Page 9 of Beast (Iron Sentinels MC #4)

B east woke to an empty bed. For a heartbeat, he didn’t panic, just reached over, expecting to find Pixie curled against him like she had been all night, warm and soft, fitting against him like she belonged there. But his hand hit cold sheets.

He sat up fast, heart already thudding. His eyes scanned the bedroom—no sign of her. No sound from the bathroom. The silence wasn’t right.

He shoved the blanket off, standing barefoot on the hardwood, muscles tense. His gaze swept the room again, and that’s when he saw the folded piece of paper on her pillow. His chest tightened as he snatched it up.

Be right back. Breakfast run. Don’t worry. – Pix

The knot in his gut eased, but only a little.

He let out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face.

Damn woman was always thinking of others, even now.

Of course she’d try to surprise him with food, even after the hell she’d been through.

Still, the unease lingered. He moved into the kitchen, checked the fridge.

Empty. She’d probably taken one look, realized the place was a bachelor’s wasteland, and gone to the diner a few blocks down. Logical. Innocent.

But logic didn’t calm his pulse. He was reaching for his phone to text her when it rang in his hand. The name flashing across the screen sent a jolt through his chest. Gunner.

Beast answered immediately. “What is it?”

“You up?” Gunner’s voice was tight. Controlled. That was never a good sign.

“I’m up. What’s going on?” Beast asked.

“Just got a call from Miles—you know, the old guy with the German shepherd. Walks Main Street every morning. He said he saw a young woman get grabbed by a guy near the alley behind the diner. Said it looked like she was fighting, but he got shoved into a van with out-of-state plates. They peeled out fast,” Gunner said.

Beast went still. The phone might as well have turned to ice in his hand.

He didn’t speak, didn’t breathe. His mind went blank except for the image of Pixie.

Her smile. Her laugh. The way she’d clung to him last night, soft and sleepy in his arms, like she finally believed she could be safe. And now—gone.

“Tell me she didn’t match Pixie’s description,” Beast said, his voice like gravel.

Gunner was quiet for too long. “She did. Small. Wore a leather jacket like yours.”

The rage that detonated inside Beast nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

He moved. Fast. He was throwing on his boots, pulling his shirt over his head, keys already in hand. His heart pounded like a war drum as he grabbed his phone again.

“She left a note,” he said, his voice low, lethal. “Said she was just going to get breakfast.”

“She never made it inside,” Gunner said. “Just talked to the diner staff. No one’s seen her.”

Beast didn’t even bother hanging up. The call ended with Gunner still on the line as Beast stormed out of his house and into the truck. He slammed the door shut and punched the steering wheel hard enough to split his knuckles.

His hands shook as he gripped the wheel. He had her. Brad. It had to be Brad. The bastard had finally made his move. And Beast had let it happen. She’d been under his roof. In his bed. And he hadn’t protected her.

He slammed his foot down on the gas, tires squealing as he tore down the gravel road, headed straight for town. He didn’t even feel the sting in his bleeding knuckles. Didn’t hear the rumble of the engine or the wind howling through the cracked window.

All he could hear was his heartbeat. Roaring. Unrelenting. All he could see was Pixie—terrified, fighting, being dragged away. He gritted his teeth, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Pixie wasn’t just some woman he was protecting anymore. She was his and Brad would soon learn he made an unforgivable mistake.

****

B east stood at the head of the table in the Iron Sentinels war room, fists clenched, fury simmering beneath his skin like a ticking bomb.

“She’s gone,” he growled, voice hoarse with the strain of holding back the storm. “Brad took her.”

The clubhouse erupted in snarls and curses, every patched brother rising to his feet. Chairs scraped back, boots thundered across the floor as weapons were checked and holstered, but Beast only raised a hand.

“I want every eye in this room focused. Every hand steady. We don’t make mistakes tonight.”

He turned to Techie, who was already at the monitor, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“Talk to me.”

