“Lyric,” I call across the room, my tone more urgent than I intended. She pushes through the others, her movements graceful, even in the thick of leather and denim.
“Highway?” Her voice is steady, but her eyes search mine.
We move outside, away from prying eyes and ears.
“Stay close,” I say, gripping her shoulders just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. “This play with the Ivanovs, it’s gonna get dirty. I need you safe.”
She doesn’t flinch from my touch. Instead, she leans in slightly. “I can handle a bit of dirt.”
“Lyric…” I start, but she places a finger over my lips, silencing me.
“Trust me,” she whispers. “I’m not going anywhere, and the women from the other MC, they’re keen to meet the club women here.” She looks over her shoulder and waves at Jet. “Go do what you need to do, and I’ll be here with them.”
As I watch her go, she’s suddenly surrounded by new faces, women from a fallen MC, lost and looking for a foothold. Lyric stands among them, her voice rising above the rest asshe introduces them to our clubhouse women. They’re hesitant, glancing around like cornered animals, but Lyric is there, the bridge between two worlds. A smile plays on my lips—she’s a natural, bringing light into the darkest corners.
“Hey, look at you…” I say when she catches my eye again, “… playing the MC diplomat.”
“Someone’s got to,” she shoots back with a grin that hits me square in the chest.
“Come here,” I beckon her over, knowing full well I should be talking strategy with Reaper or Winchester as we keep an eye on the Russians. But hell, she’s under my skin now, and I’m not about to pretend otherwise.
As she steps closer, the club buzzing around us, I lean in, my words for her only. “Once this is over, we’re taking a ride, you and I. Just the open road and no looking back.”
“Promise?” She tilts her head.
“Cross my heart,” I answer, sealing it with the faintest touch to her cheek.
“Good.” She smiles and, with a last lingering look, turns back to the women.
My gut twists. This thing with the Diablos, it’s a high-stakes game. And I’ll be damned if I let it take down what’s slowly becoming mine.
Walking into our meeting room, Creed and Reaper are leaning over the table, its surface scarred from past brawls.
“Those women…” Creed says as he looks out at them, “… we need some assurances from them.”
Reaper nods, his eyes hooded. “Yeah. They can’t stay here forever. And we can’t let them leave until we know where they stand.”
Creed is quiet for a beat too long. Then he pushes off the table, his leather jacket creaking. “I’ll handle it.”
He strides toward them. “Ladies, could you please come withme to the infirmary?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but strides through the clubhouse, shoulders set like he’s marching into war.. The women file in one by one, wary gazes meeting his square-on.
“Listen up,” Creed’s voice slices through the silence. “Once we settle the score with the Diablos, you’re free to go. But answer me this…” His gaze locks on each one. “Any of you even think about running to the cops—”
He doesn’t get to finish before Jet speaks, her spine straightening. “We owe you our lives,” she says. “There’s nothing we’ve seen, nothing worth talking about.”
The others follow suit, a sea of nodding heads.
Mia is softer, almost shy. “Is it…okay, if I stick around?” Her voice barely makes it across the room.
Creed’s face cracks just a fraction, happiness flickering in his cold eyes. Then it’s gone. “Fine,” he grunts. “But play by our rules.”
“Understood,” she whispers, relief flooding her features.
I watch from the doorway, my chest tight.
This life, these choices, there’s no going back now.
ChapterSeventeen
