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“Juan. He says—I’m still a whore and now I’m dead to him.” The words come out strangled. Ice’s silver-blue eyes lock onto mine, a storm brewing as he absorbs the venom of my brother’s words.

“Bella, look at me.” His command is gentle, so I comply. “You’re under my protection. He won’t touch you.”

“He’ll try,” I say, knowing Ice means well, but even fortresses can be besieged.

“We can’t take chances out in public right now,” he continues, his tone low but firm. “And we need to sort out your phone situation. Juan might be tracking it.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “I thought of that already. Installed software to alert me if he tries.” Paranoia has a way of making you resourceful.

Ice nods, but his expression tells me he’s not satisfied. “We’ll go see Fang. He’ll make sure you’re clean, no tails, digital or otherwise.”

“Okay,” I agree, though my mind races with what-ifs and maybes. The café’s cute courtyard feels suddenly claustrophobic, the wrought iron now resembling prison bars rather than decorative swirls.

“Let’s finish up here,” Ice says, standing to throw on his leather jacket, the one that molds to his body like a second skin. “While Fang does techie stuff, we’ll plan our next move.”

“Okay.”

The weight of Juan’s threat lingers, heavy as the humid air around us. But as I climb onto the back of Ice’s bike, I find the strength I need to push back the shadows. I cling to Ice with the hope that somehow, we’ll navigate this storm together.

Chapter 14: Ice

The skeletal frame of our new clubhouse looms against the hazy New Orleans sky. A few sections have been added since the last time I was here. It’s moving along, even if it seems slow as hell. Fang’s doing a good job managing things. He insisted—even though he’s not a construction guy—because he wanted to make sure the tech specs were up to snuff. One of our patched guys has been a builder for years, so he’s acting as the foreman to make sure Fang doesn’t forget that we need more than just wires. We need walls and a roof too.

I guide Isabella through the maze of scaffolding and construction equipment, her slender hand gripping mine as we navigate the uneven ground. When I find Fang, he’s hunched over a blueprint with two other guys. Since they look like they’re deep in discussion, I wait until he looks up.

“Give me a couple of minutes,” Fang calls. “I’ll be right with you.”

“I’ll show her around,” I holler over the construction noise.

“Watch your step,” I warn, steadying Isabella when she stumbles over a piece of rebar. “Here, put this on.” I hand her a bright yellow hard hat before donning an identical one. She looks adorably out of place in her tight jeans and flowing blouse, now topped with construction gear.

As we weave through the site, I can’t help but feel a surge of pride. This place is going to be epic when it’s done. Twice thesize of our old clubhouse, with room for all the new blood we’ve attracted since the bombing.

“Is this going to be like the one Juan destroyed?” Isabella asks, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of power tools and shouted instructions.

I shake my head. “Nah, this one’s gonna be way bigger. The old place was just a house in the 9th Ward. It was falling apart anyway, even before Katrina nearly wiped it off the map.”

A shadow passes over Isabella’s face at the mention of the hurricane. “I remember seeing it on TV in Mexico,” she says softly. “I was only seven. I asked my father why the water was up to the rooftops. He told me about the levees breaking, but…” She trails off, lost in the memory.

I squeeze her hand gently, drawing her back to the present. “This new clubhouse is our chance to start fresh,” I tell her. “We’ve got ten prospects about to patch in. After the bombing, we had more guys wanting to join than ever before.”

Isabella’s piercing blue eyes meet mine, curiosity evident in their depths. “Did you live in the old clubhouse?”

“Yeah, I had a room there. I’ll have one here too, once it’s finished.”

She bites her lip, hesitating before she speaks again. “I noticed some of the other members had girlfriends staying with them at the motel last night. Is that… common?”

I can see the unasked question in her eyes. Is she wondering if she’ll be able to stay with me? The thought sends a jolt through my system, equal parts excitement and trepidation. I’ve never been in a serious relationship. Plenty of women have come and gone over the years, but none were more than passing entertainment. Isabella, though—damn, she’s different. I don’t know how to explain it. I just know.

“The only women who stay at the clubhouse are girlfriends and club girls,” I explain, choosing my words carefully.

“What’s the difference?” Her brow furrows.

I run a hand through my long, platinum hair, buying time as I figure out how to explain this delicate subject. “Club girls don’t belong to anyone specific,” I finally say. “They… they sleep with whoever wants them.”

Isabella’s eyes widen in shock. “Are they prostitutes?”

“Not exactly,” I sigh. “But a lot of them trade sex for a place to crash. It’s... complicated.”