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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I SHOULD’VE WALKED away the second she started getting stronger.

The first few days had been easy, or as easy as looking after a bruised and broken woman could be. She needed help, and I gave it. Simple as that.

But now?

Now she was moving around more. Sitting up. Reading. Talking with the others in soft looks and gestures that said more than words could. She wasn't just surviving. She was making the clubhouse feel like hers . And that was dangerous.

I leaned against the scarred bar in the common room, nursing a half warm beer, my eyes locked on her without even trying. Voices buzzed low around me—someone racked a pool cue against the table, music thudded from the old speaker in the corner—but it all blurred into background noise. All I heard, all I saw, was her .

Zeynep sat at a table with Brenda, Amy, and Fiona, slowly running her fingertips over the wood grain like she could feel the stories carved into it. Her face was soft with concentration, listening to Brenda talk about something I couldn’t catch.

The bruises had faded into ghostly smudges, a reminder but no longer a statement. Her lips weren’t split anymore. Her eyes—those brown, unguarded eyes—watched the room like she was waking up from a nightmare and realizing it had only been that... just a dream.

Those eyes found me. Held me there, no words, just the kind of pull that made the world go quiet.

My heart twisted in a way I wasn’t built for. That same damned coil that had started the night I dragged her broken body out of that van, wrapping itself around my ribs, pulling tighter every time she trusted me with those eyes.

I ripped my gaze away, setting the beer bottle down hard enough that the dull thud cracked through the air.

What the hell was I doing?

She's still healing, that's all. That’s the reason I’m watching. Making sure she's okay. Just looking out for her.

But the lie didn’t even hold for a breath.

I dragged a hand down my face, the scrape of my beard rough against my palm, trying to ground myself. I should’ve handed her care off days ago. Let Brenda or Fiona step in. I was a fucked up wreck barely holding my own shit together and for her sake I needed to back off.

But every time I thought about putting distance between us, every time I made the decision to walk...she would look at me like that. Like I wasn’t the monster I knew damn well I was. Like I was something better .

And every time, I stayed.

Not because she needed me. Because I wanted to be the man she needed.

The man she could trust.

The man she could lean on.

My grip tightened around the bottle until my knuckles turned white. I wasn’t that man. Not even close. I had the scars, inside and out, to prove it. Why couldn’t Zeynep see it?

"You good, brother?" Chain’s voice cut through the tangle of my thoughts.

I hadn't even heard him walk up. My spine stiffened before I caught myself. I grabbed the beer again, needing something, anything to ground me. "Yeah," I muttered, voice rough. "Why?"

Chain shrugged, but there was that flicker in his eyes—too cutting, too damn knowing. His gaze flicked to Zeynep, then back to me. "No reason," he said, casual as sin. "Just noticin’ you been a little more... involved with our pretty little guest."

I gave him a look sharp enough to cut, but he didn’t flinch.

"Ain’t judgin’, just observin’." Chain took a swig of his own beer, leaning his elbow on the bar like we were just two brothers talking shit. "You still watchin’ out for her... or has this turned into somethin’ else?"

My hand flexed around the bottle. A muscle ticked in my jaw. "I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about."

Chain just chuckled, a low, rough sound. "Yeah. Sure you don’t."

I shoved off the bar, the old wood creaking under my weight. "I got shit to do," I growled, not looking at him.

I felt his smirk burning into my back as I stalked toward the door. Felt the heat of it crawl over my skin like judgment I didn’t want and but fucking deserved.

The door slammed against the frame as I shoved it open, the night air biting cold against my face.

Didn’t matter.

The damage was already done.

I could drown in a bottle, put a thousand miles between us, bury myself in the club 'til my knuckles bled—I'd still be hers.

The humid night air wrapped around me the second I shoved through the door, thick enough to choke on.

I welcomed it.

Hell, I needed it.

I needed something to cut through the knot of shit twisting up my insides before I did something I couldn’t come back from.

I dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of my cut, fingers rough with impatience. One bent stick tumbled loose. I caught it, shoved it between my teeth, and flicked my lighter to life. The flame danced in the heavy dark.

I took a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs, letting it burn. Letting it hurt .

The clubhouse door thunked shut behind me. Muted laughter spilled out for a second, then got swallowed by the night. I stared out across the gravel lot, past the row of bikes lined up like soldiers, chrome glinting under the busted floodlight.

The woods beyond the lot loomed close, tangled and restless. Spanish moss dripped from the trees, swaying like ghost fingers in the heavy breeze. It should’ve felt like home. It didn’t. I shifted my weight, boots grinding against gravel. The cigarette burned low between my fingers, the ember flaring with every tight breath.

That’s when it hit me. That feeling. Crawling up the back of my neck. The one I knew too damn well.

Someone was watching.

My hand twitched toward the gun at my belt without thinking.

I scanned the tree line, the gaps between the bikes, the far reaches of the lot. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound but the slow creak of the trees and the distant thump of the music inside.

Still, the feeling stayed. Burrowed deep. Refused to let go.

I dragged off the cigarette, keeping my body loose even as my pulse jumped under my skin.

Lesson number one: don’t let ‘em see you tense.

Lesson number two: trust your gut if you want to stay breathing.

I flicked the butt to the ground, grinding it out under my boot. Listened. Waited.

"Thought I might find you out here," a voice drawled behind me.

I didn’t startle, but my hand hovered half a second too long near my belt before I recognized Devil’s slow, easy stride.

He stepped up beside me, dragging a hand through his short hair, his own cigarette already burning between his fingers. Devil only smoked when his past was spooking him. "You look like you're waiting for something," he said.

I shrugged, eyes still on the dark. "Just needed some air," I lied.

Devil snorted under his breath, low and knowing. "Ain’t much air to breathe tonight, brother."

He wasn’t wrong. The humidity was thick enough to drown in.

We stood there a minute, shoulder to shoulder, not speaking. The way men did when there minds were too fucking heavy. Finally, Devil shifted, tapping ash off the end of his smoke.

"You feel it too?" he asked, voice casual but edged.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. "What?"

He shrugged one shoulder. "Something’s off. Something’s watching."

The tension that had been coiled tight inside me pulled tighter. I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Devil blew out a slow breath, smoke curling into the heavy dark. "Stay alert, brother," he muttered, before pushing off and heading back inside.

I stayed there a minute longer, staring into the black.

I didn’t need Devil’s warning. I already knew.

Something was out there.

And whatever it was...it was planning to strike.