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“Without telling me. She’s at a commercial strip center in Freeport.”

“You think it’s a coincidence?”

“No,” I growl. “I think she’s chasing something. And I think she’s about to get herself killed.”

I'm already moving. Down the hall, out the door, into the harsh blaze of Texas sun. Heat slams into me like a fist, but I barely feel it. My boots strike pavement with clipped, punishing strides. I throw a leg over the Harley, the engine snarling to life with a sound that echoes the fire burning in my gut. Rubber bites the asphalt, and I tear out of the city like the road itself owes me blood. Wind shreds across my jaw, biting and electric, a goad to go faster. I let it drive me harder, each mile stretching like a warning across the horizon. Sutton’s out there. And she sure as hell isn’t going to face whatever this is alone.

I should be furious. Hell, Iamfurious. But underneath that fury, fear coils like barbed wire in my gut—tight, jagged, relentless. It grips me with the cold certainty that I almost lost her, and that next time, I might not be fast enough.

It takes me just over an hour to cut across the stretch of highway, the wind slicing past me like a warning. As I crest the last bend, rows of squat storefronts come into view—familiar and ordinary, except for the sight that sets my teeth on edge: Sutton’s Range Rover, sitting in the lot like a damn bullseye. My gut tightens. She left a trail, and whoever’s been watching us could be closing in. I don’t slow down. I slam the transmission into drive and surge ahead, adrenaline honing every sense.

I pull into the lot without cutting the engine, every instinct in me screaming that something’s off. The air feels wrong—thick with anticipation, too quiet for a place that should hum withlate-night restlessness. My eyes sweep the perimeter, scanning storefronts, alleys, rooftops. Nothing moves, but the stillness presses against my skin like a loaded trigger. I clock the Range Rover again—driver’s side empty. Which means she’s inside. Alone. My grip tightens on the throttle. She beat me here… and she’s not waiting for backup.

I spot her through the window—crouched low like a predator, her eyes locked intently on the back of the store. Every muscle in her frame is taut, trembling with raw intent, as if she's a coiled spring about to release. Her profile is swallowed by shadow, casting an eerie silhouette. Her jaw is clenched, and her lips are parted as if caught in a silent scream, frozen in a moment of tension. Suddenly, a glint of metal flashes deeper within the shop. It's not hers. It was invisible until now, hidden in the dim light. My gut plummets, a heavy stone sinking within me, and I explode into action.

“Shit.”

I kill the engine of my Harley and vault off before it fully stops, my boots slamming into the pavement with a force that echoes in the silent night. I sprint across the lot, the storefront smearing into a blur of glass and neon as I laser-focus on her silhouette inside—immobile, exposed, teetering on the brink of catastrophe. I crash through the door with my shoulder, the crack reverberating like a gunshot, the sound slicing through the air as I hurl myself forward with reckless abandon.

She pivots just as I collide with her, one arm sweeping around her waist, the other shielding her skull from impact. We slam into the floor with a bone-rattling force, tumbling into a chaotic roll. The world spins around us, a dizzying whirl of color and motion. I twist mid-fall, bearing the brunt so she doesn’t have to. Her breath rushes out against my neck, warm, shocked, alive—a sweet confirmation of her survival.

She’s alive. She’s safe. Yet my pulse roars with a volatile mix of rage and terror, the image of her in the jaws of danger seared into my gut like a red-hot brand. No more goddamn recklessness. Not under my watch. I’ll bind her to my side if that’s what it takes to keep her breathing.

She gasps, a desperate, sharp inhale that barely escapes before I crush her against me. Her spine molds against my chest, every contour of her body pressed to mine like we were forged together in heat and need. My heart pounds against her back—wild, savage, frantic. Not just from the peril. From the harrowing realization that it was almost too late. From knowing that the mere thought of losing her has me unraveling at the seams faster than I dare to admit. The fear courses through me, a relentless wave crashing over the jagged rocks of my sanity.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” I hiss, voice low, furious.

“I—”

“Don’t answer that.” I drag her behind a row of empty shelving. “One more second and you’d be full of holes.”

My breath saws in and out of my lungs, too fast, too shallow. I brace a hand against the metal shelf beside me, grounding myself as I scan the shadows. Every muscle’s tight, keyed up and ready to strike. The silence presses in—thick, unnatural, like a held breath waiting to snap. Nothing moves. But that doesn’t mean we’re safe.

“You're done here. Let’s go.”

She opens her mouth again, and I cut her off with a glare sharp enough to gut a man—silent, simmering, the kind that warns there’s only one way this conversation ends.

Back on the Harley, I can feel her trembling behind me—not just from the adrenaline or the narrow escape, but from the wild, combustible mix of fury and need that's all but crackling off her skin. Her fists bunch into the back of my shirt like she’s barely keeping herself from tearing it off, and her thighs tighten aroundme as the engine growls beneath us. I grit my teeth. Every inch of her is pressed to me like a challenge I’m one breath away from accepting. God help me, I want to.

I want to turn, park the Harley, drag her inside, and fuck the defiance right out of her until she’s too wrecked to argue. But I don’t. I can’t. Not yet. Not when I can still feel her pulse hammering against my chest, still smell the fear and fury tangled in her scent, still taste her on my tongue. My body screams for more, but I lock it down. Control isn’t easy—but it’s the only thing I have left.

When we get home, I don’t say a word. I kill the engine, swing off the bike, and grab the keys before striding to the front door. My steps are clipped, sharp with everything I’m not letting loose yet. I unlock it with a snap of my wrist, push it open, and hold it, waiting in taut silence until she steps inside—eyes flicking to mine, unsure whether I’m going to yell or slam the door behind her. I do neither.

I shut it. Quietly. With finality. The soft snick of the latch falls into place like a verdict, echoing louder than any slam could.

She spins to face me. “I had a reason.”

I close the distance in two steps and slam her against the wall—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to jolt us both into the present. Her breath catches sharp and high, eyes widening just before her body arches instinctively into mine, like she doesn’t know whether to fight or melt. I can feel the shock of contact ripple through her, a full-body shiver that rides her spine and transfers straight into me.

“You almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. “Don’t test me like that again.”

“You’re not in charge of me.”

“No,” I murmur. “But I’m the one who keeps you breathing.”