Page 1 of Beast (Iron Sentinels MC #4)

P ixie Marlowe jolted awake with a sharp gasp, her body thrumming with adrenaline before she even knew where she was. Her breath hitched, chest rising and falling too fast, the nightmare still clinging to her like a second skin. No. Not a nightmare. A memory.

She could still feel the key sticking in the lock, still hear the scrape of metal as she jiggled it, just like every other night. But this night had been different.

The second the door swung open, the air had turned thick—wrong. A sickly, coppery scent filled her nose, thick enough to coat her tongue.

Then she’d seen it. The body sprawled in the middle of the living room. Lifeless and motionless. Blood soaked into the cheap rug beneath it, spreading in a slow, silent crawl. And Brad.

Her dead brother’s best friend stood over the body like he belonged there, fingers curled around the grip of a gun.

Casual. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this.

His gaze lifted to hers, dark eyes unreadable—and then he smiled.

That slow, lazy smirk that made her stomach twist with dread.

“ You’re home early, Pix.”

A scream built in her throat, but she never let it out.

Because she had run.

Pixie gasped again, dragging herself into the present. Her fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath her, her pulse hammering so hard it made her vision swim. It took a long moment before she realized where she was.

Not the apartment. Not with Brad.

She was in her tent, hidden in the thick trees at the edge of the park, where no one paid attention to the homeless or the forgotten.

Her back ached from the unforgiving ground beneath her, and her fingers were stiff from the early morning chill. The thin fabric of the tent rustled in the wind, a reminder of how exposed she was.

She exhaled shakily and pressed a hand against her forehead. She couldn’t afford to let herself spiral. The nightmares were a part of her life now—just like the running, just like the fear. She should be used to it.

But she wasn’t. Pixie rubbed at her arms, willing away the shiver that wasn’t just from the cold. She was so tired. Tired of waking up like this, tired of constantly looking over her shoulder, tired of pretending she wasn’t afraid when fear was the only thing keeping her alive.

But she couldn’t stop, because if Brad found her...

No. She refused to think about it. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move, shoving her few belongings into her battered backpack. Every motion was automatic, practiced.

She had done this so many times she could do it in the dark. Had done it in the dark, more than once. Thin blanket. Water bottle. Pocketknife. Money. She zipped the bag up, slinging it over her shoulder just as voices drifted through the trees.

“Yeah, told me he saw some rough-looking bikers riding in last night. Mean sons of bitches, from what he said,” one of the homeless guys nearby said to his friend.

Pixie’s breath caught. Corrigan. The old man who camped out a few tents away, who kept to himself except when he had something to say.

Bikers . The word alone sent a pulse of dread through her. It might mean nothing. Just some random MC passing through town. But she knew better than to believe in coincidences.

Brad had always bragged about his connections, about how the local club had his back. He used to smirk when he talked about it, like he knew something she didn’t. If he’d sent them to look for her—

She swallowed hard, gripping the strap of her backpack until her knuckles turned white. No time to think. No time to doubt. She had to move.

Pixie crawled out of the tent, keeping her body low, her eyes darting across the empty stretch of trees. The park was still quiet, most of the other vagrants still asleep. Even Corrigan didn’t look her way as he continued speaking in a low voice to his friend.

She forced herself to walk calmly, even as every instinct screamed at her to run. Don’t draw attention. Don’t make a sound.

She slipped past the tree line, her pulse hammering. If Brad was here—if he had sent them—then she was out of time.

****

P ixie kept her head down as she walked, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled low over her face. The early morning air was crisp, biting at her exposed skin, but she barely felt it.

All she could focus on was the rhythmic crunch of her sneakers against the pavement and the bundle of crumpled cash in her pocket.

She’d counted it twice before leaving the park.

Not enough for a fresh start. Not enough for safety.

But enough for a ticket out of this damn town. That was all that mattered.

She didn’t have a destination. Didn’t need one. Any place was better than here.

The bus station loomed ahead, a squat, gray building with flickering lights and stained concrete. A few tired-looking travelers lingered near the entrance, clutching duffel bags and cheap coffee cups, waiting for buses that would take them to places she could only dream about.

Pixie forced herself to breathe evenly, to walk like she belonged, like she wasn’t running for her life. Then she saw him—a biker standing just outside the entrance.

Her stomach clenched. He wasn’t just some random guy in a leather jacket. The patch on his chest marked him as part of a club. She couldn’t make out which one, but it didn’t matter. Bikers meant trouble. Bikers meant Brad.

And he was watching the people coming in. Her pulse slammed against her ribs, every nerve in her body screaming at her to turn around, to run.

No. Don’t run. Running drew attention.

She swallowed hard, adjusting the strap of her backpack as if nothing was wrong, as if her legs weren’t trembling beneath her. Then, with forced nonchalance, she veered right, skirting around the building instead of heading straight for the entrance.

