Page 12 of Misery

Seven months of keeping her safe, and it all nearly went to shit tonight.

The weight of her against me is different from what I imagined.

Heavier somehow. Morereal.

She's pressed close enough that I feel every breath, every shift of her body as we lean into curves.

Her thighs bracket mine. Her hands fist in my cut like she's anchoring herself to me.

Good. Let her hold on. Let her realize I'm the solid thing between her and them.

I take the exit for 98, heading west toward the coast.

Away from Tallahassee.

Away from the club’s territory.

Away from anywhere Los Coyotes would think to look.

The cottage in Panacea is mine alone—not on any club records, not in my real name.

Bought it five years ago through an LLC I opened, with cash from a job the club doesn't know about.

Everyone needs a backup plan.

Especially executioners.

My phone vibrates in my pocket at a red light.

I ignore it.

Whoever it is can fucking wait.

Right now, getting Elfe somewhere safe and secure is all that matters.

She shifts behind me, and I catch her scent—vanilla and something floral mixing with fear-sweat.

Her helmet bumps against my shoulder blade. Probably looking around, trying to figure out where we're going. Smart girl.

Always aware of her surroundings, even when terrified.

That awareness has kept her alive. That and me, though she doesn't know the half of it.

The road to Panacea is empty this time of night.

Just us and the occasional semi heading for the interstate.

I push the bike harder, eating up asphalt, putting distance between us and whatever Los Coyotes has planned.

The two men I dealt with behind Bubba's were scouts.

An advanced team, and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that there will be more.

There always are.

Forty minutes feels like hours.

Every set of headlights could be them.