Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“I feel it,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds thin, even to my own ears. We turn the wrench together, a synchronized movement that feels far more intimate than a mechanical repair has any right to be. The bolt gives way with a satisfying crack.
Diesel doesn’t let go immediately. He stays there, his hands still covering mine, his chin resting just above my shoulder. We stay in that suspended moment, the silence between us heavy with everything we aren’t saying. It is a charged, electric stillness making my skin prickle with a need I shouldn’t have for my best friend’s brother.
“You’re a natural,” he says finally, his voice rough. He pulls away, and the sudden absence of his heat feels like a physical blow. I have to grip the edge of the lift just to keep my knees from buckling. “Most people are too timid. You dove right in.”
“I’m a quick learner,” I reply, turning to find him watching me with an intensity that makes me want to either run away or climb him like a tree. “And I’ve always liked knowing how things work under the surface.”
He leans against a nearby workbench, crossing his massive, tattooed arms. The chrome skull of the Steel Sinners insignia on his cut seems to catch the light, reminding me of the world he lives in.
God, he’s so freaking gorgeous. Would it kill the universe to make this man slightly less hot? I open my mouth to fire back, but my phone vibrates in my pocket, making me jump like I’ve just touched a live wire.
I dig it out, half-expecting a “where are you?” from Alana, but the pit in my stomach knows better. Unknown number, the preview bar already giving me anxiety hives.
Well, crap. My day takes a nosedive.
I unlock the screen and freeze. The first message is a picture of Diesel and me hopping into his truck in LA, taken from a distance. My blood runs cold.
The next text: “Didn’t know you were into dirtbags, Ren. I can give it to you rough and filthy. Bet you think he’s going to keep you safe. He can’t. Just wait.”
My hands actually shake. Sweat prickles down my back. I can’t breathe, can’t move. The words bounce around in my skull, fuzzy and loud as sirens. Diesel is at my side in a blur, crowding close, grabbing the phone straight out of my hand. His eyes flash pure murder. For a second, I think he might actually crush the phone in his fist. He studies the screen, jaw tight as hell, nostrils flaring. He screenshots the messages and sends them to his phone.
“Fucking creep,” he growls, low and lethal. “You let me worry about him. He isn’t touching you. Ever.”
Before I can even stammer out a reply, he yanks me in, his arms closing around me like a steel trap. Everything else fades. All I can feel is Diesel, so big and solid and angry on my behalf that I can barely breathe.
“You hear me, sweetness?” His voice is rough against my hair, lips right by my ear. “He’s not getting past me. Anyone who tries is going to wish they were never fucking born.”
I believe him. I’ve never felt so safe or so spun out at the same time. My brain is still trying to process the gross, ugly words on my phone, but Diesel’s grip anchors my pulse. He smells like leather, sweat, and the promise of safety.
He looks me dead in the eye. “I got you. You’re safe here, Serenity. With me. Nobody touches what’s mine.”
Diesel holds me tight, and nothing else matters. My stomach picks that exact moment to make a sound like a dying animal. No joke. It’s loud enough to echo across the garage and probably wake the dead.
Diesel snorts right into my hair, and suddenly, the steel grip he’s got on me feels less like protection and more like possession. I’m not complaining. Not one little bit.
“Hungry?” The word comes out low, and there’s this wicked twist of amusement in his voice.
I manage to pry my face out of his chest long enough to glare at him and nod my head. “I could eat my left leg right now.”
He just grins, all cocky alpha male and tattooed charm. No mercy. “Let’s get you fed. I know the perfect place.” He wraps his arm casually around my waist, steering me right past Benny and Bones.
The drive is short, taking us toward a strip of older buildings tucked away from the main casinos. We pull up in front of a place called The Rusty Spike. It’s a squat, brick building with a row of Harleys and a vintage Impala parked in the dusty lot. The sound of a jukebox and the low rumble of voices drift through the open door.