Chapter 73 73
DIESEL POV
As I drive down the dark stretch of the industrial road, I notice Daisy is sitting six inches away from me.
It’s a miracle she hasn't fallen off the back yet. This girl is practically hovering off the seat, her body stiff as a board. Is she scared of me now? Funny. She wasn’t too scared to grab my arm while I was pointing a .45 at a scumbag's head, but now that it’s just us and the road, she’s acting like I’m made of lava.
I can feel her hesitation vibrating through the frame of the bike. Every time I take a corner, she wobbles. It’s annoying, and frankly, her not holding me on this bike is a safety hazard I don’t have the patience for. I’m not in the mood to scrape her off the pavement because she’s too proud or too terrified to touch a "monster" like me.
"Don't be stupid, Daisy," I mutter, though the wind swallows the words.
I reach back with one hand, my eyes never leaving the road. I don't do it gently. I find her wrist and yank it forward.
Her skin is ice.
The coldness of her hand hits me like a physical punch to the gut. It shouldn't matter—it’s just a temperature—but it makes my jaw tighten until my teeth ache. I wrap her arms around my waist and force them to lock.
"Hold on," I growl over the wind. "I’m not stopping if you fall off, Girl."
“If she falls off, I won’t stop, really.” That sounds like a lie. I’d burn this whole city down if a hair on her head got touched, but she doesn't need to know that, and I can’t even say why I think I can do that.
She finally gives in, her small body collapsing against my back. Her chest is pressed against my spine, and her face is tucked right between my shoulder blades. I hit the throttle, pushing the bike faster just to see if she’ll squeeze tighter. She does.
And right there, under the leather where her cold fingers are dug into my ribs, my heart does something stupid. It gives a slow, heavy thud. It’s a pulse that I can’t explain, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with the speed and everything to do with the girl.
I ignore it. I’m Diesel. I don’t feel things—I handle things.
But as the neon sign of the Storm Vipers' clubhouse flickers into view, I know I’m not just "handling" her. I’m keeping her. And God help the person who tries to tell me otherwise.
I pull into the gravel lot, the heavy rumble of the engine echoing off the brick walls of the compound. Usually, this sound is my favorite—it means I’m back in my territory, back where I’m king. But tonight, it just feels a little bit strange, and I can’t explain why.
The gates groan shut behind us, locked tight by the prospects on duty. I kill the engine, and for a second, the silence makes things worse. I can still feel her heart racing through my back, and those cold fingers of hers haven't loosened their grip on my ribs yet.
"We're here," I say, my voice sounding more like a growl than I intended.
I feel her shift, her body peeling away from mine as she realizes the bike has stopped. I miss the contact immediately, and that irritation flares up again. I shouldn't want a girl like this to be anywhere near me, but my body hasn't gotten the memo.
I kick the stand down and swing my leg over, looming over her as she slides off. She looks like a ghost in the flickering neon light of the sign—pale, shivering.
"Inside," I commanded, nodding toward the heavy steel doors.
The clubhouse is already thumping with music and the smell of grease and tobacco. As soon as I push the door open, the room starts to quiet down. My brothers are scattered around—some at the bar, some at the pool tables—but every single one of them stops what they’re doing. They aren't looking at me; they're looking at the girl behind me.
"Diesel," Hawk says, leaning back against the bar with a slow, calculating grin. "Didn't know you were bringing home a stray tonight."
I don't smile back. I step slightly to the side, blocking her from his view just enough to make a point. "She’s not a stray. She’s mine."
The words come out before I can check them. The room goes graveyard quiet. In the MC, those words carry a weight that can't be taken back. I can feel Daisy’s eyes burning into the back of my neck, but I don't turn around. I keep my gaze locked on Hawk until he raises his hands in a silent 'my bad' and looks away.
"Raven," I bark, looking toward the corner where she’s sitting. "Get her some water. And find something she can eat that isn't deep-fried shit."
Raven rolls her eyes, her boots clicking on the floor as she approaches, but she stops when she sees the look in my eyes. I’m not asking.
I turn back to Daisy. She’s looking around the room. Somehow I know I need to set the tone. I need her to know that even though I saved her, I’m not a "good man."
I reach out and grab her chin, forcing her to look up at me. Her eyes are wide, glassy with a mix of exhaustion and fear. I want to bark at her. I want to say, "Hey, you. Go upstairs. Now. Don't speak, don't look around, just get in my room and stay there until I decide what to do with you." I want to sound like the man the city is afraid of—the one who commands with scary, untouchable authority.
But then I look at her eyes. They’re wide, exhausted, and filled with a type of weariness that no one her age should carry. I open my mouth to give the order, to be the monster she expects, but I can’t believe this is what comes out of my mouth.
"Raven will lead you inside," I say, my voice rough but lacking the bite I intended. "You should rest."
I can’t believe I just sound that soft. I don't wait for her to respond because I don't want to see her reaction. I don't want to see if she notices the crack in my armor.
I turn my head toward the bar where Raven is leaning, her eyes narrowed with curiosity and a hint of jealousy.
"Raven," I bark, finding a bit of that lost authority. "Take her to my quarters. And take care of her."
Raven scoffs, but she knows better than to argue. She pushes off the bar and walks toward us. I won't look at Daisy again. I can't. If I look at her, I might just walk her up those stairs myself, and if I do that, I’m not sure I’ll be able to leave the room.
I pull a cigarette from my pocket and spark it, the smoke clouding around my head as I watch Raven lead the girl into the clubhouse. Every man in that room is watching them. They’re waiting for an explanation. They’re waiting to see if the Boss has finally found a weakness.
I take a long drag, the nicotine doing nothing to settle the heavy, territorial thud in my chest.
"Eyes on your own business!" I roar at the room, the sound echoing off the rafters.
They all snap back to their drinks and their games, but the air stays charged. I’m the leader of the Storm Vipers, and I just brought a storm of my own inside.
(Author’s Note: Hey everyone. I’m currently battling a serious case of malaria and need to focus on my recovery. Because of this, I’ll only be able to update once a day for a while. I’m sorry for the slowdown, and I appreciate your patience and support while I get back on my feet)