Page 5

"Okay," I say, my voice dropping into that low, authoritative rumble I use when I need a prospect to listen. "The ground rules are pretty simple. Make yourself at home and let me know if you need anything. "

Serenity blinks, her eyebrows drawing together as the shock wears off and her natural sass begins to reassert itself. She crosses her arms over her chest, which only serves to emphasize the curves I've been trying to ignore since she turned twenty-one. "Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me," I counter, refusing to let the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth distract me. "Let me know if you need anything. Unpack. I'm going to make a call, then I'll figure out dinner."

I walk back toward the living room, dialing a number I only use when I need a specific kind of expertise. It rings twice before a gravelly voice answers. "Walsh. You back in town?"

"Just got in," I say, looking through the glass toward the darkening desert. "Savage, I need a favor. Deep dive. I’ve got a name and a location. Kirk Voss, UCLA student. He's been stalking Serenity, my sister’s best friend. I want everything—socials, family, bank records, known associates. If he’s ever so much as kicked a dog, I want to know about it."

"Consider it done. I'll have a preliminary file for you by morning. You want him handled or just watched?"

"Just watched for now," I say, my jaw tightening. "I want to know the second he leaves LA. If he even looks at a map of Nevada, I want to be the first to know."

I hang up and head to the kitchen, needing to do something with my hands that doesn't involve punching a hole in the wall. I pull out a couple of steaks and some greens, the familiar routine of cooking usually enough to settle my mind. But tonight, the air in the house feels different. It’s charged. Every sound from the guest wing—the rustle of her moving bags, the click of a closet door—vibrates through me like a low-frequency hum. I'm used to this house being a sanctuary of silence, a place where I can shed the weight of the MC and the garage. But with Serenity in the guest room and her scent already hanging in the air, there’s no letting go of shit tonight.

By the time I've got the steaks on the grill, Serenity wanders into the kitchen. She’s changed into a pair of soft, grey leggings and an oversized UCLA T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of pale skin and the delicate curve of her collarbone. She looks soft. Dangerous. I keep my eyes on the meat, flipping a steak with a little more force than necessary.

"Need help?" she asks, sliding onto one of the barstools. The movement is graceful, her blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders. She smells like the guest room soap now, clean and sweet.

"I've got it," I say, focusing on the sear. "Go ahead and pour yourself some wine. Third cabinet on the left."

She finds a bottle of red. “Would you like one?” she asks.

“Please.” I glance over and watch as she pours two glasses, sliding one across the counter toward me. “I picture you more as a beer guy,” she jokes.

“I live to be different.” I shrug and take a sip, the dark fruit and oak hitting my tongue, but it does nothing to dull the hyper-awareness of her sitting five feet away. We eat at the island, the light from the overhead pendants casting long shadows across the concrete. For a while, the only sound is the clink of silverware against porcelain.

"What’s going to happen if he finds out I'm gone?" she asks suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet. She isn't looking at me, her gaze fixed on the wine swirling in her glass. "He's going to realize Alana and I aren't at the apartment."

"Fuck him," I say, my voice hard. "I won’t let him get anywhere near you."

“What about Alana?” She looks up then, and the vulnerability in her eyes is enough to make my chest ache. It’s a physical sensation, a tightening around my ribs that makes it hard to breathe. I want to reach across the counter and take her hand, to pull her to me and tell her that I’d burn the whole city down before I let that bastard touch her. “While you packed your bags, I arranged for a very discreet bodyguard to keep an eye on her. Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to my sister.”

She looks a little confused. “Why didn’t you just hire a bodyguard for me, too?”

That’s the million-dollar question. “Because it’s my job to keep you safe.”

"Why?" she asks softly.

"Because I can’t lose you," I say, the words escaping before I can filter them. I set my glass down, looking her straight in the eye.

"Oh," she whispers. The word hangs in the air, thick with subtext and the years of tension we've both pretended doesn't exist. She leans forward just a fraction, her lips parted, and for a second, I can see the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat. I want her. I want her with a ferocity that scares the shit out of me—a raw, visceral need that has nothing to do with protection and everything to do with the way she owns my goddamn heart.

"Get some sleep," I say, my voice sounding like I’ve been swallowing glass. I stand up, grabbing the plates and moving toward the sink, effectively cutting the moment short. "Tomorrow’s a long day. I’m taking you to the garage. New environment, more people. It’ll be good for you."

She doesn't argue, but I can feel her gaze on my back for a long beat before she slips off the stool. "Goodnight, Diesel. Thank you for the dinner. And for… everything."

I don't turn around until I hear her bedroom door click shut. I stand there in the dark kitchen for a long time, the silence of the house pressing in on me. I should be happy. She’s safe. She’s under my roof. I have a plan to handle the threat. But as I walk toward my own room and collapse onto the bed, sleep feels like a distant, impossible dream.

The house is quiet, but my mind is a riot of images. Of her. She’s twenty feet down the hall. I could walk there right now. I could open that door and show her exactly what she is to me. I could bury myself in her until neither of us remembers the name Kirk Voss. But I don't move. I lie there in the dark, my hands fisted in the sheets, tormented by wanting what I can't have.

CHAPTER FOUR

SERENITY

I stand in the doorway of the Boneyard Garage, the desert sun hot on my neck, and watch the dust motes dance in the shafts of light cutting through the high windows. Diesel doesn’t just walk into the space; he inhabits it. The moment we cross the threshold, his posture shifts, the protective tension in his shoulders giving way to a fluid, commanding ease. He looks like he belongs here among the skeletons of motorcycles and the gutted bodies of vintage cars, the low hum of classic rock bleeding from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

“Home sweet home,” Diesel says, his voice dropping an octave as he gestures to the sprawling workshop. He isn’t looking at the machines. He’s looking at me, tracking my reaction with those dark, unreadable eyes. “We’re busier than one-armed paper hangers right now. We’ve got two customs, and Benny’s currently losing a war with a ’69 Mustang transmission.”