Page 7 of Twisted Steel

He watches my bleeding hand, then my face.He misses nothing.Never has.

“No problem,” I say.

His mouth barely moves.“That wall would disagree.”

I flex my fist.“The wall had it coming.”

Saint steps up beside him, quiet as a blade sliding free.“Jax is in surgery.Doctor says he’s got a chance.”

“He’ll live,” I say.

Savage’s eyes sharpen slightly.“Is that confidence or information?”

“Both.”

The woman had blood on her gloves, smoke in her hair, and fear locked behind her eyes like she refused to give it air.She still kept Jax breathing.Still snapped orders at men twice her size like she’d been born in chaos and decided to organize it.

She’ll haunt me if I let her, but I don’t let people haunt me.

Savage glances toward the hospital doors.“Paramedic?”

“Harper Quinn,” Saint answers before I can.Of course, he already looked.“Thirty.EMT-P.Station Eight.No criminal record.No known affiliations.Lives alone.”I turn my head slowly, and Saint meets my stare without blinking.“You asked me to track loose ends.”

“I didn’t ask you to stalk her life.”

“No,” Savage says.“I did.”

My jaw tightens, and that earns me a long look from both of them.

Fuck.

Savage sees it first.I know he does.The adjustment behind his eyes, the cold calculation of a president watching one of his men become unpredictable.

“Steel,” he says.That’s all.

Just my road name in that voice.A warning.A question.An order waiting to be shaped.

“She saw shooters,” I say.“She treated Jax.She’s a liability.”

“Is that what she is?”

I look at him.I have followed Dominic “Savage” Kane through fire, blood, and mistakes that would have buried weaker men.I have broken bones for this club.Buried bodies.Made problems disappear so clean they became rumors.I have never lied to him when it mattered.

So, I don’t start now.“I don’t know what she is.”

Saint’s brows rise a fraction, and Savage goes still.The silence between us grows thick.

Finally, Savage nods toward the bikes.“Then find out.Quietly.No pressure unless she’s in danger.”

I almost laugh.Quiet is not what I am built for.I am built for doors kicked in, knuckles split, and men dragged into darkened back rooms until their courage leaks out with their blood.

But I nod because this is club business, and if I don’t take the order, someone else will.That idea sits wrong in my gut.

“Who hit us?”I ask.

Saint pulls out his phone and swipes through security stills.Grainy images of a black SUV and two bikes without plates.Men wearing masks, but masks don’t hide posture.Cowards move like cowards even when armed.

“They’re not cartel,” Saint says.“Too sloppy.”