before she could stop it.
One second she was locking her apartment door after a late shift at the bar, the next a gloved hand clamped over her mouth and the world spun sideways.
Asphalt scraped her cheek.
A boot connected with her ribs.
Pain exploded white-hot behind her eyes as the attacker snarled, “Tell your old man the Devils are coming for what he owes.”
She bit down hard.
Blood flooded her tongue—his or hers, she didn’t know.
The man cursed and jerked back, giving her the half-second she needed to slam her elbow into his throat the way her father had taught her when she was sixteen.
He staggered.
She scrambled up, keys still clutched like a weapon, and ran.
Headlights blinded her.
A motorcycle roared up the curb like a black steel demon.
The rider didn’t stop to ask questions.
He simply reached down, hooked an arm around her waist, and hauled her onto the seat behind him.
“Hold on, princess.”
Ryker’s voice.
Low, rough, the same voice that had lived in her filthy teenage dreams for years.
She wrapped her arms around his leather cut before her brain caught up.
The bike surged forward.
Gunshots cracked behind them—two, three—then the night swallowed everything except the thunder of the Harley and the frantic slam of her heart against his back.
By the time they screeched into the clubhouse lot twenty minutes later, Rebekah was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
Ryker killed the engine, swung off, and lifted her down like she weighed nothing.
His hands stayed on her waist a beat too long.
In the harsh glow of the security lights she saw the blood on his knuckles, the fresh split in his lip, and the way his dark eyes dragged over her torn shirt and the bruise already blooming on her jaw.
“You hurt?” he asked, voice gravel.
“I’m fine.” Lie.
Everything hurt. The source of this chapter is g.com.
But the worst pain was the way her body still remembered exactly how it felt to be pressed against him.
The clubhouse doors burst open.
Her father—Tank Morrison, president of the Iron Vipers—stormed out like a man who’d already killed three people tonight and was ready for more.
He took one look at her and his face went thunderous.
“Inside.
Now.”
Rebekah didn’t argue.
She never did when her father used that tone.
She let him pull her into the main room, past the wall of club colors and the wary eyes of patched members.
Ryker followed a half-step behind, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him.
Tank sat her down on a battered leather couch and crouched so they were eye-level.
“Devils ambushed two of our runs this week.
Tonight they came for you.
You’re not going back to that apartment.
You’re not going anywhere.”
”Dad—”
”No.” He cut her off with a slash of his hand.
“You stay under club protection until this is sorted.
And you’re staying with Ryker.”
Her stomach flipped.
“What?”
Ryker’s head snapped up from where he’d been wiping blood off his hands with a bar rag.
“Prez—”
Tank didn’t even look at him.
“You’re the only one I trust not to let your dick do the thinking.
She’s family.
You keep her breathing.
End of discussion.”
Rebekah’s pulse hammered in her ears.
She risked a glance at Ryker.
Forty-five years old and carved like a weapon—broad shoulders, thick forearms corded with muscle, a jaw you could cut glass on, and silver threading the black hair at his temples.
He wasn’t smiling now.
He met her eyes for half a second, then looked away like the sight of her burned.
“Yes, Prez,” he said, flat.
Tank nodded once, satisfied.
“Doc’s on his way to check her over.
Get her settled at your place.
I’ll call church in an hour.”
Rebekah opened her mouth to protest—she was twenty-four, not a kid—but one look from her father and the words died.
She knew that look.
It meant people had already died tonight and more would if she pushed.
Ten minutes later she was on the back of Ryker’s bike again, this time with a duffel bag of her hastily packed clothes strapped behind her.
The ride to his house on the edge of town was silent except for the wind and the low growl of the engine.
Every bump pressed her thighs tighter against his hips.
She tried not to notice how solid he felt, how the leather of his cut smelled like motor oil and smoke and something darker that made her mouth water.
His house was a single-story brick ranch with a detached garage and a porch light that flickered like it was on its last legs.
Inside it smelled like him—coffee, gun oil, and the faintest trace of the cedarwood soap he’d used since she was old enough to notice.
He dropped her bag on the couch and stalked to the kitchen without looking at her.
“The room’s down the hall.
Sheets are clean.
Bathroom’s yours.
I’ll take the couch.”
”You don’t have to—”
”I do.” He yanked open the fridge, pulled out two beers, and slid one across the counter to her.
His fingers brushed hers.
They both froze.