Every step felt agonizingly slow. She expected a shout, the crunch of boots behind her. But nothing came. When she finally slipped through the side entrance, she didn’t dare look back.

The ticket counter was just ahead, a scratched-up window with a tired-looking clerk behind it. Pixie stepped forward, hands clammy as she slid her cash under the glass.

“One ticket,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Next bus. Doesn’t matter where.”

The clerk sighed, as if used to requests like this. He tapped at his keyboard, then tore a ticket from the machine.

“Steelhaven,” he said, sliding it to her. “Bus leaves in ten minutes.”

Steelhaven. Two towns over. Close, but it would have to do.

Pixie snatched the ticket, murmuring a quick thanks before moving toward the boarding area. The waiting passengers were a mix of weary travelers and people who looked like they didn’t want to be found. She fit right in.

The minutes crawled by, thick with tension. She kept her head down, but she still felt the weight of unseen eyes pressing against her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching, searching.

And then, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, her gaze lifted—and locked with his. The biker. He was standing near the entrance now, scanning the waiting area.

Pixie’s breath caught in her throat. Did he recognize her? Did he know who she was? Her fingers curled into fists. She wanted to run, but that would only confirm his suspicions, if he had any.

Then, as if the universe had given her a gift, a woman with long legs and a flirty smile strolled past, catching the biker’s attention. His gaze flicked away from Pixie, following the woman instead.

Pixie turned her back on him, her heart thundering. The bus doors hissed open. She forced herself to walk, slow and steady, as she climbed the steps.

The second she found a seat in the middle row, she sank into it, pressing against the cold window as the bus rumbled to life. As it pulled out of the station, the tension in her chest eased—but only slightly.

She was out, for now, but hunger gnawed at her belly, exhaustion weighing on her bones. She rested her head against the window, watching the city lights fade into the distance. How long until Brad found her again?

****

T he sharp bark of a voice yanked Pixie from the depths of her nightmare.

“Last stop!”

Her breath hitched, her heart pounding from the fading echoes of a dream that had felt too damn real—Brad, the apartment, the blood pooling across the cheap rug. The gun in his hand.

She sucked in a shuddering breath, blearily aware of her body moving on autopilot, grabbing her bag with stiff fingers and stumbling out into the night.

The sudden chill slapped her awake, the bus’s rumbling engine and hiss of hydraulics barely registering as the doors shut behind her. Then the bus was gone, taillights disappearing down the dark road.

She was alone. Pixie blinked hard, her mind sluggish from exhaustion. She had left that morning, hadn’t she? But now it was pitch black, the air crisp with nighttime stillness.

Her wrist ached as she glanced down at her watch, the scratched-up timepiece that had once belonged to Matt. The cracked glass distorted the numbers, but she could still make them out: 11:53 PM. Nearly midnight. Damn. She’d been out cold.

A slow dread unfurled in her chest as she looked around. The bus stop wasn’t a station, just a lonely stretch of asphalt on the side of the road. Trees loomed on either side, their branches skeletal in the dim glow of a flickering streetlight.

Panic clawed at her throat. Had she screwed up? Had she gotten off at the wrong place?

She spun in a slow circle, searching for any sign of civilization, any hint that she wasn’t stranded in the middle of nowhere. Then ... there. A wooden sign, barely visible in the dark, its letters worn and weathered: STEELEHAVEN—3 MILES

Three miles. Her muscles already ached at the thought. The bag slung over her shoulder felt heavier than before, pulling at her like a lead weight. She was running on fumes, the hunger in her stomach a dull ache she’d long since learned to ignore.

But she couldn’t stay here. Pixie hitched her bag higher and started walking. The road stretched endlessly before her, each step dragging more than the last.

The night was eerily silent, broken only by the sound of her sneakers scuffing against the pavement.

Her breath came in short bursts, her limbs sluggish, exhaustion seeping into every inch of her body.

At some point, the steady rhythm of walking turned into a blur, time losing all meaning.

Her vision swam, and she swore the road was stretching longer with every step.

Then ... finally ... something up ahead.

She squinted, hope flickering to life as the vague outline of buildings took shape against the darkness.

Warehouses. They looked old, abandoned, forgotten. There were no cars, no lights, no signs of life. Relief flooded her. She’d slept in worse places before. This would do for the night.

Her legs nearly buckled as she trudged toward the nearest warehouse, dragging her bag behind her like dead weight. The metal door creaked as she slipped inside, the space vast and echoing.

Moonlight filtered through broken windows, casting long shadows over stacks of crates.

Some looked old, but others were brand new, untouched.

That should have set off alarm bells. But her brain was too fogged, her limbs too heavy.

She barely managed to lay her bag down, using it as a makeshift pillow as she curled up on the cold concrete.

Tomorrow, she’d figure out what to do next. For now, she just needed to rest.

Her eyes drifted shut, even as something in the back of her mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.