“I pinged Pixie’s phone,” Techie said, jaw tight. “Signal’s weak, but I got a hit—abandoned gas station just outside of town. Off the old highway. Perfect place for scum like Brad to lie low.”

Beast didn’t wait for more. He grabbed his cut and weapon, holstering his gun with a look that could’ve split steel.

“Gunner,” he barked. “With me. Rest of you stay on standby until I call.”

No arguments. They all saw the look in his eyes—something feral, something that said if he didn’t get her back, someone was going to die screaming.

They took off in Beast’s truck, headlights cutting through the early morning mist. The road blurred under the tires, the speed barely registering. Beast’s knuckles were white on the wheel. His mind a red blur. If she was hurt—

He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the crack of bone-on-leather loud in the cab.

“Easy,” Gunner said, low. “We’re getting her back.”

Beast didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Words would only shatter into violence.

They turned onto the dirt path leading to the rundown gas station. It sat at the edge of nowhere, sagging under rust and rot, the canopy long since collapsed over busted pumps. A single white van was parked at the back, partially hidden by a grove of dying trees.

Beast parked behind an old billboard, silently stepped out of the truck.

Two figures were visible near the van—Brad and one of his biker friends. Another stood by the station door, smoking, gun tucked in his waistband.

Inside, through the busted window, Beast caught a glimpse of a familiar petite figure. Pixie. Her hands were tied in front of her. A bruise marked her cheek, blood at the corner of her mouth. Beast’s vision tunneled.

He moved like a ghost—silent, furious. Gunner flanked right, circling toward the goon by the door.

Beast went left, slipping behind a rusted-out truck.

He waited until the man closest to the van turned his back, then struck.

He grabbed the man from behind, one hand over his mouth, the other slicing clean across the throat with a knife he kept strapped to his boot.

The body dropped soundlessly into the dirt.

Beast advanced on the next target. Gunfire erupted. Gunner had engaged, drawing the others’ attention.

Brad spun, gun in hand, screaming, “Get the girl—move!”

Pixie shrieked inside. Beast exploded from cover.

He shot the biker dragging Pixie back toward the van, the man’s body jerking mid-stride before slamming to the ground.

Pixie dropped, rolling out of the way. Another gun barked.

Beast ducked behind a pump, bullets chewing through rust. Brad snarled from behind the van, yelling curses.

“You don’t get to take her!” Beast roared, and launched himself forward.

He closed the distance like a freight train, slamming into Brad with enough force to knock them both to the ground.

The gun flew from Brad’s hand, skidding across the concrete.

They wrestled, fists flying. Brad drew a knife, slashing across Beast’s side.

Burning pain ripped through muscle, but Beast didn’t stop.

He grabbed Brad’s wrist, twisted until the knife clattered, and drove his elbow into Brad’s face.

Bone crunched. Brad roared, blood spraying from his nose.

“You think she’s yours?” Brad spat. “You don’t know what she is—what she’s running from.”

Beast saw red. He slammed Brad into the concrete, over and over, until the bastard went limp. Then, just to be sure, Beast grabbed the knife and pressed it to Brad’s throat.

“This is for touching her,” he said.

Beast carved a deep, clean line that ensured Brad would never breathe another threat. Silence fell. Gunner walked up to him, blood on his knuckles, his dead opponent sprawled behind him.

“You good?” he asked.

Beast didn’t answer. He was already running toward Pixie. She was on her knees near the corner of the station, trembling, hands still loosely bound. Her eyes were wide, terrified, scanning the chaos until they landed on him.

“Beast—”

She launched into his arms. He caught her, lifted her, held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, because she was. His arms wrapped around her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her waist.

“You’re okay,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Jesus, Pixie ... I thought—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered back, but her voice cracked, and she buried her face in his chest. “I’m okay.”

Beast held her even tighter, rocking her slightly. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his jaw pressed to her hair. “No one’s ever touching you again.”

