Chapter 2
1481 Words
Ethan
I knew it was her, the moment I walked into the bar. Aria.
I hadn't heard her name in years, but my memory never forgot that face. Just a little older now. A little more woman than girl. But those eyes? Still the same. Fierce, stubborn, wild with heart.
My mind dragged me back to five years ago. I was eighteen, bleeding out in some filthy alley after a gang fight turned ugly. Everything hurt. My ribs were cracked, blood pouring from my mouth, and every breath felt like it might be my last.
And then she showed up. Tiny thing. Too small to carry someone like me. But she didn't hesitate. She threw my arm over her shoulder, dragged me down the street, and brought me to the shelter clinic. She didn't ask questions. Just helped.
For three days, she stayed around. Brought me water. Changed my bandages. Argued with the nurses until they let me stay longer. And then just like that she was gone.
I tried to find her after that. I owed her my life. But no one knew who she was. It was like she'd been dropped into my world just to pull me out of death and then vanished before I could thank her.
But now? Here she was. Right in front of me. Still full of that same fire. She didn't remember me. But I remembered everything.
Not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes. I don't know why I expected her to. It had been five years. Back then, I was half-dead kid with blonde hair, barely standing on his own. I was all bones and bruises from the orphanage, barely eating, barely surviving.
I was eleven when I got dumped there—my mother overdosed on the bathroom floor, and my father? I never met him. No family came looking for me. No one cared.
The orphanage was no home. It was hell in a brick building. Cold meals, colder beds, and staff who looked at you like a paycheck. The older boys ran things in there fists did the talking, and fear was currency.
But I learned. Fast. Learned to take a beating and not cry. Learned how to read people by how they walked into a room. Learned that surviving meant getting smart, fast.
By the time I aged out at seventeen, I had no diploma, no family, no direction—just rage. And a bike I built piece by piece from scrap I hustled out of junkyards. It became my escape. My freedom. My identity.
That was the beginning of the club. It didn't start as a gang. Just a group of outcasts like me kids with scars, no families, no chances. We rode together, protected our own, and made something out of the nothing we were given.
I called it Iron Vow because that's what it was. A promise. No drugs. No gambling. No prostitution.
After the I had my men take the guy out, I'd caught wind of something from one of the bartenders. Said the guy was high. Something about white powder. I'd heard just enough to know drugs were involved.
That's why I approached her. Not just because I recognized her—but because she looked like she was standing too close to danger.
I asked if she needed help. She shut me down cold.
I slid back into the booth, my jaw clenched from how fast she'd shut me down. Across from me, Jax leaned forward, a grim look on his face.
“That guy she was arguing with. Lucas. He’s on Ash-9 watchlist.”
“You sure?” I asked.
Jax gave a sharp nod. “Positive boss,” .
"She doesn't look like the kind of girl who would get involved with deals like that," Jax added.
"She doesn't," I said as if I know her much. Not as well as I wanted to, but enough.
"What do you want us to do, boss?"
"I'll handle it." I said. With that, I pulled my hoodie over my head, and stepped out into the night.
The street was quiet,. The air smelled like rain that hadn't come yet. I reached into my pocket for a cigarette, rolled it between my fingers, and was just about to strike the lighter when something caught my eye across the street.
A figure. Familiar.
She moved fast, head tucked down, hair tied in a messy bun. Not the same outfit from earlier now she wore an oversized hoodie, loose around the shoulders, and a pair of baggy sweatpants.
That walk. That posture. It was her. She'd changed clothes. Quick. Clean. Either she lived close or had stashed something nearby.
I didn't even realize I hadn't lit the cigarette. I just stood there, watching her slip into the shadows.
Without thinking, I started walking. Keeping my distance. Silent. She didn't look back. But something in me said I needed to keep looking ahead right at her. She never looked back once. Not even a flick of hesitation.
She didn't know she was being followed. Good.
I wasn't out here to scare her. I just needed to make sure she got wherever she was going without trouble. But something about the way she moved like she was trying to outrun something kept me on edge.
She took a shortcut through a narrow alley between two shut-down convenience stores. That's when I picked up the sound quick footsteps, not hers. Heavy. Intentional.
Voices followed. Low. Male. Four of them. I moved faster, ducking behind a parked van just as they circled her.
She stopped walking.
"Well, well," one of them said, voice full of sleaze. "A pretty girl walking alone this late?"
Aria didn't show any sign of fear.
"Move," she said flatly.
I caught the shift in her stance—tight fists, squared shoulders. She wasn't the type to scare easily.
And it was four against one. The second guy stepped forward, blocking her path. “You know why we’re here,” he said, his tone turning colder. “Don’t play dumb. Just tell us where the powder is.”
Aria’s brow furrowed. “What powder?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” another one snapped. “Lucas said you have it. That you cleaned him out.”
Her confusion turned to disgust. “I don’t have anything.”
One of them moved closer, eyes flicking to her bag. “Let’s see for ourselves.”
He reached for it. I didn't wait for her to handle it alone. I was already crossing the street. Before he could snatch the back, I grabbed him first.
Aria
Everything just happened so fast.
It wasn't until that jerk was knocked down by a punch that I could see the face of the man rushing out. The guy at the bar? Why the hell is he here?
He surged forward, grabbed his wrist before he could strike again, and twisted it. He screamed, the knife clattering to the ground, then slammed his knee into his chest, sending him flying back into the wall.
He crumpled there, gasping. Two were on the ground. The others? Already running..
I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
One second I was bracing myself for a knife, and the next—I was watching him tear through them like they were nothing. No hesitation. No fear.
Just precision, speed, and raw power.
His movements were clean and brutal—like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like he was built for this.
He stood there, chest rising and falling, blood dripping down his arm, fists clenched like he was still ready for more. Like part of him hadn’t come down from it yet.
I couldn’t look away. He turned slowly, like he remembered I was there, but I was already in front of him. My eyes went straight to the gash on his arm.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, my voice a little shaky even though I tried to sound steady.
He shrugged like it was nothing. “I’m fine.”
No, he wasn’t. His hoodie sleeve was soaked, blood trailing down his arm. I could see the tightness in his jaw, the stiffness in the way he moved.
“You just fought four guys, and one of them cut you. That’s not fine,” I snapped, stepping closer.
I wasn’t scared. I was pissed. And maybe… maybe a little worried. More than I should be for someone I’d supposedly just met.
I reached for his arm before I could stop myself. The moment my fingers brushed his sleeve, he flinched.
I looked up at him, studying his face. There was something flickering in his eyes. A shadow of something I couldn’t place.
“Is this what you do?” I asked in a low voice. “Risk your life for strangers?”
- Writer
