The desert wind whipped past us as Colossus’s Harley ate up the miles. I clung to his back, arms tight around his waist, cheek pressed to the leather of his cut. Every rumble of the engine vibrated through both of us like a shared heartbeat. This wasn’t just a ride. It was a statement. I was on the back of his bike. Claimed. Protected. Chosen.
He reached back once with one massive hand and squeezed my thigh — a silent I’ve got you. I squeezed back.
The warehouse loomed ahead like a bad memory. Rusting metal, broken windows, Reapers’ bikes lined up like they were waiting for a show. Colossus killed the engine and swung off, turning to help me down. His hands lingered on my waist.
“Stay close,” he said, voice low. “If it goes bad, you run. I’ll find you.”
I met his gray eyes. “I’m not ru
