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I zipped the duffel bag with a sharp, final tug and stepped back to survey my handiwork. Three days' worth of supplies, neatly packed and categorized by priority. A heavy responsibility settled between my ribs like a stone. Mia's safety wasn't just another club obligation; it had become personal in ways I hadn't allowed myself to acknowledge yet.

I slipped my cut over my shoulders, the heavy leather settling with familiar weight. The patches caught the light—President, Heavy Kings MC, Ironridge Colorado—each one earned through blood and loyalty. I checked my watch. Time to move.

Grabbing the duffel, I gave the apartment a final sweep, then locked the door behind me. The stairs down to our private garage beneath the clubhouse creaked under my boots. Music and laughter drifted up from the main bar, the daily rhythm of King's Tavern continuing uninterrupted. Better that way. The fewer people who knew our movements, the better.

The garage was cool and dimly lit, smelling of oil and leather and metal. My Road King gleamed under the overhead lights, its black and chrome surfaces reflecting the fluorescents in distorted patterns. Mia stood beside it, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot, her slender frame dwarfed by one of my old flannel shirts.

"Ready?" I asked, dropping the duffel beside the bike.

Mia nodded, her dark eyes wide and alert.

"Ever ridden before?" I asked, running my hand along the saddle of my Harley.

"No," she admitted, eyeing the machine with equal parts fascination and trepidation. "Jesse never let me ride."

I nodded. Made sense. Lots of guys were superstitious about letting women ride their motorcycles. Not me. "This is a 2016 Road King. Custom modifications by Thor and me." I watched her expression soften as I continued. "He's the mechanical genius, but I know my way around an engine."

The bike represented fifteen years of freedom, of brotherhood, of pushing boundaries. It had carried me through firefights with rival clubs, through grief when my father died, through the solitary mountain roads where I went to clear my head when the weight of leadership pressed too heavily.

"The frame's reinforced. Engine's been rebuilt twice, each time with improvements." I pointed to the subtle crown worked into the paint job near the tank. "Heavy Kings insignia, but subtle. No need to advertise more than necessary."

She stepped closer, her fingers hovering just above the chrome without touching. "It's beautiful," she said softly.

"Practical," I corrected, but felt a flicker of pride nonetheless. "The sidecar's a newer addition. Custom built for Diesel. Thor thought I was crazy to modify a classic Road King like this, but he came around."

I gestured for her to come closer and showed her the hidden compartments built into the sidecar – places to stash weapons, emergency supplies, even a crude first aid kit.

"The bike gives us advantages a car won't," I explained, checking the tires reflexively. "Harder to track, more options for escape routes if needed. Mountain roads around the cabin are narrow—better maneuverability."

“What about Diesel?”

“Don’t worry—Diesel will follow us up there in a couple hours. He’ll be well looked after. The Serps know you’ve got a dog, so they’ll be expecting a truck or car. It’s safer to have you on the bike. Trust me.”

She nodded, taking it all in. I recognized that expression—cataloging information, calculating survival odds. I'd seen it in my own mirror too many times to count.

I moved to the bike, checking gauges and fuel levels with practiced efficiency. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mia watching, a flicker of fascination replacing the fear that had haunted her expression since I'd first found her hiding in that abandoned gas station on the edge of town.

"We'll take back roads," I said, returning to business. "Longer route, but safer. Less chance of being spotted." I handed her a helmet – matte black, no markings. "Non-negotiable."

She took it without argument, which I appreciated. Some of the women who hung around the club balked at helmets. Not Mia, though. She just nodded and slipped it on, fumbling slightly with the strap until I stepped closer, my fingers brushing her skin as I adjusted it.

"Too tight?" I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.

She shook her head, her eyes meeting mine through the visor.

"We'll stop if we need to, but I'd rather make it in one straight shot," I said, straddling the bike and feeling it settle beneath my weight. The familiar contours of the seat, shaped to my body after countless miles, felt right. Felt like coming home.

