Page 1 of Diesel (Iron Sentinels MC #5)

T he soft jingle of Sophie’s keys was the only sound as she hurried down Main Street, her boots clacking against the wet pavement. The sky above was a dark curtain, the stars hidden behind clouds.

The streetlamps illuminated empty storefronts and closed cafés. A fine mist hung in the air, clinging to her coat and hair. She pulled her hood tighter around her face.

Stupid. She was so stupid.

She’d made it all the way home, kicked off her shoes, poured a cup of tea, only to realize her wallet wasn’t in her bag.

Her heart had plummeted when she remembered setting it down behind the register at the flower shop earlier that afternoon.

She’d been so distracted crafting a bouquet for the Harper twins’ piano recital that she hadn’t noticed her bag tipping on its side.

Now it was after ten, the town was asleep, and she was walking alone back to Petal & Stem. The flower shop sat on the corner of Main and Juniper, nestled between the old bookstore and a candle shop that always smelled like cinnamon and sage.

A string of fairy lights glowed faintly in the front window, casting soft shadows on the brick facade. Sophie’s heart eased a little when she saw them still twinkling. At least she hadn’t forgotten to turn those off too.

She slid the key into the lock and let herself in, the familiar scent of roses, eucalyptus, and damp soil wrapping around her like a blanket.

The shop was her favorite place in the world.

It had once been the hardware store run by Tom Barrett, her landlord, mentor, and the closest thing she had to family.

He’d taken a chance on her two years ago when the factory laid her off, offering her the keys and saying, “You’ve always had a touch with pretty things, Soph.

Make this place yours.” She’d cried right there in front of him.

Cried harder when he handed her a worn apron and a notebook of old invoices and said, “Just don’t blow all the profits on lavender candles. ”

The shop had become her sanctuary. A quiet place full of color and life, where she could lose herself in arranging blooms and humming along to the radio. The world made sense here.

She walked through the front room slowly now, brushing her fingers along the counter as she passed, eyes scanning for her wallet.

The shadows stretched long and strange in the corners, where she hadn’t left the lamp on.

She clicked on the light behind the register and exhaled in relief when she spotted the pale pink wallet half-tucked beneath a receipt book.

“Gotcha,” she murmured, reaching for it.

A sudden thud echoed from outside. A low, metallic sound, like something striking the back door.

Sophie froze. The hairs on her neck rose as another sound followed. A muffled voice. Then a laugh, sharp and mean, cut through the night. Glass tinkled. A bottle? A window? Her heart jumped into her throat. She ducked behind the counter, holding her breath.

The laughter came again, clearer this time, and closer. Sophie inched toward the corner of the counter and peeked up just enough to see out the front window.

Three shadows moved past the far streetlamp, hunched figures in dark hoodies. One of them stopped at the edge of her flower boxes and kicked them hard. Petunias and pansies flew, soil scattering across the sidewalk like dark confetti.

“No, no,” Sophie whispered, pressing her hand over her mouth.

A crack sounded at the back of the shop. This time, something heavy hit the service door. She always meant to replace that old wooden door but hadn’t gotten around to yet. She crouched lower, pulse pounding in her ears.

Think. Breathe. She reached slowly for her phone, fingers trembling. No service. Of course. The shop was always a dead zone unless she stood by the front window. The only landline was in the back office, past the cooler.

She swallowed hard. If she made a noise, they might hear her. If they got in—

Don ’ t think about that.

Instead, she thought about Tom. The way he’d handed her the keys like it was no big deal. How he’d given her a job at the hardware store when she was sixteen and desperate for work.

She’d come to town straight from the city’s foster system, dropped off by a caseworker who clearly didn’t know what to do with a quiet, bookish girl who flinched at raised voices and hated loud noises.

She had no family, no diploma, no connections. But Tom had taken one look at her and said, “You ever hold a hammer?”

She hadn’t. But he taught her. And when the time came to retire, he gave her this shop and told her to make it bloom.

And now someone was trying to tear it apart.

Another bang. The sound of the back door creaking under pressure. Sophie bit down on a gasp. She couldn’t stay here. If they got through the door, they’d be inside. They’d see her.

She scanned the room. The cooler. If she could slip into the back, she could maybe make it to the office. The landline was old, but it still worked.

She rose slowly, knees aching from crouching, and tiptoed toward the back. Her hand hovered over the cooler door handle.

Then a pane of glass shattered.

Sophie jumped, a cry escaping her throat before she could stop it. The sound had come from the side window near the alley. She spun around, heart thudding, and caught sight of a brick lying among scattered shards on the floor.

They’re inside. They’re coming inside. Panic clawed up her throat. She backed toward the cooler again and slid inside, careful not to let the door click shut. The chilled air hit her like a slap, and she pressed herself against the steel shelving, heart hammering.

Voices filled the front room now.

“Dumb bitch probably leaves the till open.”

“Grab what you can and let’s go—”

The rest was drowned out by the thud of boots and the sound of more things crashing to the floor. Sophie clenched her fists, trying to breathe through the cold.

She didn’t care about the cash register. Let them take it. As long as they didn’t come back here.

