Page 52 of Always A Villain
I nod.
She slumps with relief, her grip loosening as she walks past me.
Why didn’t she call me?
I get on the bike. She’s on me instantly, arms locked around my waist, holding on tight. The engine growls back to life, and her body presses tight against my back. She’s crying, the sound vibrating through me. Each sob drills deeper. She’s broken.
And I wasn’t the one she reached for.
We tear down the street, the wind whipping past. I don’t even know where I’m going. Just away. But every block, the fury builds. My hands tighten on the grips. I should be focused on her—on the bruises, the blood—but all I see is the message. Her texting the skull, not the man beneath it. I’m not enough for her.
Then I spot them.
Two Ducatis in the mirror, far back but gaining. My gut twists. This isn’t a coincidence.
I veer, taking a hard left. She gasps, clutching me tighter.Yeah. They’ve been tailing us. Probably since the Pavilion. I slam the throttle, the engine screaming as we shoot forward, slicing between cars. My pulse pounds, adrenaline mixing with fury.
Of all the fucking times for the Dolore to make their goddamn move.
I take another turn, harder this time, her scream sharp in my ear as the bike fishtails. The Ducatis are still on us, engines snarling. Fuck. They’re not giving up.
I see an opening—tight alley, no way their bikes are getting through. Hitting the brakes, I skid into the turn and slide into the alley. Brick scrapes my elbow as we shoot through.
For a second, it’s quiet.
Then the noise returns. They’re still coming.
We fly out of the alley and into a busy intersection—and that’s when it goes to hell.
A minivan doesn’t see us. I don’t have time to react.
It clips the back tire.
We spin.
She slips.
Her scream rips through me as she’s thrown from the bike.
I hit the pavement hard, the weight of the bike slamming into my leg, crushing it. The world tilts. Metal grinds. Pain flares white-hot. Helmet cracks. My vision goes fuzzy.
But all I see is her—flying, slamming, skidding across asphalt, like a fucking rag doll.
Fuck.
The bike’s pinned tight, the frame jammed so hardagainst my leg I can’t even shift it. I glance toward her—she isn’t moving.
FUCK!
The high winding of the Ducatis’ engines cuts through the air, closing in fast. The Dolore are coming, and I don’t have enough ammo for a shootout.
I push against the bike, muscles straining, but it won’t budge. Can’t fucking move. I pull, twist—nothing but agony shooting up my leg.
“RORY! RUN!”
Her head stirs, barely, and she looks up at me—eyes dazed, face twisted with pain.
“Axel?” Her voice is hoarse, her lips barely moving, eyes glassy as she pieces it together. “It’s you?”
