Page 6 of Hellfire's Mercy

"Dad says you're going to work tomorrow like normal. Act natural. He'll contact you with instructions."

"Instructions for what?" I ask, but she's already heading for the door.

"Just remember," she says, hand on the doorknob, "you're under our protection now. But that protection only lasts as long as you're useful and loyal."

The door clicks shut behind her, and I'm alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that keep drifting back to big, strong hands and amber eyes.

I grab my laptop, trying to distract myself. My article about the local farmers' market is due tomorrow, and it seems laughably mundane now. Just this morning, I was frustrated with covering small-town events. Now I'm caught between two motorcycle clubs at war.

My phone buzzes again, and this time I check it immediately. It's not Hellfire, but an unknown number:

"Meeting tomorrow. 2 PM. The coffee shop on Oak. Come alone. - Butcher"

I sink deeper into my couch, wondering how my life changed so dramatically in one night. I went looking for a story and found... what exactly? A death sentence? A new purpose? Or something else entirely, something that makes my heart race when I think about certain gold-flecked eyes?

One thing's for certain – I'm way over my head.

Sleep doesn't come easy that night. Every motorcycle sound has me jumping to my window, expecting to see Outlaws or Iron & Blood members. By morning, I've had maybe three hours of restless sleep, and my makeup barely covers the dark circles under my eyes.

I try to follow Angel's advice about acting natural, but everything feels different now. The walk to the Gazette's office seems longer, every shadow potentially hiding someone watching me. The same streets I've walked for three years suddenly feel alien.

"You look like hell," my colleague Mike says when I arrive.

"Rough night," I mutter, sliding into my desk chair.

My farmer's market article is only half-finished, and I stare at the screen, trying to care about organic vegetables when just hours ago I witnessed... what exactly? The start of a war?

"Matthews!" My editor's voice makes me jump. "Where's that article?"

"Almost done," I call back, forcing my fingers to type. The words come out mechanically, and I have to rewrite several sentences that accidentally include words like 'motorcycle' and 'leather'.

By 1:30 PM, I'm a bundle of nerves. The coffee shop on Oak is only a ten-minute walk, but I leave early, needing time to compose myself. It's one of those trendy places with exposed brick walls and overpriced lattes.

I order a cappuccino and choose a table with a clear view of both exits. My journalist instincts, I suppose, though they haven't done me much good lately. The coffee arrives, and I wrap my hands around the warm cup, trying to stop them from shaking.

At exactly 2 PM, Hellfire walks in, and the entire atmosphere of the coffee shop changes. He's wearing a black shirt that stretches across his broad chest and a leather jacket with his MC patchesproudly displayed. His dark hair is slicked back, emphasizing the scars on his face and those burning amber eyes. Through the window, I can see two members standing guard outside.

"This is a terrible idea," I hiss as he sits across from me. "Everyone will know I'm working with you now."

A dangerous smile plays on his lips.

"That's exactly the point, sweetheart." His voice is low, possessive. "Everyone needs to know you're under Iron & Blood protection. That you're followed. That no one can touch what's mine."

The way he says 'mine' has me rubbing my thighs together, trying my best to control myself, to be a good journalist.

"I thought the point was to gather information discreetly?"

"The point," he leans forward, "is to keep you alive while you do it. The Outlaws need to know that hurting you means we’ll get our revenge. By any means necessary."

I swallow hard, very aware of how close he is. "I could have met you at the bar."

"We're not going to the bar." He stands, extending his hand. "Your car's outside. We're going for a drive."

"My car? How did you—"

"Your car was still at the bar from last night," he says, his hand still extended. "Wrath brought it here."

I hesitate for a moment before taking his hand. His skin is warm, and he doesn't let go as he leads me outside. A few customers openly stare, and I catch my reflection in the window – small-town journalist being led away by a scarred biker president. What a sight we must make.

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