She clung to him like her life depended on it, and for the first time in a long time, Beast let himself feel something close to peace. Pixie was safe. And he’d tear the world apart before anyone ever tried to take her from him again.

****

B east’s mind was still reeling when he drove Pixie back to the clubhouse. The weight of what had just happened, the terror that had gripped him when he’d seen her bound and bruised—he couldn’t shake it.

He gripped the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles were white. He could still feel the fury coursing through his veins, the taste of blood in his mouth from where he’d taken Brad down. But none of it mattered now. Pixie was here. Safe.

She was quieter than usual, the adrenaline having worn off, leaving a hollow silence between them as they drove. Every so often, Beast would glance over at her, checking to make sure she was still there, that she was still breathing. That she was still his.

He pulled into the clubhouse and didn’t wait for her to say anything. He just opened the door, slid out, and helped her out of the truck. His touch was gentle despite the storm inside of him. He couldn’t help it. He’d almost lost her. He wasn’t about to let that happen again.

He led her through the back entrance and up the stairs to his room. The place smelled of wood and leather, the familiar scent of his sanctuary. He’d spent so many nights here alone, but now, with her, it felt different. She belonged here. She belonged with him.

The door slammed behind them, and he turned to her, his chest tight.

“Sit down,” he said, his voice rough.

Pixie obeyed without protest, sitting on the edge of his bed. Her hands were trembling slightly, though she tried to hide it. The bruises on her face, the cuts on her arms—it all twisted his gut in a way he hadn’t felt before.

Beast went to his bathroom, wet a towel, and returned to her. He knelt in front of her, gently wiping away the blood from her mouth and face. His hands were surprisingly steady, but the anger simmering just below the surface still clawed at him.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmured, his voice low, soothing. He traced the bruise on her cheek with his thumb, and he felt a rush of protectiveness rise up, hot and possessive.

Pixie didn’t say anything for a moment, just closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, allowing him to care for her. When she finally opened her eyes, they were full of something raw, something real—something he hadn’t expected.

“You were terrified,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. “I could see it in your eyes when you found me.”

Beast’s heart pounded, a sickening wave of fear rushing over him again. He paused, his hand resting on her shoulder.

“I’ve never been more scared in my life,” he admitted, his voice rough. “I thought ... I thought I was going to lose you.” His eyes met hers, locking onto her like she was the only thing that mattered. “You mean everything to me, Pixie. You belong with me. I need you.”

Her breath caught at the intensity of his words, but Beast didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not now. “I’ve never let anyone get close to me like this. Not after Evelyn. But you—God, Pixie, you’ve made me feel things I didn’t know I could feel again. And I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever.”

Pixie’s eyes softened, her lips parting as if she was about to say something. But Beast didn’t wait for her words. He couldn’t. He reached up, cupping her face in his large hands, and kissed her.

The kiss was desperate, all-consuming. A storm of emotions—fear, longing, relief—crashed over him.

He pulled her closer, his lips claiming hers, not waiting for permission.

Pixie kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, her fingers digging into him like she never wanted to let go.

He pulled her onto his lap, her body pressed against his, and the heat between them flared to life. Every inch of him ached for her, wanted her, needed her like air.

When they finally broke apart for breath, Beast stared into her eyes, his chest heaving.

“Brad’s not a problem anymore,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m done running. I love you, Beast. I want to be with you. No more running.”

Her words were a balm to his soul, the final thread that had been holding him together unraveling. He cupped her face again, gently this time, as if she were made of the most fragile thing in the world.

“I love you, too,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, raw. “You’re mine, Pixie. Forever.”

She smiled then, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. She leaned in to kiss him again, slowly this time, a kiss that said everything they needed to say.

The kiss deepened, and Beast could feel the bond between them strengthening, tying them together in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

He wasn’t going to lose her. Not to her past, not to anyone. Pixie was his, and no one would ever hurt her again. As he pulled her down with him on the bed, their bodies intertwined, Beast felt a peace he’d never known before. Pixie was safe and she was finally his.