Page 71 of Malice

We back out, Matthew covering our exit, gun never wavering. The four stay put, hands glued to the table, eyes fixed like they’re watching their own judgment day unfold.

The hallway swallows us, and we’re moving fast through the piss-stinking corridor, past the dead light, into the cold night air. Greyson’s voice crackles through the comms. “Clear. Move out.” We’re sprinting, low and fast, toward the van.

My heart’s pounding, knuckles screaming where the gauze is dark and wet with blood, adrenaline electric in my veins. But beneath it all, beneath the violence and the rage, there’s something steady, something that pulls me forward.

I’m doing this for her. Every punch, every threat, every calculated step into hell, it’s all for the woman two hours north, her bandaged hands wrapped around a phone, praying I make it back.

The van door slides open, and we’re in, Matthew taking the wheel, me dropping into the seat beside him, door slamming shut behind. The engine roars, and we’re out of there, leaving The Rusty Nail in the dust like a bad memory.

Matthew steers with one hand, phone in the other. “Three locations hit,” he reports, voice clipped, precise. “Ten men down, three messages delivered. By morning, Caldwell’s entire network will know what’s coming.”

I nod, pressing my wrapped knuckles to my knees, feeling the throb of blood beneath the gauze. The shaking’s back, that tremor in my bones, but it’s different now. Measured. Controlled.

The beast is sated. For the moment.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, knowing damn well who it is, feeling that familiar shift in my chest when her name lights up the screen.

Still awake? Sorry, I know you said to sleep.

Simple words, nothing fancy, but they hit like a hammer, not painful, just true, the kind of reminder that there is something worth being tender for.

I’m awake, I type, clumsy fingers smearing blood on the glass. Just finished some work. You should be sleeping.

I cannot. Every time I close my eyes, I see.

She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to. I know exactly what haunts her: the van, the hands reaching for her, the terror, the certainty she was about to be snatched away.

I know, I shoot back. Me too.

The dots appear, vanish, return. Then: Are you coming back tonight?

My chest tightens. Not from the question, but the vulnerability in it, the raw need of a woman who’s been through the wringer, asking if the man she trusts is coming home.

Soon, I type. A few more things to nail down. Then I’m with you.

Promise?

I stare at the word, a loaded promise between two people who get what’s at stake.

I promise.

I hit send and close my eyes, letting the rumble of the van and the hum of the road carry me toward whatever’s next. Night stretches ahead, more miles, more darkness, more violence living in the space between predators.

But at the end, there’s her. Trixie. My anchor, my reason, the woman who makes taming the beast worth every goddamn thing.

I open my eyes, meeting Matthew’s gaze. “What’s next?”

Matthew opens his mouth to answer, but the roar of engines drowns his words. I whip my head toward the sound. Multiple vehicles, heavy, expensive, tearing up the gravel outside the clubhouse. Not the familiar rumble of our brothers returning. Something foreign and dangerous.

Chapter 18

“Get down,” I hiss, Matthew’s already moving, dropping into a crouch, his own weapon drawn and ready.

The front door of the clubhouse crashes open. I hear Greyson’s voice, sharp and commanding, followed by the distinct sound of boots on hardwood. Too many boots, too organized, too professional.

I am on my feet in an instant, moving toward the main room with Matthew flanking me. We round the corner, and the scene hits me like a fist to the gut.

Five men. Five armed men in dark suits, positioned with military precision around a sixth man who sits in the center of our clubhouse like he owns the fucking place. He’s dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my truck, his dark hair slicked back, a silver watch catching the light as he adjusts his cuff. Everything about him screams money, power, and the absolute certainty that he belongs wherever he is.