Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Then he carries me inside, past the ring of watchful outlaws, into the dark heart of the Badlands where a neon skull sign flickers blue-white-blue against the far wall.
Legion's arms are steady beneath me, but my thoughts scatter like prairie birds. Tryin’ to see everything at once. This room isn't just a bar, though it has one—long and gleaming with bottles that catch the neon's pulse. It's something more.
Couches line the walls, worn leather cracked in places that tell stories of men too drunk to stand.
A pool table dominates the center. Video games—the old kind with joysticks and pixelated screens—stand sentinel in the corner like artifacts from another time.
Every surface tells a story I wasn't meant to hear.
Everyone follows us in, silent as church. Their boots make less noise than they should on these old boards. One steps forward from the pack. Older, with eyes like winter and a beard that's seen more summers than I have birthdays.
Legion says, “Brick.” Like that’s enough. Like evoking his name is an explanation all its own. The name fits—he's built like something that could crush you without trying.
Brick doesn't look at me. He points to something across the room—a door, maybe, or another hallway—but his eyes stay locked on Legion.
"Now," he says. Just that. One word that hangs in the air like smoke.
Legion nods, understanding something I don't. He moves to a couch with faded paisley upholstery and sets me down gently, like I might break.
I might, actually. I’m not sure yet.
He crouches in front of me, his eyes finding mine. There's a softness there that doesn't match the rest of this place, or these people.
"I'll be right back," he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "You stay right here—no one will fuck with you. All right?"
I realize I'm still clutching his motorcycle helmet against my chest like it's the only thing keeping me together. Maybe it is. My knuckles have gone white around the edges.
Legion smiles, just barely, and brushes a piece of hair from my eyes. His fingers linger against my temple, and I lean into the touch without meaning to. The brand on his chest must hurt, but he doesn't show it.
"OK?" he asks again, searching my face.
I nod because speaking feels impossible. My throat's gone dry, and the words that used to come so easily—the perfect captions for perfect photos—have abandoned me.
What would I say anyway?
I'm scared. I'm lost. I don't know these people. I don't know myself anymore.
His thumb brushes my cheek one more time, and then he stands. The space between us suddenly feels vast and cold.
I hold the helmet tighter.
CHAPTER 6
I push through the door to Brick's office with my ribs screaming at me to stop moving. The taste of my own blood lingers on my tongue, a familiar reminder of consequences.
The room goes quiet.
Five men, five cuts, five pairs of eyes taking in the damage.
The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows across weathered faces and battle-scarred knuckles.
Nobody asks if I'm okay.
That's not how this works.
Questions about pain are for civilians, for people who haven't chosen this life. Inside these walls, wounds are just evidence of commitment.
I plant my boots on the hardwood floor, shoulders carrying the weight of my cut that feels heavier than usual.
"Savannah stays," I say, voice rough, but absolutely resolute. "Forty-eight hours. Inside these walls. Under my cut and my personal guard."
Not a request or a suggestion—a statement of fucking fact.
I don't really have the right to make this demand, but I do it anyway.
The club hierarchy has rules, chains of command that don't bend for personal vendettas or old flames, but Savannah's place here needs to be established immediately.
As in, right fucking now, before anyone has time to think about what her presence means.
Brick doesn't move from behind his desk. Just fixes me with those ice-chip eyes that haven't blinked since I walked in. His fingers rest on the scarred wood, steady as stone. The silence stretches like a rubber band about to snap, tension building in the stale air that reeks of cigarettes, gun oil, and old leather.
Then everyone talks at once.
"You bring her straight here? Any trackers? Burner phones?" Roach paces the three steps his lanky frame allows in the cramped space. His fingers twitch like they're looking for a trigger, nervous energy radiating off him in waves. "Those Ashby fuckers got resources. Satellite. Private security. They could be—"
"Unbudgeted liability." Ledger slams his ledger book closed. The sound cracks through the room like a gunshot. His glasses catch the light as he glares at me over the rims. "A fucking Ashby on our property? You know what that costs us? In legal exposure alone—"
"Gate's soft tonight." Havoc doesn't look at me, just stares at the map on the wall, fingers tracing invisible routes across the terrain he knows better than his own face. "Two prospects, green as grass. If Ashby riders show up, we're fifteen minutes from full strength, minimum."