Page 47

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“HOLD ON TIGHT .”

Zeynep’s arms wrapped around my waist, her grip firm as she pressed herself against my back. I didn’t need to tell her twice. The second the bike rumbled to life beneath us, I felt the way she clung to me—not out of fear, but trust.

I hadn’t planned on taking her out tonight. Hell, I didn’t even know where we were going. But I could feel the sadness she was carrying and knew this would help.

Before we left, I’d stripped off my cut, folding it carefully and tucking it away in my saddlebags. No colors tonight. No club. Just me and her, nothing to tie us back to The Devil’s House.

Devil had given me a hard look before I left. “No stops. No main roads. You bring her back the second you think eyes are on you.”

I had agreed.

That was the only reason we were out here now, sticking to the backroads, keeping her hidden in my hoodie, her hair tucked beneath the hood. No one could recognize her in the dark, not from a distance, and I sure as hell wasn’t stopping long enough to let them get close.

She tucked her head against my shoulder, and something settled deep inside me.

She wasn’t running from me.

Not yet.

The town lights faded in the distance as I opened up the throttle, taking us down an empty stretch of highway. I felt her relax against me, the tension in her small frame easing the longer we rode. She needed this. I needed this.

After a while, I pulled off onto a dirt road leading to an open field just off the highway. The kind of place no one came to at this hour. Above us, the sky stretched wide, stars bright against the darkness. Devil wouldn’t like it but it was safe.

I killed the engine, the silence settling around us like a blanket.

Zeynep slid off first, stretching her legs, her gaze drifting across the field. “Where are we?”

I shrugged, kicking down the stand and climbing off. “Nowhere important. Just quiet.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she smiled—really smiled.

“I missed this,” she admitted softly. “This feeling of being out in the world, free not a prisoner.”

Something in my chest tightened. “Do you miss your country? Ever think of goin’ back?”

She sighed and stared into the night sky as she thought about my question. “Sometimes I long to go back, but there is nothing there for me now. Lucy found out my parents no longer live and I’m not the same girl who was taken that night,” she replied sadly.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” I said, taking her hand in mine.

“It was my father’s best friend who stole me,” she whispered the confession. “They trusted him and he turned out to be so evil.”

“He still alive?”

“I do not know,” she said, gripping my hand tighter. “and I don’t want to know. The things he did to me before he sold me… I…” Her words faded away as the memories hit her hard.

I reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re free now.” I would be finding out if he was and he’d pay.

She searched my face like she wanted to believe me. Like she needed to.

Then, without warning, she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her head against my chest. Not hesitant. Not unsure. Just… needing me.

I let out a slow breath, wrapping my arms around her, holding her tight.

This was dangerous. Letting myself have this. But at that moment, with her warmth against me and the night stretching wide around us, I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I’d brought her out to breathe, to escape the weight of the club and the past clawing at her heels.

But maybe I’d needed this just as much as she did.

***

THE ENGINE CUT off, leaving nothing but the sound of her breathing against my back. I stayed still a second longer than I should’ve, her hands fisted in my hoodie like she wasn’t ready to let go.

Neither was I.

Slowly, I felt her fingers loosen, the fabric dragging against my ribs. She slid off the bike, legs a little shaky, but she held herself steady.

The night stretched around us—wide, dark, endless. Stars hung low and heavy overhead, throwing a silver glow across her face as she tilted her head back, breathing deep like she hadn’t tasted real air in years.

I watched her, couldn’t fucking help it. The way the wind tugged at her hair. The way her hands clutched my hoodie like armor. The way she stood there, fragile and fierce at the same time, and made my whole goddamn chest ache.

She turned toward me, tugging the sleeves tighter around her fists, like she didn’t even realize she was still holding on.

“That was…” she said, her voice rough-edged. She hesitated, trying to find the words.

I waited. Didn’t push. Wouldn’t ever push her.

“That didn’t feel like it used to.”

Didn’t need her to say his name. Didn’t need to hear Drago to know exactly what she meant. I felt something crack loose inside my ribs, something dangerous and wild. “Good,” I said, voice low.

She let out a slow breath, eyes dropping to the ground like she was grounding herself there, and for a second I thought she might pull away. Instead, she stepped in. Closed the space between us. Pressed her forehead against my chest like she was staking a claim she didn’t even know she had the right to.

I froze, everything in me locking down on the moment. Then I wrapped my arms around her, careful but firm, feeling the way she settled against me like maybe—for just a second—she was right where she was meant to be.

Her voice broke the quiet, barely a breath against my skin.

“I loved just being with you.”

God help me.

I dropped a hand into her hair, fingers threading slow and rough through the strands. Held on like she was the last real thing left in a world gone to shit.

“Zeynep,” I rasped. “I…”

She tipped her face up to mine, her eyes wide and open, and for one wrecked, reckless second, I almost did it.

Almost bent my head, closed the breath of space between us, and took what I didn’t deserve.

Her mouth. Her trust. Her heart.

I almost made her mine.

The stars spun slow overhead. Her breath fanned against my jaw. I leaned down, felt the pull of her like gravity—then the night split open. A bottle shattered somewhere beyond the lot. Sharp. Violent. Final.

