Page 2 of Diesel (Iron Sentinels MC #5)

T he next morning dawned gray and wet. The drizzle had returned, tapping against Tom’s truck windshield as he pulled into the parking spot across from Petal & Stem.

Sophie didn’t move at first. She twisted her fingers in the hem of her coat, knuckles white. The flower shop was wrapped in yellow police tape now, sagging slightly in the rain.

A DO NOT CROSS sign fluttered beneath the awning. The window was still broken. Shattered glass glinted on the sidewalk like scattered jewels. Her stomach sank. It looked even worse in daylight.

Tom climbed out first and rounded the truck to her side. He opened her door and waited without rushing her. She stepped down, boots splashing lightly in a puddle. Her heart twisted at the sight of her ruined display. Half a daisy was crushed under a tire track.

Then she heard the low, unmistakable rumble of a motorcycle engine. Sophie turned her head sharply. A lone bike came down Main Street, its black paint gleaming despite the clouds.

The man riding it was huge. Tall, broad, wearing a dark leather jacket with the Iron Sentinels patch sewn across the back—a coiled snake, a wrench, and a flaming skull.

His helmet was matte black, and even when he cut the engine in front of the shop and swung one booted leg over the seat, he didn’t take it off.

Sophie stared. Everything about him was imposing. Gruff. Massive. A walking wall of quiet strength. Definitely not her type.

She liked gentle guys. The kind who read books and smiled with their eyes. This man looked like he could rip a tree out of the ground just because it annoyed him. Tom, however, broke into a grin.

“Well, I’ll be damned. That’s Diesel,” Tom said.

Sophie blinked. “Diesel?”

“Yeah. Was just a prospect when I was still around. Green as hell back then, but smart. Reliable as they come now, though. I’m glad Beast sent him over,” Tom said.

Diesel removed his helmet then, revealing close-cropped black hair, a few days’ worth of stubble, and sharp, dark eyes that landed on Sophie with cool precision. He nodded once at Tom, then looked at her.

“You the shop owner?” Diesel asked.

Sophie stiffened. “I ... yeah. I’m Sophie.”

Diesel stepped closer. His boots were heavy on the sidewalk, his presence somehow swallowing the space around them. He didn’t smile. Just looked at the shop, then back at her.

“You were inside when it happened?” Diesel asked, frowning.

She nodded. “I’d forgotten my wallet. They didn’t know I was there.”

He gave another tight nod, then turned to Tom. “We’ll find them,” Diesel said.

There was no bravado in his tone, no posturing. Just quiet certainty.

Sophie wasn’t sure whether that comforted or scared her more.

“Appreciate it,” Tom said, clapping Diesel on the shoulder like they were old friends.

They probably were. Sophie crossed her arms, trying to stay warm. She felt awkward suddenly—small, fragile in the face of all this male steel and confidence.

She wasn’t used to men like Diesel. He didn’t talk much. Didn’t fill the silence. Just watched the world like he was deciding whether it was worth fixing or burning down. Still...

Her eyes drifted to his hands. Calloused. Strong. The veins on his forearms visible beneath his sleeves. A scar peeked out from his jawline, but it wasn’t ugly. It added something rough and real to the harsh lines of his face.

She swallowed. No. Definitely not her type. But something in her chest fluttered anyway. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was just relief that someone, anyone, was finally on her side in this.

Tom turned to her. “You don’t have to go inside today. I’ll take care of cleanup once the cops finish their bit.”

Sophie shook her head. “No. I need to see it. I need to ... start fixing it.”

Diesel looked at her again and this time, his gaze softened just slightly. A flicker. Like maybe he understood. For reasons she couldn’t explain, Sophie found herself standing a little straighter.

****

D iesel pulled up to Petal & Stem just after six, the sky still dark enough that the streetlamps hadn’t shut off. His bike rumbled low beneath him, its familiar purr grounding him in a way nothing else could.

He killed the engine and kicked down the stand, dismounting with a smooth, practiced motion. Then he set about establishing his post. He had one folding camp chair, a thermos of black coffee, and a secondhand paperback he probably wouldn’t open.

