Page 9 of Hellfire's Mercy

"Sweetheart, you stopped being just a journalist the moment you agreed to help us. You're under my protection now. That means something in our world."

The way he says 'my protection' instead of 'the club's protection' doesn't escape my notice.

The place looks different in the evening light. Motorcycles line the front, their chrome gleaming under the neon signs. Music pulses from inside, and I can see shadows moving behind the frosted windows.

Hellfire parks my car around back, next to a row of particularly impressive bikes.

"That one's mine," he says, nodding toward a massive black Harley with custom metalwork.

Of course it is – powerful, imposing, dangerous. Just like its owner.

He comes around to my door and opens it, offering his hand again. This time when I take it, he doesn't let go. Instead, he tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, like some twisted version of a gentleman escorting a lady to dinner.

"Ready?" he asks, and I'm not sure if he means for dinner or for everything this night represents.

"No," I answer honestly, which makes him chuckle.

"Good answer."

The bar goes quiet as we enter, every head turning our way. I recognize faces from last night, but names escape me. Angel is there, raised eyebrows the only indication of her surprise at seeing me on her father's arm.

"Brothers," Hellfire's voice carries across the room. "Meet our new ally. Chloe Matthews." He starts pointing out people, his free hand moving in a casual sweep. "That's Butcher, my VP. The brothers, Crow and Wrath, were our shadows tonight. Over there, it’s Ruthless and Maverick."

"Food's ready in the back," the man he identified as Butcher calls out, and I notice for the first time that the bar smells fantastic.

Hellfire guides me through the crowd, his hand moving to the small of my back. Every touch feels deliberate, possessive even, and I wonder if he's doing it on purpose. Marking his territory? Warning others off? Or is there something else behind these casual points of contact?

The back room turns out to be a large dining area I didn't notice last night. A long table dominates the space, loaded with what looks like homemade spicy food and a good number of steaks – enough for everyone and more.

"Angel's specialty," Hellfire explains, pulling out a chair for me. "She runs the kitchen here."

"Among other things," Angel says, appearing with a bottle of wine. She gives me an appraising look. "Hope you like spicy food, journalist."

Before I can respond, the club members file in, taking seats around the table. It feels surreal – sitting down to dinner with the very people I was spying on twenty-four hours ago. Hellfire takes the seat at the head of the table, with me on his right and Butcher on his left.

"First," he says, once everyone is seated, "Chloe witnessed the Outlaws' operation at the docks tonight." A serious mood falls over the table. "She's going to help us expose them."

"And can we trust her?" Crow asks from further down the table.

Hellfire's hand finds my thigh under the table, and I nearly jump.

"She's one of us now," he says firmly, his fingers gently squeezing. "Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me."

No one speaks up.

"Now," he continues, his hand staying where it is, "let's eat. Then we'll show our new friend everything we have on the Outlaws."

As food is passed around and conversation flows, I try to focus on anything except the warm weight of his hand on my leg. This is about exposing human trafficking, about justice, about getting the story of my career. It's not about how my skin tingles where he touches me, or how his occasional glances make my heart race.

But as I sit here, surrounded by dangerous men who now consider me "one of them," I wonder if I'm not in more trouble than I realized – and not just from the Outlaws.

Chapter 4 - Hellfire

The food's good, the mood's light despite the heavy conversation we just had, but I can't focus on anything except the warmth of her thigh under my palm. Chloe keeps shooting me these little glances when she thinks I'm not looking, a blush creeping up her neck every time I squeeze gently.

"So," she says quietly, leaning closer to me, "this isn't quite what I expected from a biker dinner."

I smirk, noting how she unconsciously shifts toward me.

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