Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
I pull the SUV into the driveway, the tires crunching over the desert landscaping. My house is a sharp, modern thing of glass, steel, and dark stone—a far cry from the cramped apartments and weathered bungalows near UCLA. It's a testament to every late night at the garage, every grease-stained dollar I've saved, and the success of the Boneyard. I see her eyes widen as she takes it in, her gaze traveling up the clean lines of the architecture and the way the sunset reflects off the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Diesel," she says, her voice small and filled with a surprise she doesn't bother to hide. "This is… you live here? Alone?"
"Most of the time," I say, killing the engine and letting the silence of the desert settle around us. I grab my phone, seeing three missed texts from Bones and one from Alana, but I ignore them for the moment. "It's safe. Gated community, security cameras on every corner of the property, and the neighbors don't ask questions. You’ll be safe here, Serenity."
She looks at me, and for a second, the sassy, fire-breathing version of the girl I've known for years is gone, replaced by someone who looks relieved to be behind a locked gate. She steps out of the car, her sneakers hitting the pavement with a soft thud. I go to the back to grab her bags, my hands moving with a clinical efficiency I don't really feel. Inside, my skin is humming, hyper-aware of the fact that she’s standing in my driveway, her scent mixing with the dry desert heat.
"It's beautiful," she whispers as I lead her through the front door. The interior is open, all polished concrete floors and minimalist furniture that I picked out because it felt solid and permanent. I lead her toward the guest wing, away from my master suite, because if I put her any closer, I'm not sure I'll be able to focus on the 'protector' part of this arrangement. The guest room is ready for her with crisp white linens, a view of the pool, and a heavy oak door that actually locks.
I set her bags down on the luggage rack and turn to find her standing in the center of the room, looking around like she's waiting for the catch. I clear my throat, leaning against the doorframe to keep from closing the distance between us. She looks so small in this room, so fragile despite the steel I know lives in her spine.
"Okay," I say, my voice dropping into that low, authoritative rumble I use when I need a prospect to listen. "The ground rules are pretty simple. Make yourself at home and let me know if you need anything. "
Serenity blinks, her eyebrows drawing together as the shock wears off and her natural sass begins to reassert itself. She crosses her arms over her chest, which only serves to emphasize the curves I've been trying to ignore since she turned twenty-one. "Thank you."
"You don’t have to thank me," I counter, refusing to let the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth distract me. "Let me know if you need anything. Unpack. I'm going to make a call, then I'll figure out dinner."
I walk back toward the living room, dialing a number I only use when I need a specific kind of expertise. It rings twice before a gravelly voice answers. "Walsh. You back in town?"
"Just got in," I say, looking through the glass toward the darkening desert. "Savage, I need a favor. Deep dive. I’ve got a name and a location. Kirk Voss, UCLA student. He's been stalking Serenity, my sister’s best friend. I want everything—socials, family, bank records, known associates. If he’s ever so much as kicked a dog, I want to know about it."
"Consider it done. I'll have a preliminary file for you by morning. You want him handled or just watched?"
"Just watched for now," I say, my jaw tightening. "I want to know the second he leaves LA. If he even looks at a map of Nevada, I want to be the first to know."
I hang up and head to the kitchen, needing to do something with my hands that doesn't involve punching a hole in the wall. I pull out a couple of steaks and some greens, the familiar routine of cooking usually enough to settle my mind. But tonight, the air in the house feels different. It’s charged. Every sound from the guest wing—the rustle of her moving bags, the click of a closet door—vibrates through me like a low-frequency hum. I'm used to this house being a sanctuary of silence, a place where I can shed the weight of the MC and the garage. But with Serenity in the guest room and her scent already hanging in the air, there’s no letting go of shit tonight.