I stiffened, instincts slamming back into place, and Zeynep felt it too, her body jerking against mine.

Shouting broke out. A bike engine revved, screaming like something dying. I peeled away from her, every nerve raw, my hand already going for my piece. "Inside," I barked, harsh but necessary.

Her eyes—startled but trusting—locked on mine for a split second. She nodded, slipping back toward the porch without a sound.

I turned toward the dark, boots pounding the dirt, heart a live wire sparking in my chest.

The word ripped out of me under my breath, low and bitter. "Fuck."

Just like that, the night wasn’t ours anymore.

It belonged to blood again.

***

MY HAND GRIPPED my piece, as my pulse spiked, my muscles tight. I moved, out the door and into the dark, boots hitting dirt as my eyes scanned around looking for the cause.

There it was.

A bike. Still warm. Engine dead. The front tire spun slow, lazy, like it didn’t know the rider was gone. That soft whir of rubber against gravel cut through the quiet like a whisper in church.

The body was sprawled beside it. Crumpled. One arm bent wrong beneath him, like it snapped on impact. Blood soaked into the gravel, turning dirt into sludge. The copper stench hit me hard—triggering shit I didn’t wanna see. But I saw it anyway.

Not just blood. That smell of dying. Of war. Of a body cooling.

“Shit,” I muttered, stepping in closer. Gravel crunched under my boots. Too loud in the stillness. “That’s one of ours.”

I knew before I said it. I didn’t need to see the cut, torn at the shoulder. Didn’t need to see the kid’s face, swollen and bloodied, barely recognizable. That knife in his chest told me everything. Handle still slick with red, buried to the hilt like a signature.

Troy.

Barely twenty. Prospect patch not even broken in yet.

Thunder and Bolt were already sweeping the perimeter, weapons drawn, scanning for shadows. Ghosts.

Chain stalked up, fury written all over him. “Anyone see what the fuck happened?” he barked.

I forced the words out. “Gate change. Troy must’ve just rolled up. They came in fast. Left him as a message.”

Bolt’s jaw clenched so tight I thought his fucking teeth might crack. “Yeah, well, I got the fuckin’ message,” he ground out, eyes raking over the road like he could drag vengeance out of the dark.

Behind us, the clubhouse door slammed open, wood on wood, echoing loud. Heavy boots on old steps.

Devil stepped out, face like stone, eyes burning low and red in the shadows. The kind of look that said someone would answer for this.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, too quiet. Calm.

I stood up straight, breath tight in my chest as I stared at the scene in front of me. “Just got here. Doesn’t look good.”

Understatement. The kid was dead. Nothing good about that.

I crouched, fingers brushing Troy’s cut, soaked through with blood. His patch was nearly unrecognizable. Just a wet, red rag now. Then I felt it—paper. Crumpled. Stuffed deep in the inside pocket.

I pulled it free and shoved it toward Devil. Didn’t even wanna hold the damn thing.

He took it, unfolded it slow, like he already knew who wrote it. His jaw ticked as his eyes scanned the words. Then he read it out loud, voice rough and cold: “This is just the beginning if you don’t back off our shipments and return what belongs to us.”

Silence followed. It felt like even the wind held still.

Spinner let out a bitter laugh, hand dragging through his hair like he wanted to rip it out by the roots. “Let me guess, they want Lucy and Zeynep.”

My fists clenched. Knuckles gone bone white. The rage that lived inside me started to rise—hot and black, like tar in my lungs.

“This wasn’t the cartel,” I said, starting to pace. “This was Dragon Fire.”

Thunder spat off to the side, pacing like a caged dog. “They’re gettin’ real goddamn brave. Droppin’ bodies at our fuckin’ gate now.”

“We should hit back,” Chain snapped. “Hard. Tonight.”

Devil didn’t even blink. Just folded the paper again, like he was loading a round. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Bolt’s voice cracked the air like a whip. “They just dumped one of our prospects like fuckin’ trash, and you wanna wait?”

Devil’s glare hit him like a blow. “We wait for Patch to give the signal. I’m not sending men out half-cocked just ‘cause you’re mad. You wanna bleed out, go do it on your own time. I wanna fucking make sure we end them.”

He was right. Even if every bone in my body screamed to retaliate.

I turned back toward the bike, still ticking softly as it cooled in the dark. The smell of rubber and gas clung to the air—familiar. Too familiar.

Blood. Death. War drums in the distance.

And then—movement. From the porch.

Zeynep stood in the doorway, wrapped in that hoodie, arms folded tight over her chest like she was freezing. Her eyes met mine, soft, wide, haunted.

I crossed to her before I even knew I was moving.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” I said, watching her closely.

She didn’t speak. Still couldn’t. But her gaze flicked past me—to the body on the ground—and something changed in her face. Not fear. Not shock. Just this quiet understanding, like she knew what death looked like. Like she’d seen this kind of shit before.

I stepped in close, my hand finding her elbow. “Come on. Let’s get you back inside.”

She nodded, small and slow.

But before I could lead her away, her fingers brushed mine—light as air—and for a second, I forgot about the blood. About Troy. About the war at our gate.

All I saw were her eyes.

They told me she trusted me to protect her.