Page 43 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

I forget about helmets, and she’s lucky I don’t fuck her again right there in the yard. We peel away and make it about a mile up the road where there’s a patch of forest she thinks is pretty. Then I find out just what her ass looks like bent over my handlebars.

It’s a damn fine view.

Chapter Thirteen

Thicker Than Blood

Poppy

The clubhouse looks different in the dark.

Not softer. Never that. But the shadows swallow the sharp edges, the neon light out front bleeds across the gravel like a wound that won’t close. Walker kills the engine, and the silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

We shouldn’t have come back, not after the forest. Not after he bent me over his handlebars and made me forget every single thing except his name and the rough feel of his hands on my skin. My thighs still ache, my lips are still swollen, but none of that matters because the moment we roll into the yard, reality snaps back like a rubber band against sunburned skin.

“You ready?” Walker doesn’t look at me but his jaw is set and his knuckles are white on the grips.

No.

But I don’t say that. “As I’ll ever be.”

He swings off the bike and offers his hand. I stare at it for half a second before taking it. His palm is warm and calloused, and when he pulls me close, I catch the scent of blood and leather and something uniquely him, like cedar and sin and safety I don’t deserve.

Men linger near the clubhouse entrance. Sons of Sin cuts glint under the porch light, and every one of them tracks our approach. Not Walker. Me.

I lift my chin. Let them look. I’ve been stared down by worse.

Savage appears in the doorway, arms folded, shoulder propped against the frame. His dark hair is pulled back, and the president’s patch on his chest catches the light. Behind him, Saint leans against the bar with a beer, watching us with those sharp, restless eyes.

“Thought you two might’ve skipped town,” Savage says, his voice flat.

“Tempting,” Walker mutters.

Savage’s gaze slides to me. Holds. I meet it without flinching, though every instinct screams that this man could end me with a single word. He’s bigger than Walker, broader, with a quiet violence that hums beneath his skin like a current waiting to ground out.

“Room’s ready,” he says finally. “Down the hall, last door on the left, you know which one. It’s not the Ritz.”

“Neither was the last place,” I say before I can stop myself.

Savage’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Close, though. “Get some sleep. Both of you. We talk strategy in the morning.”

Walker nods and steers me inside with a hand on the small of my back. The clubhouse is quieter than I expected. A few brothers linger on couches, cards scattered on a coffee table, guns resting within arm’s reach. Smoke hangs in layers beneath the ceiling. Someone’s left a half-eaten pizza on the bar, and the jukebox plays something low and Southern, barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.

Nobody speaks as we pass. But they watch. I’m used to being watched. At the Saints, I was Samuel’s weapon, something that guaranteed attention I never wanted. Here, I’m something else entirely. The enemy’s daughter. The woman who stabbed their Nomad and then fucked him in a torture room. Not exactly a glowing resume.

The room Savage gives us is small. A double bed with sheets that smell like detergent, a nightstand with a lamp that works, and a window that faces the back lot. It’s simple. Clean. More than I expected.

Walker closes the door and locks it. The click is loud in the quiet.

“You okay?” he asks, turning to face me.

“Fine.” The word comes out automatically. Hollow.

He crosses the room in two strides and cups my face in both hands, tilting my head up. Grey-blue eyes search mine, and whatever he finds there makes his jaw tighten.

“Don’t do that with me,” he murmurs. “Don’t shut down.”

“I’m not.”