She’d been here before.

The vein-chilling, hard-pounding, sweat-inducing edge to which only pure panic could drive a person—oh yes, Serenity Jones knew this place well. She’d visited numerous times over her short and rather unremarkable life, most often for reasons or problems fabricated by an overactive imagination. The first true anxiety attack had come at age nine, when she’d been certain her father was right, and she would spend an eternity in Hell. The most recent had been nearly seven years earlier, when she’d come face-to-face with the reality that she didn’t believe in Hell, or God, for that matter, and the world she’d spent her life living in defensively wasn’t as terrible as she’d been told.

Sessions with her therapist had taught her that panic—the sort that was produced in the mind—was the brain’s way of reacting to disorder-induced fears as though she were in actual danger. Serenity had always assumed finding herself in an actually dangerous situation would bring about a different sort of biological reaction. She’d been wrong.

Her arms hurt, stretched above her head, joined by a cuff at the wrists. At least, she assumed it was a cuff. The blindfold prevented her from doing much outside of guessing.

Blindfolded. Cuffed. Holy fuck, what had happened?

There was the panic again—pulsing through her body like an old friend. Her legs kicked out, the flaps of her dress—or skirt, she couldn’t remember—sliding across her skin. Her feet, bare, rubbed against what felt like a concrete floor, catching on jagged particles. Pebbles? Whispers of dirt met with her skin. A thick, pungent but familiar smell tickled her nostrils. Motor oil?

Tears burned her eyes, and something else burned, too. Her shoulder. Her right shoulder was torturing her. God, what had she done to her shoulder?

Serenity whipped her head around, trying to dislodge the blindfold. No use. It didn’t budge.

Slowly—oh so slowly—the panic began to ebb. Not due to lack of reason or fear, but rather because it had nowhere to go but down. Her hammering heart sought a more reasonable tempo, her body—cold, clammy, and drenched with sweat—began to rein in the tremors. Wisps of clarity penetrated the hard fog surrounding her brain, and she forced herself to think.

What do you last remember?

Serenity panted for air, shoving back the urge to vomit. Her last memory was Ellison. Ellison seeing her to her car, favoring her with one of his swarmy lawyer smiles, and vanishing in her rearview mirror.

Then—nothing.

No, not nothing. Squealing brakes. Stomach falling. The twisted scream of metal. A flare of pain. The car caving in.

Okay, so she’d been in an accident.

Her heart began racing again as her panic cycle took her on another round. Serenity bit her lip and kicked her legs out again. Again, her skin took the brunt of dirt and scattered bits of debris. Again, she took in the increasingly familiar scent of oil and exhaust.

A car accident didn’t explain why she was blindfolded and cuffed.

Then it hit her. The missing pieces. Ellison had smiled his swarmy lawyer smile because they’d just concluded dinner—the same dinner he’d talked her into taking with him after the last meeting to rehash her testimony.

The testimony she was supposed to give tomorrow. Or today, more likely.

The testimony that would put Gunner Black behind bars where he belonged.

When the panic started climbing this time, Serenity didn’t fight it. She couldn’t if she wanted to. The tears that had assaulted her eyes began to fall, and everything in her went with them.

Gunner Black had every reason to keep her away from the witness stand, and endless resources to make that happen.

She was here because he wanted her to be here. Because he wanted her silent.

The only question was, why on earth was she still alive?

Serenity twisted, her tightening stomach alerting her that she was about to be very sick. She didn’t know where she was, but she did know she didn’t want to vomit all over herself. Thus, she turned as best she could when the wave hit, and emptied her stomach onto the floor beside her.

“Fuck,” she whimpered, the sound more a sputtering sob than anything else. That horrible sick feeling overwhelmed her, and at once her head was pounding. The inside of her mouth stung.

Something slid hard against the floor. And then she knew—she wasn’t alone.

Someone, her kidnapper, had just witnessed her moment of weakness.

Serenity choked on another sob and leaned her head back. She hit something—the wall, probably—and pulled ineffectively again at her cuffed wrists. “I know you’re there,” she said, her voice shaking too much to be controlled, but she was proud that she managed words at all. “And I know who you work for. And we both know why I’m here. So let’s skip the formalities and get down to business. I’m supposed to die. You’re supposed to kill me. Just…” She paused and inhaled, the bitter sting of a new wave of tears prickling her eyes. “Please…don’t drag it out, okay? Just do it.”

She waited for an answer, and received it in a long drawn breath.

Then he—she assumed it was a he—moved. Heavy footsteps carried someone away from her. Away, and then a door slammed. The echo reverberated through her body like a shotgun blast. Had it been any louder, she likely would have freed herself as high as she jumped.

“Hello?” she called. “Are you there?”

No answer. No breathing.

Her kidnapper had left her.

