Can I look Marcus in the eye and not break? Or will I freeze the second his life is truly in my hands? I’ve never been a murder. Warrior? Sure. Savior? Definitely. But a murderer? I never thought I would be so certain about murdering a man. So certain in someone not deserving the right to live.
I press my palm to my thigh, trying to ground myself. My knee is bouncing, and Landon notices. His hand drifts over mine, anchoring me without a word. The warmth of it seeps into my skin and stays there.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I’m thinking,” I whisper.
“Don’t overthink it.”
“I’m not sure I’m built for revenge.” I choke, pulling my thighs into my chest and placing my chin on my knees. I am not sure if I can kill again, especially on purpose.
“You’re not built for it,” he says quietly. “Because you were meant to be more. Youaremore.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste metal, eyes fixed on the dark horizon as the woods thin and the clearing opens up before us.
The Raider’s compound rises out of the trees like something out of a nightmare. Floodlights glare down on rows of bikes, the air thick with smoke and leather and oil. The cabin is still massive. Still looming. But this time the sound of music and laughter does not engulf me. It is just silence and the heavy weight of the moon making a shadow out of the cabin.
The tires crunch to a halt over gravel, and the engine hums into silence.
I’m still hugging my knees, still fighting the war in my chest, when someone approaches the driver’s side window.
Landon doesn’t flinch. He just reaches for the door handle and mutters, “Showtime.”
The door swings open with a groan, and a shadow leans into the light.
At first, I barely register the shape—tall, broad-shouldered, hands buried in the pockets of a black bomber jacket. But then the porch light hits his face, and my stomach does something violent.
Blonde hair, tousled like he ran a hand through it a hundred times in frustration. Sharp green eyes that never blink long enough like he’s too meticulous to miss a thing. He’s in all black: fitted tee that hugs the lean, muscled cut of his torso, slim tactical pants tucked into scuffed black boots, and the craziest thing is he is wearing a bomber jacket. A too casual, out of character, kind of hot bomber jacket. I have never seen him in something so casual.
I can’t believe my fucking eyes. Because standing outside the car—here, in front of a fucking biker fortress like it’s totally normal—isProfessor Kilgore.
My mouth parts. “Wait—what thefuck?”
Landon’s already out of the car, so I scramble after him, slamming the door shut and rounding toward the front. “Is that—are youserious right nowis that…Professor Kilgore?”
Professor Kilgore turns around with a stoic expression and nods. “Just Conner tonight.”
My brain flatlines. Did he just—Conner?What? No. No. Absolutely not. I am going to have a fucking aneurysm. Or maybe I’ve hopped timelines. Yeah. That makes more sense. Grief’s finally cracked me open and tossed me into a parallel dimension where my forensic psych professor moonlights as a gun-toting antihero in biker gang drama.
Because there isno waythat’s real life. “You teach forensic psychology. You wear loafers and assign reflection essays about guilt.”
“Still do,” Conner says dryly, arms crossed like this is just a regular office-hours chat and not a literal biker compound meeting. “Also, you’ve missed six classes, Miss Rivera. And your first lab analysis is due next Wednesday.”
“Um…great,” I squeak, mortified beyond measure, clutching Landon’s jacket tighter around me like it might somehow make me invisible.
I whirl on Landon, whose smug grin is doing absolutely nothing to help my rising blood pressure.
“Why is myprofessorhere when I’m supposed to be getting revenge forTommy?” I hiss, voice climbing an octave.
“Who do you think got you the chance at revenge?” Landon shrugs like he’s talking about picking up takeout. “Besides,Conner Kilgore is my best friend… who has also seen your face when you cum.”
Ichoke.
“Dude, what the fuck?” I snap, taking a step back like the sheeraudacityof this man might be contagious.
“Dude?” Landon takes a slow, lazy step toward me, that same cocky glint in his eye as he leans in close—too close. “I think you meanthank you.”
“No, I mean this is the lastmotherfucking straw,Landon. I don’t want myprofessorto see me murder a guy! And yeah, Marcus is a piece of shit, but you—youare anassholefor justinviting himhere!”