He wasn’t here to read. The shop still looked like hell. Broken window boarded up. Police tape fluttering in the morning breeze like some half-hearted apology. Diesel scowled at the sight, then settled into the chair with a grunt, arms crossed, boots planted.

Tom hadn’t needed to explain. One look at the grainy, shaky, and useless security footage, and Diesel had known exactly what kind of cowards they were dealing with—hooded, fast, and reckless. Random or not, it didn’t matter. Someone had targeted this place, and that made it his problem now.

He didn’t owe much in this life, but he owed Beast. And Beast had made it clear that Sophie was under Sentinels’ protection now.

Diesel had worked worse details. Surveillance, escort jobs, back-alley retrievals. But sitting outside a flower shop like some kind of grizzled mall cop? It felt too ... quiet.

Around seven, the sun finally rose, lighting up the street in slow, golden strokes. Shops began to open. People walked dogs or jogged past him without making eye contact.

A couple cast him wary glances. He couldn’t blame them. With his size, his leather cut, and the scowl that rarely left his face, he wasn’t exactly approachable. Which was just how he liked it.

The shop door creaked open. Sophie stepped outside, carrying two cups of coffee.

Diesel tensed before he could stop himself.

He watched her involuntarily as she crossed the sidewalk toward him.

Light sweater. Ponytail. That soft, natural look that didn't need effort to be beautiful. She was the kind of woman he’d always tried to keep at arm’s length.

“Morning,” she said, offering a tentative smile and holding out one of the cups. “Figured you might want something that didn’t taste like burnt tires.”

Diesel didn’t move. His first instinct was to brush her off. Polite but distant. That was the play. He didn’t do “friendly.” And he sure as hell didn’t do coffee with civilians.

“I’m good,” he said, nodding to the thermos beside his boot.

Sophie hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the cup for a second before she nodded and took a small step back. “Right. Sure. Well, if you change your mind, I’m inside.”

She offered him another half-smile and turned to go.

Diesel tightened his jaw as he watched her walk away. Sophie was too damn kind and he didn’t deserve kindness. Not from someone like her.

The truth was, Sophie had been lodged under his skin from the second he saw her standing outside her wrecked shop with that tight, broken look on her face, like she was holding herself together with string and willpower alone.

She hadn’t cried in front of him, but he’d seen the tension in her shoulders. The haunted edge in her eyes. She reminded him of someone. Something tightened in him painfully.

Emily. His little sister had looked like that too, the day their father died. Scared, brave, stubborn as hell. She’d had a smile just like Sophie’s—soft, cautious, always a little unsure if it was welcome.

Emily had brought him coffee too, every time he’d come home bruised from another job or scrape. He hadn’t protected Emily. Not when it counted.

He’d been away on club business the night she’d called him. She’d left a message. Her voice was shaking, telling him something felt wrong, that she thought someone was following her.

He hadn’t listened to it until the next morning.

By then, she was already gone. “Carjacked,” the police had said.

Wrong place, wrong time. But Diesel had known better.

He’d felt it. The guilt was still there—a dull, permanent burn in his gut.

A rot that festered no matter how many favors he ran for the club, no matter how many assholes he put in the ground. He hadn’t saved her.

But he sure as hell wasn’t letting anything happen to Sophie. She might have been a stranger yesterday, but now she was under his watch and he didn’t fail people he protected.

Especially not anymore.

The shop bell jingled faintly as Sophie went back inside. Diesel stared at the unopened coffee cup in her hands, then exhaled hard and dragged a palm down his face.

Damn it. It would’ve been easier if she’d been rude. Or cold. Or indifferent. Instead, she was sweet—soft voice, worried eyes, bringing him coffee like she thought he might be tired.

Tired didn’t matter. Feelings didn’t matter. He just had to keep watch. Find the punks who did this. Handle it and walk away.

****

B y noon, he’d already had to talk himself down three separate times.

First, when a couple of teenagers wandered by, snickering as they pointed at the boarded-up window like it was part of some urban scavenger hunt.

Diesel tightened his jaw. He even lifted one boot off the pavement like he might stand, like he might do something about it.

