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“What’s wrong?” I ask, but Cade’s attention is already fixed on something in the distance.

I follow his gaze to three motorcycles approaching, dark figures against the horizon. Given how deserted this road is, something feels off. Or maybe I’m just reading the tension rolling off Cade as they get nearer.

“They’re just riders . . .” I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

They slow down as they pass, heads turned toward us, watching us through their visors.

“Fuuuck,” Cade growls and the sound makes dread settle in my gut.

“They’re gone, Cade.”

Cade’s eyes narrow as he watches them disappear. “Not for long. Your friends will be back soon,” he snaps.

“What do you mean my friends?”

He captures my mouth in a swift brutal kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes are pure ice. “Ever been spanked for being naughty?”

I blink. “What? No . . .”

“Good. You’ve got it coming if I survive this. Lay on the floor of the truck. On your belly.”

“What?”

“Now!“ he barks, just as I see the motorcyclists in the distance, circling back, this time with guns drawn.

Oh, shit.I dive onto the floor of the truck, my pulse thundering in my ears.

We’re going to die.

Cade’s voice cuts through my panic like a knife. “Saint, go stay with Luciana.”

Themassive dog leaps out of the back and circles around to where I’m lying. Saint’s eyes are sharp and focused as he starts to climb into the back seat.

“St. Michael?” Cade barks.

Saint pauses, glancing back at Cade.

“Lock it down.”

My heart lurches at those words. I know what they mean now.

Anxiety shoots through me like lightning. Cade intends to face those men alone while his battle-trained dog what? Plays bodyguard to me?

Before I can protest, Saint makes his move. He settles his weight over me, and I’m shocked into silence as he pins me down. His huge body blankets mine completely, but he holds himself carefully—like he knows exactly how much pressure to use. Not crushing me, just . . . shielding me. Using himself as living armor.

I hear Cade mutter curses under his breath, and though I can’t make out all of it, I swear I hear “fucking brat.” My heart races even faster, and I stay as still as possible, knowing better than to snap back a retort right now.

But seriously, what the hell have I done to make every murderous prick in the country want me dead?

32

Cade

Fuck.

The odds of surviving shrink with every second as the three Harley Road Kings close in. These are infinitely harder targets than the Mexicans from this morning. And after forty eight hours without a wink of sleep, and half my blood volume still sitting in my cock, a three-to-one with seasoned assassins is the last thing I need.

The details give them away—bulky leather jackets hiding bulletproof vests, helmets protecting vital headshots, bikes making them fast-moving targets. And the guns they’re carrying.