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CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

THE RUMBLE OF the motorcycle reverberated through me, relentless, thrumming deep in my bones as we cut through the dark streets of Savannah. The wind slapped against my face, whipping my hair back in wild strands that stung my skin, but it wasn’t the wind that made it hard to breathe. It was him. Drago’s scent surrounded me—leather worn from time, smoke still clinging to his cut, and that cologne I’d never forgotten. The kind meant to be remembered even after he was gone. It wrapped around me like a noose, each breath tightening the chain a little more.

His hands gripped the handlebars with familiar confidence, large and sure, like nothing in this world could knock him off balance. He rode like he owned the night. Like taking me was just a formality, and maybe it was. Because the moment he found me—really found me—I’d known there wouldn’t be another chance to escape.

So I did the only thing I could. I played the part.

Drago needed me to be grateful. To look at him like I was relieved. Like the weeks I’d spent away from him had been nothing but a nightmare I could finally wake from. If I could sell that illusion, maybe no one else would get hurt.

The bike slowed as we turned down a narrow road, the shadows swallowing us whole. At the end stood a warehouse, weathered and worn, but alive with the dull thrum of bass and muffled voices. The Dragon Fire MC was here. I could see them through the cracked windows, men drinking, laughing, moving through the haze like they hadn’t noticed the shift in the air.

Drago kicked the stand down and slid off, one arm already wrapping around my waist before I could move. His grip was firm, familiar, pulling me tight against his side. I followed, forced a small smile as he brushed a strand of hair from my face, fingers gentle in that way he always used before reminding me who I belonged to. His hazel eyes scanned my face, possessive and hungry, the kind of hunger that didn’t ask permission.

“I missed you, baby,” he said, his voice thick with satisfaction, like winning was always inevitable.

I nodded, tilting my face up just enough to let him believe I felt the same. His smirk deepened, and he slung his arm around my shoulders, guiding me through the door like he was walking in with a trophy.

The second we stepped inside, the air changed. Thick with smoke, sweat, mold, and the ghosts of a hundred bad memories. Music blared from a worn speaker in the corner, muffled and raw. Men hovered near the bar, others clustered around the pool table, laughter bouncing between the walls. But none of it registered, not really.

Because she was standing there.

Dark curls. Blood red lips. Eyes burning like wildfire.

The rage pouring off her wasn’t quiet. It filled the space like gasoline waiting for a match. It was a repeat of my first night at a Dragon Fire clubhouse.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she spat, her voice sharp, slicing through the air. She didn’t know what she was bringing down on herself, clearly new, clearly stupid.

Drago’s arm tightened slightly around my shoulder, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His silence was a loaded gun, and everyone in the room knew it. Everyone but her.

She stepped closer, her anger zeroed in on me. “You think you can just walk back in and take what’s mine?”

I didn’t answer. Some things weren’t worth reacting to. This was one of them.

Her voice rose, hot and shaking. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Drago is with me. You don’t get to—”

The slap hit like lightning.

The crack echoed off the walls. My head jerked to the side, pain blooming hot across my cheek. A breath caught in my throat, but I stayed still. Trying hard not to react.

But Drago did.

His entire body tensed, a slow exhale hissing between his teeth, the kind that came just before something snapped. And then he moved, fast and lethal.

He had her by the throat before she could blink, lifting her clean off the floor and slamming her against the wall. Her feet kicked out uselessly, hands clawing at his grip as her breath wheezed through her constricted throat.

“You touch her?” His voice was deep, guttural, poisoned with fury. “You fucking touch her? That’s my ol’ lady you fucking cunt.”

I stepped forward without hesitation, my hand pressing gently to his forearm, feeling the taut muscle beneath his skin. His grip didn’t loosen. Not yet.

His rage was a living thing, coiled and hungry, vibrating through his bones.

“Drago,” I whispered, the word barely audible, but it was enough. His breath came fast, chest rising like he’d just run miles, and his fingers twitched around her throat.

I ran my fingers over the back of his hand slowly, grounding him the only way I could. “It’s okay,” I murmured. “Let her go. Let’s go to our room and be alone. We’ve been apart too long and I’ve missed you.”