In the end, he forced himself to stay put. Not his job to scare kids. Not today.

Second, when some asshole in a pressed button-down tried to squeeze his Tesla into the narrow space beside Diesel’s Harley.

The guy had eyed the bike like it was an eyesore, something greasy and outdated.

Diesel had stood that time, deliberately slow, all six-foot-five inches of him rising like a thundercloud. The Tesla peeled away a second later.

But it was the third time, the hardest, that had Diesel gritting his teeth until his molars hurt.

Sophie stepped out of the shop again, her soft tread barely audible over the faint hum of traffic.

She carried a plate this time. A dozen small muffins, golden-brown and still warm, if the curl of steam was anything to go by.

He caught the scent before she even reached him—cinnamon, butter, something sweet and spiced that hit him harder than it should have. Like comfort. Like care.

She smiled as she approached, tentative but real. “Apple muffins. I made too many,” she said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

Diesel raised a brow. “You’re bribing the guy standing guard with baked goods?”

Her smile widened just a little, warmer this time, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “I figured caffeine wasn’t enough,” she told him, and in that moment, something loosened in his chest that had no damn business loosening.

He stared at the muffins, then at her. Her hands were small, fingers pink from holding the warm plate.

Her wrists were delicate, the kind that looked like they’d snap under pressure but held more strength than people probably gave her credit for.

There were faint smudges of flour on her jeans, and a strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail, curling along her cheek.

He hated how badly he wanted to tuck it behind her ear.

He didn’t reach for the plate.

“Look,” he said, voice dropping an octave as he fought to keep it steady, impersonal. “You don’t have to keep bringing me stuff. I’m not here to socialize.”

The words came out sharper than he meant them, and he saw the small hitch in her expression, the flicker of confusion before she caught herself.

“I wasn’t trying to—” she began, but he cut her off.

“I’m here to keep you safe. That’s it,” he said.

Silence stretched between them like wire, tight and uncomfortable.

Sophie lowered her gaze, looking down at the plate for a second before nodding. She didn’t push, didn’t argue. Instead, she set the plate gently on the windowsill beside his chair, careful not to disturb anything, and turned back toward the shop.

The bell above the door jingled softly as it closed behind her.

Diesel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, then rubbed the back of his neck hard enough to sting.

She smelled like flowers and sugar and something homemade. Something soft and familiar. The scent clung to the air even after she was gone, wrapping around him like an unwanted memory. It made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t let it ache in years.

And that ache scared the hell out of him.

She ’ s not yours to care about. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, but it didn’t help. Not when her kindness was so effortless. Not when her presence pulled at something buried deep in his ribs, something raw and unhealed. She reminded him too much of her. Of Emily.

His sister had been the same way. Emily was gentle, curious, always reaching out even when life gave her reasons to retreat. And he hadn’t protected her. Not when it counted. He’d failed her.

And now, standing outside another small-town shop with another sweet-hearted woman who deserved a better world than the one they lived in, Diesel felt that failure rise up like bile.

Rule one: don ’ t get attached.

Rule two: don ’ t make it personal.

Rule three: never let the past repeat itself.

He clenched his fists, staring down at the plate of muffins like they might explode if he got too close. They were still warm. He could see the slight sheen of melted sugar on their tops, smell the baked apples inside.

Damn it. This wasn’t what he signed up for.

He was here to handle things, not feel anything.

Sophie was the kind of woman that made a man want to feel.

That was the problem. She made him want to linger.

To believe he could still have a life that wasn’t all steel and scars and regret.

But Diesel had been around long enough to know better.

That kind of life wasn’t for him. Still, as the minutes passed and the scent of cinnamon and sugar continued to drift through the air like a promise he had no business wanting, Diesel felt something shift.

Not in the job and not in the danger, but in him.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just guarding someone out of duty. He was doing it because he wanted to.

He’d already started thinking about what might’ve happened if he hadn’t been here. Because when Sophie looked at him with those tired but kind eyes, he wanted to believe he could be something other than the sum of his mistakes.

The worst part? He wasn’t sure he wanted to fight that feeling anymore.