Page 15 of Hellfire's Mercy

I hand him one – earl grey, because he seems like someone who appreciates classics.

"One old lady," he says, accepting the mug with surprising grace for such large hands. "If you're going to write about us, at least get that right. We're not exactly a harem, you know?"

"And do you..." I start, then bite my lip.

"Do I what?" His eyes lock onto mine over the rim of his mug.

"Have an old lady?"

He takes a slow sip of tea, and I hold my breath waiting for his answer.

"Would I be here drinking tea with you if I did?"

"I don't know," I say honestly. "I'm still trying to figure out why you're here at all."

"Because you invited me," he says simply, but there's nothing simple about the way he's looking at me.

"And you always accept invitations for tea from journalists half your age?"

"Watch it with the age comments, sweetheart." But he's smiling slightly. "And no, can't say I make a habit of it."

"So why—"

"You ask a lot of questions," he cuts me off.

"Journalist, remember?"

"Oh, I remember." He sets down his mug, leaning forward. "I also remember how you felt pressed against me on that bike. That have anything to do with your curiosity about old ladies?"

My face flames. "Of course not! I'm just... trying to understand the culture."

"The culture," he repeats skeptically, that dangerous smirk still playing on his lips. "Sure, sweetheart."

I take a large gulp of tea to hide my embarrassment and then go at it again.

"Why are you really drinking tea with me, Hellfire?"

"Answer me this first – why journalism?" He leans back, making himself comfortable on my couch. "Pretty girl like you could've done anything. Why choose to stick your nose where it doesn't belong for a living?"

I can't help but smile at his description.

"I'll tell you if you tell me why you became a biker."

Chapter 6 - Hellfire

Her challenge makes me smile. She never backs down. Always pushing, always digging deeper.

"Ladies first."

She settles back into the couch, tucking her legs under her. The movement brings her closer to me, and I catch another whiff of that jasmine scent.

"My dad was a journalist," she says, her eyes taking on a distant look. "Before I was born. He used to tell me stories about exposing corruption and giving voice to people who needed it. It wasn't just a job to him – it was a calling."

"Was?" I prompt gently, noting her use of past tense.

"He died reporting from a war zone." She takes another sip of tea. "I was twelve. Mom... well, she moved away a few years ago. Left me this apartment, actually."

"Why didn't you go with her?"

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