Page 21 of Tinsel & Chrome
Larissa
The snow-covered road ahead is nothing but a blur of white, my wipers doing a piss-poor job of clearing the windshield. The heater in my rust-bucket of a car wheezes like it’s about to die, barely keeping the chill at bay. My knuckles are stiff around the wheel, my hands numb, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
Not until I’m home.
A bruised ache pulses through my ribs with every breath, and I clench my teeth to keep from wincing. I’ve felt worse. I’ve survived worse. The bastard thought he could break me, but he underestimated just how deep my roots go. I’m not some fragile doll. I’m Cyclops’ daughter, born and raised in the chaos of The Merciless Few MC. I know what survival looks like.
The bruises will fade. The rage won’t.
The entrance to the compound looms ahead, the wrought-iron gates still bearing the jagged skull logo that made other people think twice about stepping onto club territory. A familiar flicker of relief sparks in my chest. The gates open slowly, creaking like they’re alive. I roll through, the crunch of snow beneath my tires the only sound.
The clubhouse is just as I remember — a fortress of brick and steel, lit by the faint glow of yellow lights against the encroaching night. Bikes are lined up in a row like sleeping beasts, their chrome gleaming beneath a thin blanket of snow. My heartbeat kicks up, and I grip the wheel tighter. This is it. No turning back.
I pull into a spot beside a custom Harley I’d recognize anywhere. Mace. My older brother. The thought of seeing him, of seeing my father, is a sharp mix of comfort and dread. I’ve been gone too long, convinced I could make it on my own, away from the club and its brand of lawless loyalty.
But you can only run so far before you’re forced to crawl back.
I kill the engine, and the silence that follows is deafening. My breath clouds the air as I step out, the cold biting into my skin. The front door to the clubhouse swings open before I make it halfway up the steps.
My dad stands there, his one good eye zeroing in on me like a laser. His salt-and-pepper beard is thicker than I remember, the lines on his face a little deeper, but the sheer presence of the man hasn’t changed. He’s still a wall of muscle and menace, the kind of man who can command a room with a single look.
His eye scans me, landing on the bruise along my cheekbone. The muscles in his jaw flex, his hands clenching at his sides.
“Who did it?”
His voice is a low growl, barely controlled rage beneath the surface. I lift my chin, forcing my voice to stay steady.
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I handled it.”
His nostril flares, and for a moment, I think he’s going to argue. But then, without a word, he steps forward and pulls me into a hug. It’s not gentle. Dad doesn’t do gentle. But it’s exactly what I need. The kind of fierce, unyielding embrace that makes you feel like you’re unbreakable.
“You’re home now,”
he murmurs, his voice rough.
“Ain’t nobody gonna lay a hand on you ever again.”
A throat clears behind us. I pull away, my chest tight, and see Mace standing there with his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s a year older than me, but he’s always acted like he’s a decade wiser. His dark eyes soften as they meet mine, but there’s anger there too — the same rage that burns in my dad’s gaze.
“Sis,”
he says, his voice low, “you should’ve called.”
“I’m calling now.”
I try for a smile, but it doesn’t quite land.
He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he pulls me in for a quick, fierce hug before releasing me with a sigh.
“Let’s get inside. You’re freezing.”
I follow them into the warmth of the clubhouse. The air is thick with the scent of leather, whiskey, and smoke. Conversations halt, heads turn, and I feel the weight of a dozen eyes on me. Recognition sparks, followed by nods and murmured greetings.
And then there’s him.
Leaning against the bar, Tex’s gaze catches mine. Dark eyes, sharp jawline, and an ever-present smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and sexy as hell. He’s dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a leather cut, his arms folded across his chest, tattoos peeking out beneath his sleeves. The warmth of the room doesn’t reach the cold edge in his eyes.
Tex and I have history — the kind that’s never been resolved. He’s been Dad’s right hand for years, the enforcer who does the dirty work with a smile.
He pushes off the bar and saunters over, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Well, well,”
he drawls, his voice a slow burn.
“The reckless princess returns.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Don’t call me that.”
His smirk deepens.
“You still look like you’re ready to burn the whole place down.”
“Maybe I am.”
For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us crackles, tension thick enough to choke on. His gaze drops to the bruise on my cheek, and his smile fades, replaced by something darker. Something dangerous.
“Who did it, Larissa?”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. But I’m done being anyone’s victim.
“I told you,”
I say, my voice hard.
“It’s handled.”
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t push it.
“We’ll see.”
I lift my chin, refusing to let him see how much those two words shake me. Because deep down, I know he’s right.
This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.