"Come on," I said, extending a hand to Mia. "Time to disappear for a while."

She took my hand, her fingers small but strong in mine, and swung her leg over the seat behind me. Her arms encircled my waist hesitantly until I reached back and pulled them tighter around me.

"Hold on," I instructed, feeling her press against my back. "Move with me when we take turns. Don't fight it."

I felt her nod against my shoulder blade, her body warm against mine. Despite everything—the danger, the responsibility, the uncertainty – something settled in me. This felt right. Protecting her felt right.

I raised the garage door with the remote built into the bike's controls, then eased us forward into the gathering dusk. Behind us, the clubhouse lights receded, and ahead, the mountains rose dark against the deepening sky.

***

We left Ironridge behind, the Road King eating up asphalt as I guided us toward the mountains. I took a deliberately complex route, doubling back twice, cutting through gas station parking lots, watching my mirrors for headlights that followed our patterns too closely. All standard protocol, but the warm pressure of Mia's arms around my waist made everything feel more urgent.

The night air bit with mountain chill, carrying the scent of pine and distant woodsmoke. I cut the headlight as we approached the first junction, relying on moonlight and memory to navigate the familiar curve. Standard evasion technique—harder to track a bike without lights. Mia tensed behind me, her fingers digging into my sides through my leather jacket. I reached down and squeezed her hand once, a silent reassurance before returning my grip to the handlebars.

"We'll be off the main roads soon," I said over my shoulder, my voice nearly lost to the wind and engine noise. I felt rather than heard her acknowledgment, a slight nod against my shoulder blade.

Twenty minutes later, I made a sharp turn onto a narrow fire road that didn't appear on any public maps. The pavement gave way to packed dirt, the bike's suspension working overtime against the uneven terrain. Mia's arms tightened around me again, her body pressed fully against my back now as she instinctively moved with the bike's motion.

My focus should have been entirely on security – checking for tails, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement, listening for engines beyond our own. Instead, I found myself hyper-aware of every point of contact between us. The press of her thighs against mine. Her cheek against my shoulder. The way her hands had slid from their cautious position at my sides to lock more firmly around my waist, fingers splayed across my abdomen.

No one rode with me. Not like this. The Road King was mine, my freedom, my escape when club business became too suffocating. Having Mia behind me felt ridiculously intimate.

I doubled back, taking a hairpin turn that would reveal any tail no matter how skilled. Nothing. Just the empty mountain road stretching behind us, silver in the moonlight. We were alone, which should have been reassuring. Instead, I felt exposed in a different way, acutely aware that I was taking Mia to the one place I'd kept separate from club business, from brotherhood obligations, from the constant demands of leadership.

The cabin was my sanctuary. My father had started building it when I was a boy, teaching me to notch logs and lay stone while he shared stories of his own father, of rides taken and battles won. After his death—after the Iron Serpents took him from me—I'd completed it alone, pouring grief and rage into every swing of the hammer.

And now I was bringing Mia there.

The bike crested a steep incline, and for a brief moment, the forest opened up to reveal the valley below. Ironridge was just a cluster of lights in the distance, the club's territory reduced to a small corner of a vast wilderness. It put things in perspective – how small our human concerns were against the ancient indifference of these mountains.

"Beautiful," Mia said, her voice close to my ear, startling me from my thoughts.

We descended into forest again, the trees closing around us like a protective wall. The altitude brought sharper cold, the kind that cuts through leather and denim to settle in your bones. Mia's arms tightened around me, seeking warmth. Without thinking, I caught one of her hands in mine, pressing it flat against my chest where my body heat was strongest, trapped beneath layers of clothing.

"How much farther?" she shouted, her first complete sentence since we'd left the clubhouse.

"Another twenty minutes," I replied, automatically calculating fuel, terrain, and the growing numbness in my fingers from the bitter mountain air. "We're almost there."

***