His eyes snapped to mine, wild, searching, unsure if I was real.

I held his gaze, steady, calm, my expression unreadable. I let him see what he needed to see.

A long beat passed, slow and heavy.

Then finally—he dropped her.

She crumpled to the floor, coughing violently, clutching her neck. Drago turned to me, his hand cupping my cheek, thumb grazing the edge of the fresh handprint she’d left. His eyes softened in that broken way they only ever did when he looked at me.

“She had no right,” he muttered.

I shook my head gently. “It doesn’t matter.”

But to Drago, it always mattered. The nod he gave to Fang across the room said everything. She’d pay for what she did, whether I wanted her to or not.

***

HIS FINGERS SLID over the cheek he’d just inspected, not rough but not gentle either, just deliberate. Like a man trying to memorize something he wasn’t sure he’d ever get to touch again. His hand lingered there, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw, his palm a familiar weight I’d never quite escaped. The look in his eyes was worse—starved and drowning, like the longer he stared, the less real I became.

I didn’t move. He liked that.

He liked when I stayed still.

He liked to pretend I wanted to be here. That I chose this.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, his voice soft, clipped. His arm wrapped tight around my waist, dragging me against him, closer than I wanted, closer than I could stand. He was vibrating with tension, barely restrained violence thrumming beneath his skin.

He guided me down the hallway with quick, deliberate steps. The smoke stained walls, the sticky floor, the low murmur of voices behind us—it all blurred. I didn’t look back. Not at the woman on the floor still gasping for breath. Not at the men who watched and did nothing. This was their world, and Drago didn’t just rule it.

He was it.

At the end of the hall, he threw open the door to his room, nudging me inside, and kicked it closed behind us. The lock clicked into place with a sharp finality, louder than it should’ve been.

The room was familiar even though this was a different building. Same king sized bed. Same whiskey bottle on the nightstand. Same cold, dark wood furniture.

He turned to face me, and I barely had time to take a breath before he was on me, his hands roaming like he was trying to convince himself I was real. His touch was rough, desperate, not cruel, but edged with something too close to it.

“Zeynep,” he breathed my name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

I tried not to recoil, but something in me shifted and he noticed. His face darkened.

“That bitch out there,” he growled, “she was just a hole I used to let off steam. She never meant shit.”

I swallowed, hard. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, and let him believe it hurt, relieved he thought that was the problem.

His jaw clenched so tight I heard it crack. “It matters to me. If you’d been where you belong, I wouldn’t have had to use her.”

His grip didn’t tighten, but the threat was there, unspoken, simmering just below the surface.

“I’m here now,” I whispered, placing a hand on his chest. His heart pounded beneath my fingers, steady and brutal, whispering: Mine.

“That’s what matters. Right?”

His eyes locked on mine, nostrils flaring. “You fucking bet it does.”

He caught my wrist, yanked me closer, buried his face in my neck. His breath was ragged, like he’d been drowning and only just surfaced.

“I thought I lost you,” he said, voice cracked wide open. “You have no fucking idea what that did to me.”

He pulled back enough to stare into my face, searching for something I wasn’t sure how to fake anymore.

“But you’re back,” he said, tone flattening. “And you’ll never leave me again.”

He kissed my hand, not tender, but firm. Claiming. Branding.

“We belong together,” he said, softer now, but no less dangerous. “You’re my other half.”

I smiled. Forced. Careful. “I know.”

His fingers found my chin, tilted my face up. My pulse jumped, but I kept my breath even, my expression neutral.

He studied me like he wanted to see through the lie. And maybe he almost did. “I was furious when you left,” he said. “Furious that you didn’t trust me. That you left when I was trying to protect you.” He slid his thumb across my lip, slow and deliberate, and I let my breath stutter, just a little. “If you want me to forgive you…” he said, voice darkening, “then show me you’re still mine.”

The shiver that moved through me had nothing to do with want. This was the price to keep him from turning his fury on someone else. I let my lips part just enough. Let my lashes lower. Let my hands run down the front of his chest. Let him believe I was here for him, not because I was trying to survive. Because the truth would have to stay buried inside me.

If I ever got the chance again, I wouldn’t just run.

I’d disappear and I’d never look back.