Natasha held her breath as she heard the intruder’s footsteps walk through her motel. Desperately, she wanted to get to her cell phone and call someone, anyone, to let them know that she was in danger. Would Griffin even pick up? Was he too busy somewhere? Was she in too deep right now to even call the police? It did not matter, of course, because there she was, locked in the bathroom, and her cell phone was still on her bed.

 

Her heart was pounding hard against her ribcage, and the only thing going through her head was “Run! Run! Run!”

 

She could escape through the window again like she had done when Griffin originally was set to guard her, but she was not sure how many men were actually out there. What if she fell wrong, broke an ankle, and then she was found? What horrible things would they do to her after that?

 

If only she had not called out for Griffin when she first heard the noise; she could have potentially hidden and then waited for the intruder to give up and leave. Of course, that was ridiculous. It was not going to happen that easily, but she could at least dream.

 

The footsteps slowed at the bathroom door, and Natasha realized that this was it. It was now or never. She could hear the intruder’s breathing through the door, and she could feel the wild beating of her own heart. Natasha held the gun in her hands, completely prepared for the moment when it would finally happen, when he would burst through that door. With shaking arms, she lifted the gun.

 

The door burst inward, and she let off a few shots before he tackled her. She had missed at first; she could see two shots smoking in her doorframe. The back of Natasha’s head hit the tiles of the floor as he pushed her down, and dimly, she saw his hand move to his jean vest to pull out a gun. With a cry Natasha kicked him in the shins, and the man cursed and stumbled away.

 

Momentarily free, Natasha looked wildly around for her gun, finding it a few feet from her own head. Rolling onto her stomach, she reached and grabbed for it, immediately feeling better as her fingers closed around the heavy, comforting metal. Her head was pounding terribly, but she knew one moment of hesitation would absolutely bring death.

 

She had never been in this situation before; she had never had to face down a man who clearly wanted her dead or worse. She gripped the gun in her hands and rolled to her back. At this point the man had righted himself and pulled out his own gun. She studied his face, just in case he got away, just in case she got away and he was still out there somewhere.

 

He looked like a typical biker, scruffy beard and tattoos. His hair was long and black that was streaked with gray. In the dim light of the bathroom and through her intense fear, she could not see any patches on his sleeveless jean vest, but he clearly was part of one of the MCs around Texas. Logic dictated that he was definitely one of the Los Diablos.

 

She wondered if this was how her father had died, ambushed and terrified in a bathroom somewhere. She was both annoyed and relieved that she had never really gathered the details of her father’s murder, but she decided that she would do anything in that moment to make sure that the same thing did not happen to her.

 

“Come on,” the man grumbled, fumbling with his gun. Clearly Natasha’s feistiness had caught him off guard. She was glad for that. With shaking hands, she raised her own gun.

 

“Take a step back,” she growled at him. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

 

“Oh, we have a bit of a little ass kicker here, huh?” the man shot back. “Well, I am not scared of little girls like you. Do you know what I do to little girls like you?”

 

He took a step back, and in one terrible, crystallizing moment, Natasha knew what she had to do. She pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in her hands, the recoil pushing her back into the tiles hard enough to bruise her shoulder. The shot hit the man squarely in the shoulder and he screamed, backing up but not dropping to the ground. Cursing loudly, he raised his gun to her again, and she fired off another shot, and then another. These two hit him in the chest and he dropped to the ground, twitching and convulsing as blood coursed out from the wounds.

 

Natasha stayed in her position on the floor until she felt safe enough to stand. The man was motionless, his eyes were closed, and she was not sure if he was dead or merely on his way there. She stood in the bathroom of her cheap motel, fully aware that she had probably just killed a man.

 

And yet, she realized that she was not upset at all. The bastard had it coming, and if she had not shot him, he would have killed her. She could not stop herself from shaking though, and she quickly ran into the bedroom in order to grab her cell phone.

 

She had no missed calls and fear ripped through her again as she thought about Griffin. Distantly, she knew that he would probably be impressed by the way she had handled things, and as she stood in the dim light of her motel room, it finally began to sink in that her life would never be the same. What was she going to do, finish college? Move on? How could she do any of that when she was knee deep in this kind of insanity? Maybe the man had friends or a family. Maybe those friends or family members would end up wanting revenge someday. Looking down at the man, she realized that if that was the case, she would absolutely be ready. She would be waiting.

 

The realization made her laugh painfully at the ridiculousness of her thoughts. She was not some outlaw; she could not be some outlaw, and yet the outlaw-type thought processes came to her as naturally as breathing did. Part of it was terrifying, but another part of it was liberating. She truly was her father’s daughter.

 

That did not mean she had to be them though, and she knew that, but it certainly was a lot to think about.

 

She walked over to the still body of the man she had shot, trying to get any information on who he could be. His tattoos were the usual sort of thing, skulls with daggers through them, naked women, the occasional cross. She assumed he was one of the Los Diablos… until her eyes rested on his leather vest.

 

She knew all MCs wore something like this, be it leather or denim. She knew Griffin had one and could remember the look of his arms while he wore it. The vests were usually decorated with patches and pins, and this one was no different. Something was off though. The vest looked a little too familiar, but then again what exactly was her frame of reference? It was not as though she was familiar with any other club, and yet there was a sinking feeling in her stomach about this one.

 

Holding her breath, she knelt down beside him. She had to roll him over and see for herself once and for all. Forcing herself to ignore the fact that she was definitely touching a dead man, Natasha rolled the man onto his stomach. Dead weight was a lot harder to move than she originally thought, but after a few moments she managed to do it.

 

She was both surprised and not surprised at what she saw. She knew that every club had their own symbol. Her father had worn one proudly up until the day he died, and as she looked down at the large patch that took up the entire back of the leather vest, she knew she would have recognized it anywhere.

 

A large, embroidered devil’s face growled up at her, baring its sharp, pointed teeth in a macabre grin. Its horns were sharp as well, and the entire thing was done up in a garish blood red. Griffin had that patch on the back of his vest, and so had her father. She had seen that devilish face staring at her at her father’s funeral.

 

Her would-be assassin was a member of the Lost Disciples.