Page 2 of Maverick's Code

"Well, shit," I mutter, looking down at her face, peaceful now despite the bruises. "This is gonna be interesting."

I scan the street quickly, my instincts on high alert. Still empty, but that could change any second. I can't leave her here, but taking her back to the clubhouse would be like throwing a match into gasoline. Even if I wanted to explain this to my brothers, she might not survive their questions.

My apartment's not far - maybe ten minutes. It's not ideal, but it's the only play I've got right now.

"Sorry about this, princess," I murmur, adjusting her limp form in my arms. She weighs next to nothing, but that dress isn't doing much to keep her warm. I feel her shiver against my chest as a cool breeze picks up.

Getting her on the bike is a challenge I've never trained for. I manage to settle her in front of me, her head lolling against my chest, one arm secured around her waist. It's risky as hell, but so is everything else about this situation.

As I kick the bike to life, I catch another glimpse of that Outlaws tattoo. Someone in her club did this to her - has to be. The timing's too perfect with their leadership vacuum, and I've seen enough power struggles to recognize the fallout.

"What the hell have you gotten yourself mixed up in?" I ask her unconscious form as we pull away from the curb. She doesn't answer, just trembles slightly against me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket - probably Butcher checking in. That'll have to wait. Right now, I've got an injured enemy in my arms and a thousand questions burning in my mind.

First things first - get her somewhere safe, patch her up, and hope to God I'm not making the biggest mistake of my life.

The streets blur past us as I head home, painfully aware that this night just became a whole lot more complicated.

Chapter 2 - Sadie

Pain shoots through my body as I jolt awake, my heart hammering against my ribs. The room spins for a moment before settling into focus - unfamiliar walls, unfamiliar bed, unfamiliar everything. This isn't my apartment.

Panic rises in my throat as last night's memories flood back. Running. The white dress that asshole forced on me. Pain with every step. And then... darkness.

I force myself to stay still, to assess. I'm lying on a king-sized bed with dark sheets. My dress is still on, but someone's draped warm sheets all over me. The room is minimal - some furniture, a few framed vintage motorcycle posters on the walls. A man's room. Clean, but lived-in.

Every muscle screams as I push myself up to sitting position. My head throbs, and I can taste blood where my split lip has cracked open again. Thanks for that, Jake, you bastard.

A sound from somewhere else in the apartment makes me freeze. Someone's here. Of course someone's here - this has to be their place. But who? The last thing I remember is... oh God. A man approaching me on the street. A big man. And on his cut...

My stomach drops as I spot it hanging on a hook by the door - the Iron & Blood MC patch gleaming in the morning light streaming through the window. I'm in the home of an enemy.

I scan the room for weapons, exits, anything. There's a window, but I'm at least three floors up. The bedroom door is closed, and beyond it, I can hear movement, maybe in a kitchen.

My legs shake as I stand, but I grit my teeth through the pain. I've survived worse than this. I am my father's daughter, evenif he is gone now. And I'm not about to let some Iron & Blood member think he's got me cornered.

The question is, what's his game? Why bring me here instead of their clubhouse? And why am I still alive?

I spot the baseball bat propped in the corner near a closet. My body protests as I limp over to grab it, but adrenaline is a hell of an anesthetic. The wooden grip feels solid in my hands - not my preferred weapon, but it'll do.

Positioning myself behind the door, I listen to the footsteps getting closer. My hands are shaking, but I tighten my grip. After what Jake and his crew did to me, after learning that my own club - my supposed family - had turned on my father and helped set him up... No. I'm not trusting anyone ever again, especially not a member of the rival MC.

The footsteps stop outside the door. My heart pounds so loud I'm sure he can hear it. The handle turns slowly, and I raise the bat, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ribs. I might be hurt, but I've got surprise on my side. One good swing is all I need.

The door starts to open, and I catch the scent of coffee and something cooking. It throws me for a second - I was expecting cigarettes and whiskey, not breakfast. But it doesn't matter. He's still the enemy, no matter how domestic this feels.

A deep voice calls out, "Hey, you awa-"

I don't let him finish. As soon as I see his shoulder clear the doorframe, I swing with everything I've got left.

The bat stops mid-swing, caught in his massive hand like it's nothing more than a twig. The crash of breaking glass and the smell of spilled coffee fill the air as I stare up at him, my eyes wide with terror. He towers over me, muscles rippling under his tattooed arms, and I've never felt smaller.

My breath comes in short gasps as I try to wrench the bat free, but it's useless. He's not even straining to hold it still while I use both hands and all my remaining strength. The last time I was this helpless... No. Don't think about that. Don't think about Jake.

I brace myself for the blow, for the pain. That's how this works, right? You swing, you miss, you pay. My body tenses, making every bruise and cut scream in protest. But I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. If he's going to hurt me, he'll have to do it while I look him in the eye.

Except... he's just standing there, still holding the bat, looking down at me with an expression I can't read. Not anger. Not the sick pleasure I saw in Jake's eyes. Something else.

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