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I swallow my distaste. “And now he’s back to see what he can claim from his father’s estate?” I guess.

She rotates the shoulder I hold captive, and I let her. “I guess, maybe...” Poppy says, vaguely.

I grip her jaw and force her to look at me. “Tell me what you did.”

She watches me. “I killed him.”

Her straight-up confession floors me. “Give me the reason.”

I know she’s a killer and I know her father programmed her. But does the fear run so deep that she can’t stop, that she’ll be untamable without him?

Poppy leans her head back against the tree, giving me access to her throat. My hand fits there, comfortable, though I don’t squeeze. “He took the guns I gave my father, the silver ones, and he aimed them at me. The bar there has a few extra holes in the mirror,” she muses. “Anyway, tell Savage he might want to claim that ground before someone else does. My father never owned it legally so he’s been kind of squatting for the last twenty-something years. There’s a law about that, but I can’t quite remember the right one at the moment.” Her brow crinkles. “Oh, and his new property comes with a fresh body.”

“Does it,” I murmur, stroking her arm.

“Yep. That has holes in it too.” She smiles sunnily at me, still covered in the blood of another man.

“Savage will be thrilled,” I comment dryly.

“He’ll try to give the other clubhouse to you,” she predicts. “Keep the territories together. Strong.”

“Like hell.” I have no use for a clubhouse, no intent of raising my own club. “One Sons chapter in this State is more than enough. I’m not Savage’s competitor.”

She nods and tips her head back. “Will you kiss me now or do I have to shower again first?” Her nose wrinkles at the thought.

I don’t care how messy she gets. I dip my head and kiss her until she softens in my arms. Then I lead her back to our bikes and we ride out the right way.

Together.

Chapter Eighteen

The Visit

Poppy

Three months.

Ninety-two days of asphalt and adrenaline, of sunrises bleeding through desert skies and sunsets drowning in whiskey colors I didn’t know existed. Three months of his back beneath my palms and the vibration of his sled between my thighs, chasing horizons that never stop running.

And I love it.

I love every single filthy, exhausting, exhilarating second of it.

The wind tangles my hair into knots I don’t bother to brush out for days. My skin has darkened three shades, freckles bleeding across my nose and shoulders that Walker traces with his calloused thumb each night like he’s reading constellations. My wardrobe has shrunk to whatever fits in a single saddlebag, and I haven’t worn heels since the second week.

I don’t miss them. I don’t miss any of it.

Not the clubhouse with its suffocating weight of expectations. Not the cold gleam of my father’s disapproval. Not the endless parade of missions that hollowed me out one kill at a time until I wasn’t sure there was anything left inside me but muscle memory and malice. Not even my own ride, currently resting in storage until we swing by again.

Out here, there’s just the road and him. God, him.

Walker Creed rides like the highway belongs to him, like the yellow lines were painted specifically to guide his wheels. He doesn’t weave or show off. He just moves, steady and certain, a man who knows exactly where he’s going even when neither of us does. The miles peel away beneath us, and I press my cheek to his shoulder and watch the world blur into something that almost looks like peace.

I love the road.

I love the freedom.

But mostly, terrifying and completely, I love him.