Contracted Wife to the MC President

Chapter 6

Harper POV

I stared at the duffel in his hand, and the reality of it all settled into my stomach like lead. No penthouse to go back to. No bar either.

I bent down and unbuckled the ankle straps of my Louboutins, kicking them aside. They hit the concrete with a hollow clatter, a relic of a life that didn't exist anymore.

Reaper kicked open a crate and tossed me a pair of black tactical boots.

"Put those on. Lace them tight."

I sat on an ammo box and shoved my feet in. Three sizes too big, swallowing my feet and the ruined hems of my trousers, but I laced them as tight as they'd go.

I pulled off the jacket, flipped it inside out to hide the scythe and the club rockers, and put it back on. The suede lining scratched against my neck, but the outside was blank now. Untraceable.

I picked the 9mm back up.

Reaper didn't say anything else. He slung the AR-15 over his shoulder, grabbed the duffel, and shoved a metal shelving unit aside at the back wall, revealing a narrow gap cut into the concrete.

"Stay close," he said, and disappeared into it.

I followed him from red light into pure black.

The tunnel smelled like mildew and wet earth. Reaper clicked on a flashlight mounted to his rifle, the beam cutting a thin path through rotting wooden beams and packed dirt. We moved fast, and the oversized boots made me clumsy, catching on roots, sliding inside the leather. I stumbled, shoulder hitting the wall.

His hand caught the small of my back before I could fall.

He didn't slow down and he didn't let go, his palm flat and scorching through the jacket, guiding me through the dark with a grip that left no room to argue. We walked what felt like a mile before the sound of the firefight above finally disappeared completely.

The tunnel ended at a rusted door. He killed the flashlight, pushed it open.

A small cinderblock garage, dark except for moonlight through a grimy window. A shape sat under a tarp in the middle of the floor.

He dropped the duffel and ripped the canvas back.

Not a bike. A 1970 Dodge Charger, matte black, no chrome, windows tinted almost solid. A ghost car.

He threw the rifle and the bag in the trunk and slammed it shut.

"Get in."

I climbed into the passenger seat, gun still in my lap. Old leather and gas fumes. He dropped into the driver's seat and the whole cabin shrank around him, shoulders filling the space, knee nearly brushing the console.

He reached under the dash and had it running in under five seconds, no key. The V8 roared to life, deep enough to rattle my teeth. He hit the garage door remote and we were out into a dark alley on the edge of the industrial district.

He kept the lights off until we hit the interstate, the burning skyline shrinking in the mirror behind us.

Then it went quiet.

That's when the adrenaline finally let go of me. A shiver ripped through my whole body, the cold from the rain and the tunnel finally catching up.

He reached over and cranked the heat. It didn't help much.

I turned my head against the window and looked at him. Red dashboard light cut hard lines across his face. Jaw locked, forearms flexing as he steered one-handed, knuckles split and dried with blood. Cordite, ash, cedar.

I was sitting in a stolen car next to a man who'd just killed half a dozen people without blinking, and the only thing I felt looking at him was a pull I didn't want to name.

He shifted gears, and his eyes cut to me.

He didn't look away. Kept driving one-handed, eyes moving over my hair, the jacket, landing on my face. His brow pulled tight.

His hand crossed the console.

I held still as his bloodied fingers reached my face. He didn't grab me. He brushed my hair back, thumb grazing my cheekbone.

I winced. A splinter from the explosion had cut me, and I hadn't even noticed until now.

His jaw tightened. There was something almost unbearable about the contrast, a man built entirely for violence handling me like I might break. He wiped the blood away with his thumb, and the rough drag of his skin against mine sent heat pooling low and slow.

He let his hand stay a second longer than it needed to, then pulled back and gripped the wheel again, eyes back on the empty road.

"We're heading north," he said, voice low under the engine. "Off-grid safehouse in the mountains. No service, no neighbors, no roads on any map."

The engine roared louder as he pushed us faster into the dark.

"Once we're there, Harper," he said, quieter now, "it's just you and me. For a long time."