Broken Wings and Burning Roads

CHAPTER 6

The door slams behind me.

For a second, I just stand there.

Then I run. Not fast, not far—just to that shitty motel with the stained curtains and the broken ice machine. I fish the key from my pocket, fumble with the lock, slam the door shut behind me, and press my back against the wall.

The silence inside the room is loud. My chest heaves. My hands shake.

I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the carpet, legs out, arms limp at my sides. The cigarette pack in my apron pocket is crumpled. I don’t care.

I stare at the ceiling like it might give me answers.

Shit. What did I just do?

No job. No plan. And now, probably, no safety net.

But still—beneath the panic, somewhere deep in my chest—is a flicker of something else.

Not fear.

Freedom.

Because for the first time in a long, long while…

I didn’t run.

I fought.

And maybe—just maybe—that means I’m finally ready to stop running altogether. I don’t need drama, bikers, winks, mysterious notes, or ex-boyfriends driving past in the cars I see in my nightmares.

She’s fire.

The kind of fire that dances behind green eyes and makes a man think about things he shouldn’t. Like pulling her in close and seeing what her lips taste like when she’s mad. What her voice sounds like in the dark, when no one's listening but me.

Hell, I shouldn’t be thinking about her.

Not when I’m back at the compound, patched in, sitting across from two other MC presidents while Knox leans against the far wall, arms crossed, watching me with that quiet intensity of his.

Not when we’re supposed to be talking legacy. Boundaries. Power plays and silent threats. The kind of s**t that can get a man shot if his head’s not in the game.

But all I see is her.

Sadie.

Shaking like a leaf but still refusing to break. Standing in that busted apron with pride stitched into every crease. She didn’t fold. She didn’t flee. Even when her hands were trembling and her eyes went wide like prey catching the scent of a predator.

She stayed.

And now she’s burned into the back of my skull.

Her voice. That clipped sarcasm she used like a blade. The flash of fear she tried to hide when she saw that car. And the way she said her name—Sadie—like it was a borrowed thing. Something fragile. Something she didn’t quite believe belonged to her.

I want to know who she really is.

And why the hell she looks like someone who’s been running too long with no one to chase her but ghosts.

Across the table, Marcus from the Burnside Bastards is talking turf and routes, but the words bleed together. I nod, throw out a few non-committal sounds, but I can feel Knox watching me from the corner.

The meeting winds down. Hands shake. Threats get dressed up in polite tones and promises of neutrality.

Once they’re gone and the door clicks shut, Knox straightens up and cracks his neck.

“You gonna tell me what’s got your head somewhere else, or am I supposed to guess?”

I shrug, lean back in the chair, stretch my arms out like I’ve got not a damn thing to worry about. “I’m focused.”

“You’re distracted,” he says flatly, walking toward the mini fridge and grabbing two beers. He tosses me one, cracking his open with a lazy flick. “Just not in a bad way.”