Page 3 of Ruthless Sin

"My bike's out front," I say, already moving toward the rear exit, knife still clutched in my shaking hand.

"Like hell. You're riding with me." His grip on my arm tightens. "We need to stay together. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

I want to argue – I hate feeling helpless or controlled – but now isn't the time. The younger Outlaw is fully conscious now, and the older one is trying to get up. Through the windows, I can see headlights approaching, multiple bikes by the sound of it.

We burst through the back door into the cool night air. Ruthless's black Road King sits like a sentinel in the shadows, and we're on it in seconds. I barely have time to shove my knife back in my boot before wrapping my arms around his waist. He kicks the bike to life, the engine's roar drowning out the sound of shouting from inside the bar.

We tear out of the parking lot just as three more Outlaws roll in from the other direction. I press my face against Ruthless's back, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can feel it. The wind whips at my hair, and I can taste blood from my split lip, but we're alive. We made it.

For now.

Chapter 2 – Ruthless

The weight of Angel pressed against my back is both a comfort and a torture as I weave through the dark streets, taking the long way back to Iron & Blood territory.

Her arms are tight around my waist, and I can feel her heart hammering against my back. Every protective instinct in me wants to hunt down those Outlaws for daring to touch her, but right now, getting her to safety is all that matters.

I check the mirrors again. No headlights following us, but that doesn't mean shit. The Outlaws know these streets as well as we do. They could be taking parallel routes, trying to cut us off.

"Hold tight," I growl over my shoulder, taking a sharp turn down an alley I know will lead us through a maze of backstreets.

Angel's grip tightens immediately, her thighs pressing closer against mine. Christ, even in the middle of this mess, her touch sets my skin on fire. This is exactly why Hellfire warned me off – I can't think straight around his daughter.

The memory of that conversation makes my jaw clench.

"She's not for you, brother," he'd said, his voice carrying the weight of both MC president and concerned father. "I see how you look at her, how she looks at you. It stops now."

Another turn, and I feel Angel shift against me, probably checking behind us. Smart girl. She's always been smart – too smart for her own good sometimes. Like tonight. Fucking Crossroads bar. What the hell was she thinking?

The familiar streets of our territory finally come into view, but I don't head for the clubhouse. Can't face Hellfire yet, not with the taste of violence still fresh and his daughter's body pressedagainst mine. Instead, I turn toward my place, an old converted warehouse I've called home for the past decade.

As I pull into my private garage, Angel's arms loosen around me, but she doesn't immediately pull away. For a moment, we just sit there in the dim light, both breathing hard from the adrenaline and the escape.

"You're bleeding," she says softly, her fingers brushing against my cheek where the Outlaw's knife caught me.

I catch her wrist before she can touch the cut. "Angel..."

She yanks her hand away, suddenly all fire and fury.

"Don't 'Angel' me, Grant. Not after what just happened."

The garage door closes behind us with a mechanical whir, and the silence that follows is deafening. I swing off the bike, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

Twenty-two years age difference. She's my president's daughter. She's too young, too pure for someone like me. I've been repeating these facts like a mantra for months, but they feel weaker every time I look at her.

"What were you thinking?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended. "That bar is practically in Outlaw territory. You could have been—" I can't even finish the sentence.

The possibilities of what could have happened make me want to put my fist through a wall.

Angel slides off the bike, and even in the dim light, I can see the defiance blazing in her eyes. There's blood on her lower lip, and the sight of it stokes the rage I've been trying to contain.

"I was thinking I needed a damn drink without my father's watchdogs hovering over me," she snaps, stepping closer. "I canhandle myself. Or did you miss the part where I put that guy down with brass knuckles?"

"Yeah, I saw. I also saw him get back up." I move to the workbench, needing distance between us. My hands are still shaking – from the fight or from her proximity, I'm not sure anymore. "You got lucky tonight, Angel. If I hadn't gotten there—"

"But you did get there," she interrupts, following me. "Because I called you. Not the club, not my father. You."

The way she says it – soft, meaningful – makes me grip the edge of the workbench until my knuckles turn white. "That's exactly the problem."

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