Page 29 of My Wild Biker

"We're not here to hurt you," he says, and I don't believe him. "Just here to leave a message. Let Chuck know we can reach anyone we want, anytime we want. Even his pretty new girlfriend."

He reaches out to grab my arm.

Some part of me that's been frozen snaps into motion. I duck under his reach and try to run for the kitchen, for my phone, for anything. His hand catches my wrist and yanks me backward. I stumble and his other hand comes up.

The backhand catches me across the face hard enough my head snaps to the side. I taste blood immediately, copper on my tongue. My cheek is on fire and my eyes are watering and I can't get my balance.

"Don't run," he says. "Makes this harder than it needs to be."

I'm trying to pull away but his grip on my wrist is iron. The man by the door still hasn't moved, just watches like this is entertainment.

Then I hear another motorcycle.

The engine sound is different from theirs. Louder. Faster. It's in the driveway before the sound fully registers and then I hear boots hitting pavement at a run.

Chuck comes through the broken doorway and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

His eyes take in the scene instantly. Me with a bleeding mouth, the man gripping my wrist, the one blocking the door. His face goes completely blank.

"Let her go," he says. Voice flat and cold.

The man holding me releases my wrist and reaches into his cut. Going for a weapon.

Chuck's faster.

The gun appears in Chuck's hand like it was always there and he fires twice before the man's weapon clears his cut. Both shots center mass. The man drops and doesn't move.

The one by the door is pulling his gun now and Chuck pivots, fires once. The shot hits the man's shoulder and he staggers backward. His gun falls. Chuck closes the distance between them in three strides and I watch him grab the man by his cut, slam him face-first into the doorframe.

The crack is audible. Blood sprays. The man crumples.

Chuck puts the gun to his head and fires once.

The sound in the small space is deafening. My ears ring. There's blood on the walls. Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere.

Two dead men in my living room.

Chuck turns to me and his expression shifts from blank to something else, something I can't name. He crosses to me in two strides, his hands framing my face, gentle despite the violence he just executed.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is urgent. "Anywhere besides your face?"

I shake my head. Can't form words.

"Okay. Okay." His thumb traces my cheekbone, avoiding the split where I was hit. "I need you to pack a bag. Right now. Everything you need. We're leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Can't stay here. They know where you live. There might be more coming." He releases my face and pulls out his phone, already dialing. "Tate. I'm at Isla's rental. Two bodies. Need cleanup now. Yeah. Ten minutes." He hangs up and looks at me. "Isla. Focus on me. I need you to pack a bag. Can you do that?"

I nod and my body finally responds. I walk to the bedroom on shaking legs and grab my suitcases. They're already mostly packed for tomorrow. I throw in the last few items, toiletries from the bathroom, my laptop from the kitchen table.

When I come back to the living room Chuck is on the phone again. "Clint. Marrow hit Isla's rental. Two members. Both down. I'm taking her to the clubhouse." Pause. "No, she's okay. Shaken up but okay. Yeah. See you there."

He pockets his phone and takes my suitcases. "Come on."

I follow him out and try not to look at the bodies but I see them anyway. Blood pooling on the cheap carpet. The hole in one man's head. The way the other is sprawled near the doorway.

Chuck killed them both in under thirty seconds.