Chapter 82 82
DAISY POV
The ride back to the clubhouse felt longer than it should have, but God knows that I loved it and I didn't want it to end.
Yeah, I know that’s silly. My life was a wreckage, but blame my body for wanting more of this—not the scary part, but this part. The part where my cheek pressed against Diesel’s back, my arms locked around his waist exactly the way he’d ordered. My fingers dug into the hard ridges of his abs through his shirt, and every bump on the road pushed me tighter against him. Underneath it all, his body gave off a steady, grounding heat.
I didn’t speak. Neither did he.
But my head was spinning while a stupid, unstoppable smile kept tugging at my lips. I couldn’t stop replaying how Diesel had stepped in like a dark, furious hero.
I hadn’t been able to process it at the moment, but now every detail hit me hard:
The locked jaw.
Those bulging veins in his neck and forearms.
The low, lethal way he’d said my name—“Daisy.”
The way he’d lifted me without effort and covered my ears before he fired that shot.
Oh God. It was so calm. Precise. Terrifyingly hot.
I didn't know why it was all rushing back now or why my pulse was hammering like this. But it was so hot.
Oh, Daisy.
I was still daydreaming when the engine’s roar faded into silence, pulling me out of the chaos in my mind. We pulled through the gates. The clubhouse lights were low and the music was muffled. A few brothers lingered outside, their cigarettes glowing like fireflies in the dark. They straightened up when they saw Diesel’s bike, their eyes flicking to me on the back. No one said a word.
Diesel killed the engine and swung off first. He kept one hand heavy on my thigh the whole time so I wouldn’t slide—a silent, possessive touch that made my heart skip. He didn’t ask if I could walk. He just bent down, hooked one arm under my knees and the other around my back, and lifted me off the seat like I weighed nothing.
My breath caught. My hands flew to his shoulders on instinct, gripping leather and hard muscle.
“Diesel—”
“Stay still,” he muttered, his voice low and meant only for me. “You’re bleeding on your feet. Just relax.”
Without another word, he turned and carried me toward the door. I didn’t look at the other bikers; my eyes stayed fixed on the sharp line of his jaw. Somehow, that made my heart stutter harder than anything else.
He carried me through the doorway. The main room smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. The lights were dim. A couple of guys at the bar looked over, then looked away fast, muttering silently to each other. Diesel didn’t slow down. His boots hit the floor steadily as he walked down the hallway toward the stairs. My arms stayed around his neck, my fingers touching the short hair at the base of his skull. I felt the tightness in his shoulders, but his jaw stayed set. Watching the way it moved when he breathed made me feel safe.
He kicked open the door to his room and walked straight to the bed, setting me down on the edge carefully. As my bare feet touched the floor, the cuts stung again now that we had stopped moving.
Diesel was already on one knee in front of me. He pulled a small black first-aid kit from the bottom drawer of the dresser, taking out gauze and antiseptic.
“Feet up,” he said.
I lifted my feet slowly and rested them on his thigh. His hands held my ankles steady. He didn't look at my face; his eyes were focused on the dirt and the scratches. He poured antiseptic on a cloth—the smell was sharp and it stung like hell. I hissed, my leg jerking.
“Sorry,” he muttered, but he kept working—dabbing, cleaning, and wrapping the gauze. His hands were rough but incredibly careful.
I watched him. His brows stayed close together, and a muscle moved in his cheek when he pressed down to secure the tape. When he finished the second foot, he finally looked up. His eyes met mine.
“It’s not nice when you hurt yourself,” he said, his voice low and certain.
He stood up and looked down at me for a second before reaching past me to pull the blanket over my legs. “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be right outside.”
He turned toward the door instantly, but my stomach chose that exact moment to embarrass me. It growled. Loud. The kind of growl that echoed in the quiet room and made my face heat up instantly.
I froze, pressing my hands against my stomach as if I could physically stop it from happening again. Diesel’s eyes flicked down to my hands. For a second, his face stayed blank, and then something shifted—a tiny tightening at the corners of his mouth. A realization.
He looked regretful. Not in a big way, just a quiet look that said he’d missed something obvious.
“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I shrugged, my cheeks still burning. “I… don’t know. Before everything went to hell.”
He stared at me for a beat, then turned. “I’ll be right back.”
I heard his boots down the hall and the short, sharp exchange of words downstairs. A minute later, he returned with a paper plate and a bottle of water. On the plate were two thick sandwiches wrapped in foil, some chips, and an apple. My stomach growled again the second I saw it.
“Eat,” he said, setting the plate beside me.
I drank half the water in one go and bit into the first sandwich—ham and cheese, still a little warm. It tasted like the best thing I’d ever had. Diesel didn't sit; he stood there with his arms crossed, watching me like it was his job to make sure I finished every bite.
After a few minutes, I looked up. “You don’t have to stand there like a guard dog.”
His mouth twitched—just barely. “Just continue eating.”
I rolled my eyes but obeyed. When I reached for the second sandwich, he finally dropped into the chair across from the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes still on me.
“Better?” he asked.
I nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Thank you.”
When the plate was empty, Diesel stood up again. “Now sleep.”
“I should shower,” I said.
I watched his face flinch again—that small flicker of realization that he’d missed another detail. I couldn't help the small smile that touched my lips.
“Alright. You should,” he said.
He moved toward the door, and instantly my heart raced. I didn't want him to go. I stupidly don’t want him to…
“Diesel.”
He paused, his hand already on the heavy wood of the doorframe. He didn't turn around immediately. I saw his shoulders tethers, his back expanding as he took a slow, deep breath.
“Stay,” I whispered, barely loud enough to reach him.
“Stay….Please”