Eyes on her
1138 Words
Iron Saints garage…
The sun hung high above the yard, heath settling over the gravel and metal like a second skin. Dust clung to everything, mixing with the smell of oil and gasoline that had long since become familiar enough to feel like home.
Killian preferred it that way.
Loud in all the right ways. Quiet when it mattered.
No thoughts, no memories and no ghosts.
This had never been part of his role. As sergeant-at-Arms, his job was control.
Order.
Making sure no one stepped out of line and that anything that threatened the club was dealt with before it became a problem.
Fixing things was what kept him sane. Putting broken parts back together until they worked again. Something he didn’t quite manage outside this garage. He clenched his jaw briefly before he pushed the thoughts away, focusing back on the engine.
That was until his name was shouted across the space.
The wrench slipped and metal scraped against his skin, slicing his knuckles. Blood surfaced instantly, but Killian didn’t react beyond a quiet curse under his breath.
“Fuck.”
He grabbed a rag without looking, wiping it once before going back to work like nothing had happened.
“Thorne!”
The kid was closer now.
Too loud.
Too eager.
Killian didn’t look up, didn’t need to. He knew which prospect it was. Still green, still trying too hard. Still not smart enough to read the room. Killian let it slide for now.
“Rita said, and I quote so don’t get mad at me, that uppity b***h is back in town.”
The prospect tried to mimic Rita’s tone and, for a second despite everything, Killian almost smirked.
“Rita’s a lot,” the kid continued, “But she ain’t a liar so we checked.”
That was when Killian stilled. Not visibly. Not enough for someone untrained to catch it. But the shift was there.
Subtle.
Controlled.
“She’s here.” The prospect finished.
The garage seemed to get quieter for a second. The sounds dulling under the weight of those two words. Killian didn’t move or speak. Something old and buried dragged itself to the surface before he could stop it.
Dahlia.
Of all the f*****g places she could have gone she came back home.
“She’s staying at that motel at the edge of town,” the prospect added, clearly not noticing the shift in the air, “Been seen around too. Shopping, lying low, that kind of shit.”
Killian’s grip tightened just slightly on the wrench in his hand.
She was staying at that motel. That told him enough. Dahlia would have never been caught dead there before. Not unless something had gone seriously wrong.
“Word is.” The kid lowered his voice like it made the gossip more important, “She got caught with some married guy. Big mess. Press all over it. Guess she ran.”
Killian finally looked up, those words not sitting right with him.
“You don’t know shit.” he said calmly.
The words landed heavier than when he raised his voice. The prospect blinked, caught off guard.
“They confirmed it.” He insisted, though there was less confidence behind it now, “Guy was married.”
Killian held his gaze for a second longer, something sharp flickering behind his eyes.
“Did she tell her side?” he asked.
The kid hesitated and then shook his head. That was all Killian needed. He knew her. Knew the way she loved. Knew she gave everything she had when she chose someone. Dahlia didn’t half-ass anything.
Not her dreams.
Not her heart.
Whatever this was, there was more to it. There had to be. Killian dropped the rag and wrench on the workbench, the faint smear of blood left behind barely noticeable against the rest of the stains. The car he had been working on lost its purpose in an instant.
“Is she staying?” he asked.
“Yeah.” The prospect nodded quickly, “We got eyes on her. Just keeping watch.”
Of course, they did. Nothing happened in this town without the Iron Saints knowing about it. Killian exhaled slowly, his mind already working through it. She came here for a reason. She didn’t want to be found. Not to be dragged into anything she had left behind.
"Keep eyes on her," he finally said, “But stay the hell out of her way.”
The prospect frowned, “You not mad?
Killian’s gaze snapped back at him, “Should I be?" he asked, his voice low.
“I mean…” He trailed off, shifting awkwardly, “Heard stories. Thought you’d be pissed, she came back like this. After…you know.”
Killian stepped forward just enough to make the difference in rank clear without saying it out loud.
“She ain’t like that,” he said without hesitation.
The prospect nodded quickly, taking the hint, “Got it.”
Killian gave a short nod in return before turning away, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair. He had already made the call, already set things in motion. Now he just had to deal with the part that couldn’t wait.
Beck.
The new president.
The man, the old guard, watched with a mix of respect and resistance. He hadn’t grown up here, hadn’t earned his place the way they had. He had taken it and somehow had made it stick. Killian respected that, but that didn’t mean he trusted it.
Ordering prospects to keep watch without running it up the chain first wasn’t how things usually worked here. He knew that but it was done. Which meant now it wasn’t a question. It was information.
“Keep it quiet,” Killian added as he headed toward the exit, “No one spooks her. No one talks to her. She’s not club business unless I say she is.”
“Got it.” The prospect confirmed.
Killian stepped out into the sun. The heat hit him full force as he lit another cigarette. He took a slow drag as he looked out over the lot.
She was here... After four years of nothing.
No calls, no messages and no looking back. And now she came running back. He should leave her alone. Let her do whatever she came here to do and get the f**k out again.
That would be the smart move. The right move.
But he had already walked toward the clubhouse. Already made the decision he told himself he wouldn’t make. No matter how much time had passed or how things ended, there was one thing he couldn’t ignore.
Dahlia Moon didn’t come back here unless something went seriously wrong.
And what no one would expect from him was that he’d protect it.
Protect her.
- Writer
