Page 29 of Bad Luck, Hard Love (Heaven’s Rejects MC #6)

“Nothing about this situation is rational.” I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her. “But that doesn't make it any less true.”

She turns away, her shoulders hunching slightly.

“I don't know who I am anymore, Thor. I no longer recognize the woman I see in the mirror. I just watched a man die and I feel absolutely nothing. I slept with you, someone I barely know, and I feel absolutely everything. How am I supposed to trust my judgment right now?”

“Trust your instincts. The same instincts that got you away from Terrance in the first place. The same instincts that kept you alive this long. What are they telling you to do?”

Charlotte's fingers curl into fists at her sides. “My instincts are telling me to run. As far and as fast as possible.”

“From all of this.” She gestures between us. “From you, from the violence, from the way you make me feel.”

The admission hits me like a punch to the chest. She's not just running from Terrance—she's running from me. From us. From whatever this thing is that’s burning between us, wild and uncontrollable like a wildfire.

“Charlotte—”

“No.” She holds up a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. “Let me finish. My instincts are screaming at me to run because every time I let someone in, every time I trust someone with my heart, I end up broken. Shattered. And I don't know if I can survive being broken again.”

Her words hang in the air between us, heavy with years of pain. I want to reach for her, to pull her against me and promise that I'll never hurt her the way Terrance did. But promises are cheap, and she's already been fed too many lies wrapped in pretty words.

“I'm not him.”

“I know. That's what terrifies me. Because if you were like him, this would be easy. I could hate you, fight you, run from you without looking back. But you're not like him, and that makes everything so much more complicated.”

I step closer, the distance between us electric with all the things we're not saying. “Complicated doesn't have to mean impossible.”

“Doesn't it?” Unshed tears threaten to fall down her beautiful face.

“I watched you beat a man to death today.

I heard things about my ex-husband that are worse than every nightmare I've ever had.

And instead of being horrified, instead of running screaming into the night, I'm standing here wondering what it says about me that I still want you.”

My heart thunders against my ribs. Even now, with blood on my hands and a corpse in the basement, she wants me. The knowledge is intoxicating.

“It says you recognize the difference between violence for pleasure and violence for protection.”

“Is there a difference?” She challenges, chin lifting slightly. “Or do we just tell ourselves that to sleep at night?”

“Yes, there's a fucking difference.” I flex my damaged hand, welcoming the sharp pain that grounds me. “Terrance hurt you because he enjoyed it. Because it made him feel powerful. I killed Vincent because he threatened to take you back to that monster.”

“And that makes it okay?”

“No,” I admit. “Nothing about this situation is okay. But it's necessary. And sometimes necessary is all we get.”

I want to touch her, to wipe away the tears tracking down her cheeks, but my hands are still stained with Vincent's blood. Instead, I stand there like a fucking statue, watching her crumble.

“Upland,” she says finally. “If I come with you—when this is over—I need to know I can leave. No questions, no guilt trips, no attempts to change my mind.”

“You have my word.”

“I'll go with you to Upland.”

Relief floods through me so fast I nearly stagger. “Done. Pack whatever you need. We leave as soon as we...handle things downstairs.”

Charlotte nods, turning toward the small bag she brought with her. “I don't have much anyway.”

I hesitate at the door, watching her methodically fold her few belongings. Despite everything—the blood, the violence, the revelation of Terrance's true nature—she moves with quiet efficiency. Survivor's instinct. She's done this before, packed her life away in minutes, ready to run.

Before I can stop myself, I cross the room in three strides. She turns at the sound of my approach. I cradle her face between my palms, careful to keep my bloodied knuckles from touching her skin.

“I'm going to make this right,” I promise, pressing my lips to hers. The kiss is a vow sealed in blood. “I swear to you, Charlotte. I'll make this right.”

She nods. I force myself to step away, to head downstairs and face the mess I've created.

I'm halfway down the stairs when my phone vibrates. Marcus's name flashes on the screen—the prospect, our inside man. My stomach drops before I even answer.

“What.”

“Ace just called a lockdown. Every member was just called in. He sent me to get provisions. Emergency meeting at the clubhouse in thirty.”

“Fuck.” The word explodes from my lungs as I grip the banister. “When did this happen?”

“Just now. I was at the store when Ace texted everyone. Whatever is going down, it's serious. Never seen him this spooked before.”

My mind races through the possibilities, each worse than the last. “Stay away from the clubhouse. Find somewhere to lay low. I'll contact you when it's safe.”

“But—”

“We're blown,” I announce, shoving my phone into my pocket. “Ace just locked down.”

“Shit.” V drops the roll of duct tape he's holding. “They know about the guys from the hotel?”

“Or Terrance is looking for his attack dog.” I glance toward the basement where Vincent's body waits. “Either way, our timeline just got fucked. V, pack up the tech and get Charlotte ready to move. Ratchet, you and I are taking Vincent for a ride.”

“What about cleanup?”

“No time. We dump Vincent, come back for Charlotte and V, then torch this place on our way out. It's the only way to cover our tracks.”

Ratchet's face splits into a grim smile. “About fucking time. Been itching to light something up since we got here.”

“You and your pyro tendencies,” V mutters, already gathering equipment from the workbench. “One of these days, that shit's gonna get us all locked up.”

“Not if there's nothing left to find,” Ratchet counters. “Fire purifies everything.”

I've seen that look before. The last time Ratchet got that expression, three buildings in Oakland went up in flames.

Granted, they were filled with drugs and men who tried to blackmail our club into distributing them, but the look is all the same.

The man has a gift for destruction that borders on artistic.

“Just make sure it's contained,” I warn him. “We don't need civilian casualties on top of everything else.”

Ratchet scoffs, offended. I nod, trusting his expertise. If there's one thing Ratchet understands, it's controlled chaos. “Let’s gift wrap this son of a bitch, dump him in Lake Mead, and get the fuck out of here.”

The sooner we leave Vegas, the safer Charlotte will be. That’s all that matters right now.