Chapter 4: THE THINGS WE CANT PROTECT

(Jax’s POV)

It was strange, having someone else in my space again.

The quiet was no longer a weight. It was a shape. Her shape.

Sarah moved through the clubhouse like a shadow—silent, careful, haunted. But she didn’t flinch as much anymore. She still didn’t talk much, but I could see the way her eyes scanned the room, calculating everything. Survival instincts, sharp and worn-in.

I got that. I lived on instincts too.

She didn’t ask questions, and I didn’t push her to talk. I’d seen enough broken things to know that silence sometimes said more than words ever could.

And yet, she was the only person I’d let near my tools in years.

Butterfly.

That’s what I’d called her. The word slipped out before I could stop it.

Fitting.

She looked like something that had been ripped open mid-transformation—wings half-formed, still covered in ash from the fire she crawled out of. I didn’t know what had burned her, but I knew enough not to ask. Some wounds weren’t meant to be touched.

I just hoped the ones that hurt her stayed away. Because if they didn’t… I’d paint the pavement with their blood.

The bar was buzzing downstairs—music pounding, voices roaring, laughter that didn’t belong to anyone sober.

Ghost leaned against the doorframe of my office. “You gonna tell me what’s up with the girl?”

“No.”

He grunted. “Club’s asking questions.”

“They always do.”

“She yours?”

I looked up at him, slow and sharp. “She’s under my protection. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

Ghost whistled low. “Shit, Reaper. That’s the closest thing to soft I’ve ever heard from you.”

I glared.

He raised both hands. “Alright, alright. I’ll back off. But if someone comes looking for her, you better be ready.”

I already was.

Later that night, I found her outside in the yard. Sitting on the steps. Jacket wrapped around her, hair tied in a messy knot. She had my rag in one hand, cleaning a wrench like it was a ritual.

“You trying to steal my job?” I asked, lighting a cigarette.

She didn’t look at me. “No one would miss it.”

I chuckled. “You’d be surprised. This garage is my church.”

She glanced up. “So, you pray to chrome and oil?”

I blew out a line of smoke. “Beats praying to God. He always lets me down.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “If he exists.”

A silence stretched between us. Comfortable. Familiar. Almost warm.

I sat beside her. The air smelled like gasoline and pine. She didn’t move away.

“You got someone out there looking for you?” I asked, voice low.

Her grip tightened on the wrench. “No.”

Liar. But I didn’t push.

“You got someone you’re scared of?”

She hesitated. Then gave the smallest nod.

“Alright,” I said. “Then here’s how this works. While you’re under my roof, no one touches you. No one breathes wrong around you. You don’t owe me your past, but if that past comes knocking—I answer the door.”

She blinked fast, as if trying to hold something back. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

Another lie. But she let it go.

The call came just before midnight.

My burner buzzed three times—the signal I gave to the nanny I hired years ago for emergencies.

I picked up immediately. “Rosa?”

She was sobbing. My stomach dropped.

“She’s gone,” Rosa choked. “I-I just stepped out to get her medicine, she had a fever, I was only gone for fifteen minutes—”

“Where the fuck is my daughter?” I barked, standing.

“Her window was open—there was a note—Jax, I’m so sorry, please don’t—”

I was already out the door.

Sarah followed me halfway down the stairs. “What happened?”

“Stay inside,” I snapped.

“Jax—”

“My daughter is gone!” I shouted, the words ripping out of me like they were dipped in fire.

She froze. Her mouth parted in shock.

I didn’t wait.

I stormed into the garage, grabbed my keys, and mounted the bike like my life depended on it—because it did.

The note was still burned into my brain.

“She’s payment for your sins. You want her back? Bleed for her.”

No signature. But I knew the handwriting. I knew the rage that carved those letters.

It was Viper.

The fucker had been lurking at the edges of my world for months. A rival gang leader. An old ally turned enemy. A snake who wanted to see me crawl.

I’d buried his brother.

He’d just dug up something of mine.

The streets blurred beneath my tires as I cut through the city like a phantom. My mind raced with possibilities—what he’d do, where he’d take her, if she was scared, if she was crying for me—

I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t care how many people I had to kill to get her back. She was all I had left in this world that was innocent. Pure. Unscarred.

And now she was in the hands of a monster.

By the time I reached the old warehouse I used to use for shipments, it was empty. But there was something nailed to the rusted door.

A photo.

Of her.

Tied to a chair. Blindfolded. Mouth gagged.

And a bloody handprint on the corner of the image.

My daughter.

My fucking daughter.

I staggered back, rage ripping through me like a chain snapping. I punched the wall, again and again, until my knuckles bled. The photo crumpled in my fist.

I would find him. I would burn every city block until I tore the world in half to bring her home.

I mounted the bike again, fingers trembling, blood smearing the throttle.

And as the engine roared to life beneath me, I made a promise I’d keep even if it meant my grave:

"You want me to bleed?"

"Then drown in it, motherfucker."