Page 73 of Santa's Girl

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I pulled out my phone, fast. Texted their prez:

WHERE. WHO. HOW MANY.

Then:

THIS SHIT AIN’T HOW WE DO BUSINESS.

Three dots danced on the screen. Then came the reply.

We come clean. Talk in person. Respect.

Yeah, sure.

I looked up at Diesel and Jinx, all business now. “Put her in the truck.”

Jinx blinked. “Boss?”

“You heard me. She rides withme. I’m not leavin’ her walkin’ these streets in heels when something might be brewin’. Get the gear. Call in Reinforcements B and C.”

They both nodded and moved fast.

Becca stepped in, eyebrows up, confused as hell. “Wait—what’s going on?”

I turned to her. Pulled open the back of the Escalade. Tossed my fleece inside, pulled out the kutte.

Leather. Heavy. Worn. Appalachian Outlaw MC patch across the back in deep gray and blood-red stitching.

I saw her eyes go wide.

I’d never worn this in front of her before.

She knew who I was.

But she didn’tknow.

Now she did.

I pulled it on. Felt it settle over my shoulders like steel.

Then I stepped close and grabbed her face in my hands. Kissed her — deep, hard, claiming her like I had every right.

“I’m not cutting our night short for those assholes,” I growled against her lips. “You’re riding with me. You’ll be safe, baby. I promise you that.”

She nodded, breath shaky, eyes locked on mine.

I tucked her into the front seat and slammed the door shut.

Whatever was coming — blood, bullshit, or posturing — I wasn’t showing up alone.

And I sure as hell wasn’t showing up soft.

The gun slid smooth from the center console — matte black, compact, loaded.

No big deal.

I tucked it into the waistband of my jeans, grip forward, and pulled my kutte down over it as I drove.

Becca didn’t say anything.

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