Chapter Three

My boots beat against the gravel and dirt beside the asphalt like a drum of war. I took a long, hard drag of the cigarette, letting the harsh, unpolished smoke coat my throat before exhaling a gray plume into the dead night air. The heavy tobacco burned away the lingering taste of vintage champagne and three years of pristine lies.

It tasted like trouble. It tasted like home.

The road was entirely deserted—a forgotten stretch of highway between county lines used only by long-haul truckers and travelers desperately trying to dissolve into the shadows. Or someone running from a monster.

With every step, my duffel bag slapped against my bruised ribs, sending a sharp, white-hot spike of pain straight through my chest. I welcomed it. The burn kept me awake, hellbent on reaching the motel the rusted highway sign promised was just around the next bend.

As the nicotine hit my bloodstream, old instincts flared to life. The familiar, forbidden scent of smoke conjured flashes of the life I’d tried so hard to scrub off my skin. I could almost hear the roar of the Vipers' clubhouse, could almost see my burly, gruff father barking orders at men who were bound by honor rather than blood.

And, without fail... I saw him.

The thought of Logan Gideon had never truly faded. He was broad-shouldered, tan-skinned, and as rough as the gravel I was currently walking on. The memory of his sharp green eyes, an arrogantly handsome jawline, and the rebellious natural white streak that shot through his dark hair still made my stomach coil with sudden, heavy heat. Everything about Logan was intoxicating—he smelled of motor oil, musk, and a dangerous edge that belonged entirely to him.

We’d shared hidden laughter, brushes with danger, and stolen glances since we were kids. But in the club, a prospect touching the President's daughter was a death sentence. My Pops would have buried Logan alive if he ever found out he was my first kiss—if he ever learned I’d thought about running away with his Enforcer-in-training more times than I'd taken shots of cheap whiskey.

But flowers didn't bloom in blood-soaked ground. Love couldn't last when every day was a battle for survival.

So when I met Arthur—clean, wealthy, and entirely square—I ran toward what I thought was a lifeline. I ran toward safety. Now I knew the truth. It wasn't a lifeline at all; it was just a different kind of fire, and it had threatened to burn me down to ash.

"He's not good for you, Char," Logan's voice rumbled through my mind, a memory so vivid it sent a violent shiver down my spine. We had been standing by the garage the day I left. "He's got that look. I've killed men with less menacing looks. He'll hurt you, and you won't be able to stop me from putting him in the ground."

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head to clear the echo of his promise. "Stop it, Char," I muttered to the darkness, shifting the heavy duffel on my shoulder. "It's too late for regrets."

A sudden glance over my shoulder cut my thoughts short. Distant headlights sliced through the empty stretch of road and trees, about a mile back.

Paranoia seized me. My pace broke into a near-sprint, my breath hitching as I finally rounded the bend and saw the motel's flickering neon sign.

I curved into the driveway, pulling the black hood lower over my face to shield myself from the light. Muscle memory took over. I scanned the rundown, single-floor rooms that framed the empty parking lot, noting two civilian cars and six security cameras hanging off the rusted awnings. Sticking to the blind spots, I slipped through the front door of the lobby.

The tired, young woman behind the counter looked up, her polite smile faltering as she took in my breathless, disheveled appearance.

"Evening, ma'am," she greeted, her voice guarded. She couldn't see my face clearly beneath the hood, but she could definitely see the frantic energy rolling off me. "Are you... checking in? Do you have a booking?"

I shook my head, stepping up to the counter and pulling a crumpled wad of hundred-dollar bills from my jacket. "No booking. Need a room—under Kane." My voice was a low, clipped rasp, trying to avoid expanding my aching lungs too far. "Somewhere close to the parking lot. Well lit."

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. Before she could type, I glanced back over my shoulder. Through the glass doors, the car I had spotted on the highway pulled into the lot. The high beams were blinding, washing the entire lobby in a stark, white glare.

An icy dread settled in my stomach. My intuition sparked like a live wire.

The clerk looked up, following my gaze. Her brows narrowed as she turned her attention to a second screen displaying the live camera feeds.

"He's just sitting there..." she noted softly, confusion thickening her voice. She looked back at me, her eyes widening slightly. "Is he with you?"

My hands gripped the edge of the laminate counter, my knuckles turning white. "No," I said, the word sharp and definitive. "I came alone."

The clerk shrugged, though she looked uneasy. "He might just be using the lot to check his GPS. People do it all the time." She reached under the counter and slid a key with a red plastic tag toward me. Room 14. "Enjoy your stay, Miss Kane. Checkout is at eight."

I didn't wait for change. I slammed a hundred-dollar bill onto the wood, snatched the key, and turned on my heel.

I marched out of the lobby into the cool night air, keeping my head down, but my eyes were pinned on the idling vehicle. It wasn't a local car. It was a pristine, late-model luxury SUV.

I crossed the concrete, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I reached Room 14 and jammed the key into the lock, my hands shaking so violently the metal clicked uselessly against the plate.

Behind me, the SUV's engine cut out.

The heavy thud of a car door slamming shut echoed through the quiet lot like a gunshot. Then came the distinct, measured click of expensive leather dress shoes walking across the pavement.

"You really thought you could just run, Lottie?"

The voice was smooth, terrifyingly calm, and entirely devoid of the warmth it had possessed three years ago.

An icy spike of pure terror drove down my spine. My head whipped around, the hood falling back from my copper curls as I stared into the chilling, familiar blue eyes of my husband.

"Arthur," I breathed.