Page 28 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

THOR

The taste of rage is copper and salt, bitter as it coats my tongue while I watch Charlotte disappear up the basement stairs. She doesn't look back. Doesn't say a word. Just walks away from the carnage I've created with measured steps that echo against concrete.

Fuck.

I flex my shattered knuckles, welcoming the pain that shoots up my arm.

I deserve worse. Vincent's corpse stares at nothing, head lolled to one side, blood congealing beneath the chair in patterns I'll see in my nightmares.

Our one solid lead to Terrance. The one man who could have led us straight to that sadistic bastard.

And I killed him.

“That went well,” V mutters, crouching to examine what's left of Vincent. “Remind me never to piss you off when you're in love. You might actually be worse than this one,” he nods towards Ratchet.

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, pacing like a caged animal. The basement suddenly feels too small, the walls closing in, reeking of failure.

Ratchet shakes his head. “We needed him alive, Thor.”

“You think I don't fucking know that?” I slam my fist against the wall again. Fresh blood spatters concrete. “The things he said about her—what Terrance was planning?—”

“Yeah, we heard,” V says, standing up with a grunt. “Every sick fucking detail, but you just made this worse, big guy. Not only for us tracking down that son of a bitch, but for her.”

V's right, and I hate him for it. I've made this worse for Charlotte. Made everything worse.

“We still have options. The laptop, the phone records, the surveillance photos. V's good at this digital shit.”

“I'm fucking amazing at this digital shit,” V corrects, wiping Vincent's blood off his hands. “But I don’t have my full setup here. It’s going to take time. Time we may not have.”

“We should go back to Upland,” Ratchet declares. “We have numbers there. She will be protected until we figure all of this shit out.”

Fuck. Maybe he’s right. The three of us can’t take on an entire club. Not with Charlotte.

“What if she doesn't want to go to Upland?” I ask, the thought twisting my gut. Charlotte didn't sign up for this shit—for my world, my war.

“She doesn't have a choice.” V steps closer, “Look at me, Thor. You know I'm right. Charlotte is leverage now. Terrance wants her. Ace probably knows about her. We're outnumbered, outgunned, and now we've got a fucking corpse on our hands.”

I rub my face, smearing blood across my beard. “This is my mess. I'll clean it up.”

“No,” V says firmly, grabbing my shoulder. “Your mess is upstairs, probably packing her bags to run again. Our mess is this dead asshole. Let us handle it.”

Ratchet nods. “We'll clean this up. You talk to Charlotte, make her understand what's at stake. We’ll dump the body and then get the fuck out of here.”

They're right. We need to regroup, pull back to friendly territory. Upland is defensible. We have brothers there, resources. Even if it feels like we’re running with our tails tucked between our legs.

“Fine,” I concede, hating the taste of retreat. “We leave tonight. Get Vincent wrapped up and in the van. I'll convince Charlotte.”

“You better do more than convince her. Make her understand that Upland is her only shot at survival.”

I storm up the stairs, each step fueled by a cocktail of rage and fear that burns through my veins like battery acid. My hand throbs, blood still seeping from split knuckles, but the pain is nothing compared to the storm brewing inside my chest.

Charlotte's door is closed. Of course it is.

I stand before it, suddenly hesitant. What the fuck am I supposed to say?

Sorry I just beat a man to death in front of you?

Sorry my club's corruption dragged you deeper into this nightmare?

Sorry I'm your best chance at survival when I can't even keep my shit together?

I knock anyway. Silence stretches between us, thick as smoke.

“Charlotte.” Her name feels heavy on my tongue. “We need to talk.”

More silence, then a soft rustle of movement. The door opens just enough for me to see her face—pale, composed, eyes red-rimmed but dry. She's already pulled herself together while I'm still bleeding all over the hallway.

“Did it make you feel better? Killing him?”

The question hits like a gut punch. “No.”

“Me neither.” She finally turns, and the emptiness in her stare scares me more than any fury could.

“All those years with Terrance, I used to fantasize about him dying. I thought it would set me free.” A hollow laugh escapes her.

“Now I realize it doesn't matter. He's turned me into something I don't recognize.

Something that can watch a man die and feel nothing but disappointment that he didn't suffer more.”

