Page 15 of Retaliation

As she took her first steps forward, Scorpion instantly positioned himself to her right, with the other two falling into place a step behind him. The pattern of their movements struck her suddenly, a clear picture emerging amidst the casual facade. This was no chance formation. Their actions echoed the precision of trained tactics, a deliberate orchestration of vigilant surveillance. They were constantly alert, scanning for any hint of danger that might threaten their leader or, as it seemed now, her as well.

The realization didn’t bother her. Being from the Underworld had its risks, and she knew that. Her own crew acted the same way around her. She was just surprised that Scorpion and his men did it for her. The instant acceptance touched a nerve, and she stretched her steps—craving fresh air.

The most spectacular sight greeted her on the other side of the revolving door. Parked at the curb were three Kawasaki H2R motorcycles—two silver and one black chrome. It was clear they were custom-made; the bikes weren’t standard with dual seats or the high-tech navigation systems these sported, hinting at an attention to detail far beyond the factory line.

“She’s gorgeous!” Poison breathed, moving to the black chrome bike as if drawn by a magnet. The sleek lines, the gleam of custom details—it was a work of art, practically begging to be ridden. Her fingers itched to grip the handlebars, to feel the hum of power under her control.

“She is,” came Scorpion’s voice, low and close, the warmth of his breath brushing her ear. A shiver prickled along her spine, settling low in her belly. She didn’t dare turn, knowing exactly who he meant and relishing that knowledge for just a moment longer.

“Can we leave already?” Gunnar’s impatient tone sliced through the spell, jarring her back. “I could use a smoke.”

Poison turned, arching a brow, and caught herself before snapping back some flirty retort at Scorpion. Right. They weren’t alone, and that tension between her and him didn’t need an audience. “Where did you guys have in mind?” she asked, her voice slipping into something cool, collected, though excitement buzzed under her skin.

“How about lady’s choice?” Scorpion said, eyes lingering on her as if he’d follow her anywhere.

She grinned, a wicked spark igniting inside her. “I know just the place. Give me a sec—I’ve got my bike parked ‘round back.”

“I’ll give you a lift,” he offered, motioning to the gleaming machine behind her.

Her pulse picked up a notch, though she kept her tone light, playful. “Only if I get to drive.” She flashed him her best wide-eyed, innocent look, fully aware it wouldn’t fool him for a second.

“In your dreams, sister,” Gunnar scoffed, rolling his eyes. But before she could blink, Scorpion pulled a key from his pocket and dangled it in front of her, the metallic glint catching the light.

“What the fuck, dude?” Gunnar whined. “I’ve never been allowed to drive any of your bikes!”

Poison barely heard him. Her gaze locked on that key, anticipation coiling tight in her gut. But when she reached for it, Scorpion snatched it back, his gaze dark, teasing. “Just a warning,” he murmured, his eyes raking over her in a way that felt like a challenge. “She’s powerful.”

Poison rolled her eyes, snatching the key from his hand, her skin brushing his fingers for a beat longer than necessary. “I’m used to having power between my legs,” she purred, throwing a wink at the three men watching her.

Swinging her leg over the seat, she settled into the leather, feeling the machine’s weight under her, solid and ready. Her hands skimmed over the handlebars.

With a smirk, she patted the leather behind her, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Hop on, Scorpion. Unless you’re scared to ride with me.”

He climbed on without a word, his hands settling on her waist as he pressed in close, his chest a warm, solid presence against her back. For a split second, she let herself feel him there, all hard edges and quiet intensity, and a thrill licked through her veins.

She revved the engine, her voice dropping into a low purr. “You do make such a cute backpack.”

He laughed, a dark, rich sound, his grin flashing. “Lead the way, Little Viper.”

But regret instantly took over the excitement in her when he planted his palms on her thighs to stabilize himself. Fuck. All the blood in her head drained to her legs, and she imagined every dirty detail of what she’d like to do to him on that very bike.

“Hold on,” she grunted through a clenched jaw, shoving her helmet on before speeding onto the street.

She didn’t wait to see if the other two were following. She needed the adrenaline to clear her thoughts. She twisted the throttle, and the force pushed her back into him.

She was grateful it was such a short drive to the parking lot. Stopping the bike next to her own, she jumped off and got onto her Ducati, finally remembering how to breathe again.

Without a word, she started the bike, the purr paling in comparison to Scorpion’s, and signaled him to follow. He flanked her three o’clock, and the moment they left the parking lot, Gunnar and Dennis had his four and eight.

FIVE

Twenty minutes later, Poison shoved open the heavy doors to The Grave Bar, a smirk tugging at her lips as she stepped into the dim, sultry glow. The place was nearly empty, its red-tinted lights casting long, ghostly shadows over the worn wooden floor. Perfect. She liked it like this—quiet, raw, stripped of the crowds and the noise. Just the bones of the bar and a few souls lost enough to haunt it in daylight.

Her boots echoed in the empty space as she made her way to the counter, her eyes scanning the bar’s rough, familiar details. At night, The Grave was a chaotic mess of bodies and noise, but in the early hours, it was almost intimate. Sacred. Her kind of place.

The bartender, Marty, gave her a nod as she approached. Rugged and silent as ever, with a beard thick enough to hide secrets and tattoos that crawled up his arms like they had a story to tell. The air smelled of stale whiskey, cheap cigarettes, and something heavier, something almost bitter. Like the memories soaked into the walls over the years.

“Four beers, please, Marty,” she murmured, sliding her fingers along the counter, feeling its rough texture beneath her skin. She’d lost count of how many times she’d ordered here, how many nights she’d stared into the haze of a drink, letting the world around her fade.

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