She closed her eyes and prayed. Please. Please let them think no one ’ s here.

A muffled curse. Then footsteps, closer now. She heard someone knock over a display stand. The vase of lilies she'd set out for a funeral order earlier today hit the ground and shattered.

Sophie bit her lip until she tasted blood.

She’d survived worse, she reminded herself. She’d survived nights alone in group homes with broken locks and screaming neighbors. She’d learned how to hide, how to become invisible. She could do it again.

Then something scraped against the cooler door.

She stopped breathing.

A pause.

Then: “Yo, you hear that?”

“Probably just rats.”

“Nah, I swear I heard something.”

Her pulse throbbed in her ears as the handle jiggled once. Twice.

Please don ’ t open it.

Then a crash came from the front of the store—a louder one this time, glass and metal and shouting.

“Shit—someone’s coming!”

The door handle stilled.

Footsteps retreated fast, pounding across the hardwood.

More shouting.

Car doors slamming.

Then silence.

Sophie stayed frozen for another minute, maybe five, maybe ten—time had lost all meaning.

When she finally crept from the cooler, the shop looked like a war zone. Broken glass, trampled flowers, shelves overturned. The front window was shattered. Her FRESH DAHLIAS sign was torn and lying in the dirt. The cash register was cracked open on the floor, bills scattered like leaves.

She stood in the middle of the chaos, shaking.

Then the bell above the front door jingled, and Sophie almost screamed, spinning with her hands raised in defense—

But it was Tom. Old, grizzled Tom, still in his slippers and a flannel coat, holding a baseball bat in one hand and a flashlight in the other. His eyes went wide when he saw her.

“Sophie?”

Her knees gave out.

He crossed the distance fast, catching her before she hit the floor.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, breath hitching as the tears finally came. “I’m okay.”

Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true, but at the very least she was alive.

****

T om’s apartment still smelled like sawdust and coffee, like the hardware store he used to run before he handed over the keys to Sophie’s flower shop.

The heater kicked in with a groan, warming the space in bursts as she sat curled on the worn corduroy couch, a quilt draped around her shoulders.

Sophie wrapped her fingers tightly around a chipped mug of tea, but she hadn’t managed a sip yet. She was still shaking.

Tom came back from the kitchen, a second mug in hand, and sat heavily in the armchair across from her. He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her over the rim of his cup, eyes narrowed in quiet worry.

“I won’t stand for this,” he said finally, voice gravelly with anger.

Sophie nodded, though her gaze remained fixed on the swirling steam rising from her tea.

She willed herself to breathe, slow and deep.

The adrenaline had burned out, leaving her drained and hollow.

Her hands trembled despite the warmth. She focused on stilling them, clenching her fingers tighter around the mug.

“They’ll do something,” she said after a moment, unsure if she believed it. “The police took our statements. I gave them the security footage.”

Tom snorted. “And you think they’ll do a damn thing?”

She looked up, startled by the bitterness in his tone. It wasn’t like him to sound so ... cynical.

“They have to,” she said, but even as the words left her lips, she felt doubt.

The footage had shown three hooded figures. No faces, just shadows and silhouettes. And the sheriff wasn’t known for doing more than the bare minimum, especially when it came to break-ins. Her stomach turned. Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Look, Soph. I know you want to believe the law’ll take care of this. But that shop is yours. You built it from nothing. And I’m not about to sit back while some punk kids wreck it for fun,” Tom stated.

He reached for the phone on the end table and thumbed through his contacts.

Sophie’s breath caught in her throat. “Tom?”

“I’ll handle it,” he said, not looking up. “I know a couple of guys.”

A cold shiver ran down her spine.

She knew what he meant. Not just “guys.” Not just old friends from the neighborhood. He meant the Iron Sentinels. The local motorcycle club. The ones who didn’t ask permission. The ones people in town nodded politely to, then hurried away from.

Everyone knew they were the real authority in Steelhaven. The police kept their distance. The mayor never said a word about them, not even during elections.

People called them dangerous behind closed doors. But they also kept the drug dealers out, shut down creeps, and made sure no one messed with the people they cared about.

Tom had once ridden with them, back before he opened the hardware store and settled down. She’d seen the old photos tucked into his bookshelf. They featured a younger, tougher version of Tom leaning against gleaming bikes, wearing a patched leather cut.

He made the call. She tried not to listen, but the apartment was too small.

“Beast?” Tom’s voice dropped low and serious. “It’s Tom Barrett. I’m callin’ in that favor.”

Silence stretched as he listened, and Sophie stared at the mug in her hands, heart thudding. She shouldn’t feel conflicted. She wanted someone to help. She was scared and furious and violated, but something about the word “favor” stuck in her ribs like a sliver of ice.

He ended the call without further explanation, setting the phone on the table with finality. Then he looked at her, softer now.

“You want to stay here tonight? Couch is yours. I already made it up,” Tom offered.

Sophie hesitated for all of a second before nodding.

“Thanks,” she said, voice hoarse. “I don’t ... I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Tom’s eyes softened. “You’re never alone, kid.”

She smiled faintly, then took a sip of the tea. It had cooled, but it still calmed her enough to finally breathe again.