I step into the room, closing the door behind me. Charlotte sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap like she's praying. But there's nothing sacred about this moment—just two broken people trying to figure out how to survive.

“You're not broken,” I tell her, though the words feel inadequate. “You're adapting. There's a difference.”

“Is there?” She looks up at me, and I see the war raging inside of her. “Because right now, I can't tell the difference between justice and revenge. Between survival and becoming a monster.”

I kneel in front of her, careful not to touch her with my bloodied hands. “The monster is Terrance. The monster is men like Vincent who sell women like cattle. You're not the monster, Charlotte. You're the survivor.”

“A survivor who wants to watch her ex-husband burn,” her voice cracks on the last word. “A survivor who felt satisfaction watching that man die.”

“Good.” The word comes out harder than I intended. “He deserved worse than what he got.”

She flinches, and I realize I'm proving her point. The violence in me, the hunger for retribution—it's exactly what she's afraid of becoming.

“We need to leave Vegas,” I say, changing tactics. “Tonight. Go back to Upland, where we have backup, where you'll be protected while we figure out our next move.”

Her head snaps up. “Running again.”

“Regrouping,” I correct, but the distinction feels thin even to me. “There's a difference.”

“Is there?” She echoes my earlier words back at me, bitter and hollow. “Because it feels like the same thing I've done before. Pack a bag, disappear in the night, hope the monster doesn't find me.”

“This isn't the same?—”

“Isn't it?” She stands abruptly, pacing to the window. “You're asking me to trust you, to follow you to another place where I'll be dependent on strangers for protection. Where I'll have no control, no say in what happens next.”

The accusation stings because there is some truth in it. I am asking her to give up control, to let me make decisions about her life. But what's the alternative? Let her walk out that door and straight into Terrance's hands?

“Upland isn't a prison, Charlotte. It's a sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary.” She tastes the word like poison. “Funny how a sanctuary always looks like a cage when you're the one inside it.”

I push to my feet. “You keep saying 'let me take you' like I don't have a choice.” Charlotte turns from the window, arms wrapped around herself. “Like I'm cargo to be moved, not a person making decisions.”

I've been so focused on keeping her alive that I've forgotten what she's fighting for—the right to choose her own path, make her own mistakes. The very freedom Terrance tried to steal from her.

“You always have a choice,” I say, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. “But I need you to understand what you're choosing between.”

I step closer, careful to keep enough distance that she doesn't feel cornered. Blood drips from my knuckles onto the hardwood floor, marking the space between us like a boundary line.

“Choice one, you walk away. Go wherever you want. But Terrance will find you. Not might—will. And when he does, after what happened with Vincent, he won't just hurt you. He'll destroy you, inch by fucking inch.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't look away.

“Choice two, you come with us to Upland. You stay under our protection while we locate Terrance and bring an end to this. Permanently.”

“And then what? After it's over—if it's ever over—what happens to me?”

The question catches me off guard. Do I want Charlotte? Yes, but my wants and needs put her in danger. If we make it out of this alive, how fair is it to bring her into our world? Maybe Minny was right after all.

“Whatever you want,” I say finally, the words scraping my throat raw. “You go back to your life. Start over somewhere new. Find whatever makes you happy.”

Something flickers across her face—disappointment, maybe. Or resignation.

“Without you.”

It's not a question, but I answer anyway, “If that's what you want.”

She laughs, a sharp, broken sound that cuts through the tension.

“What I want. As if I even know anymore.” Her fingers trace patterns on the windowsill.

“I wanted a quiet life. A small house by the beach.

Safety. Anonymity. Now I'm standing in a room with a man who just killed someone for me, planning my escape from a human trafficking ring run by his motorcycle club.”

“Not my club,” I correct automatically.

“Does the distinction really matter when I'm covered in someone else's blood?”

I glance down at my knuckles—split and raw, painted in red—and at the trail I left across her floor. Evidence of what I am. What I’ll become, again and again, if it means keeping her safe.

She watches me like she’s not sure if she wants to scream or kiss me.

And the worst part?

I’d take either.

She’s not mine. Not really. Not beyond these stolen moments.

But fuck if I don’t want to make her stay .

“Every drop on you? That’s what it looks like when I protect what’s mine.”

Her breath stutters.

“That’s not fair,” she whispers. “You can’t say things like that when I’m trying to make rational decisions.”