Serenity swallowed, waited a beat, then began pulling against the restraints in earnest. Her shoulder protested, sending fiery hot jolts of pain through her body. She resumed kicking, searching for something—anything—that would give her location away. That she could drag over, that she could use.

But there was nothing. And even with two good shoulders, she would never be able to pull herself out of the cuffs. Blood thickened the air, followed by a pronounced sting at her wrist. All she’d managed to do was cut herself.

A violent tremor seized her body, enveloping her with a blanket of cold.

She was going to die here. That wasn’t the panic talking, it was reality. She was going to die for Tanner fucking Wilcox, because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Because she hadn’t wanted to. She’d been warned that going after Gunner Black could get her killed, because he wasn’t a man to fuck with.

Of all her father’s sermons, the one about doing the right thing was the one that had stuck. No matter how big a jerk Tanner had been, he hadn’t deserved to die, and his killer shouldn’t go unpunished.

Easy words to say when free. Harder to swallow now.

Now when all she had was that terrible pain in her shoulder, the sting in her wrist, the aches in her arms, and the endless sea of black staring back at her.

Control was something Dash Denyer didn’t relinquish. Ever. He’d fought too fucking hard and lost too fucking much to have it taken from him so effortlessly. Especially not at the pleading cries of a girl who was twelve hours past her time of death.

He couldn’t lose it now.

Still, that didn’t explain the way his gut tightened every time she twisted against the handcuffs. How he’d had to tamp down his instinctive need to tell Rennie everything would be all right, as though that was his call to make. He’d already fucked up by bringing her here.

Here was the last place she needed to be, yet there had been nowhere else to go. The clubhouse had always been his oasis—his place to collect himself, to calm the fuck down—or freak the fuck out, if necessary. His home, the only home that mattered. Now tainted because he’d infected his present with his past.

The anticipated calm had yet to settle in. He doubted it would. Not while Rennie was in the clubhouse garage. Panicking. Terrified. Defeated. Of course she would be—she’d always been smart. She knew what kind of shit she was in.

She knew who she’d fucked with.

She just didn’t know about him.

Dash stomped to the kitchen. Once there, he paused, overwhelmed, and forced himself to jumpstart his brain and remember why he’d come in here in the first place.

Towels. Water. First-Aid Kit.

Because she was hurt. Hurt when she was supposed to be dead.

Hurt because he’d rammed his cousin’s Chevy into her Prius. Damn thing hadn’t stood a chance.

After the supplies were gathered, Dash steeled himself and made the return trip to the garage. He had no idea how much time he had before one of the others—Butch, Pete, Jax, any of them—returned. Most were at the courthouse, he knew, in support of Gunner, but without Rennie there to offer her testimony, there was no telling how long the holdup would last.

How long he had before someone learned Rennie was still alive and kicking.

Emphasis on kicking.

Dash edged the garage door open and did his best not to react when his eyes landed on her trembling body. Rennie was just as he’d left her. Her legs scraped, her arms shaking, her otherwise modest skirt hiked to mid-thigh from her struggling, the bandana he’d secured around her eyes still in place, her light brown hair hanging loosely from her ponytail. He knew the second she became aware of him. She inhaled raggedly and pushed back, like she wanted to make herself smaller, and the little throat whimpers she likely didn’t even realize she made resumed in full force.

Fuck.

Rennie Jones. Why did it have to be Rennie Jones?

Dash steeled himself and pressed forward. It didn’t matter who it was. He had his job. He owed that to Gunner.

Never mind that in the world according to Gunner, Rennie was supposed to long dead by now. Dash had yet to figure that one out—how he could do right by the man to whom he owed everything, yet keep his own hands clean.

Gunner had asked him to do a lot of ugly shit. Murder had never been on the list.

“Please.”

Dash stopped short.

“Please,” Rennie repeated, the sound bleak. She flexed her hands against the cuffs, which drew his attention to the trail of red making its way down her arm. She’d cut herself.

“Shit,” he muttered, then immediately echoed the sentiment for having spoken at all. The last thing she needed was a thread by which to identify him. That would only make things even more fucked up.

Not that they could get much more fucked up.

Rennie had gone statue-still, probably not having anticipated hearing him speak. Then, she swallowed. “Please, I don’t want to die.”

Dash exhaled. So she’d changed her mind, then. Or perhaps this was survival instinct kicking in. No use for bravery. She had nothing to lose by appealing to his humanity.

Even if he’d used up the last of it in bringing her here.

“He told you to kill me, didn’t he?” she continued, dragging her wrists forward as far as she could. Fresh rivulets of blood pooled around the cuffs. “But you didn’t. You brought me here.”

“You’re hurting yourself.”

So what was the harm in talking? Rennie hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Odds were she’d forgotten all about him. He hoped she had. That’d make things easier.

Dash edged as near as he was willing to venture, mindful of her legs. “Stay still now,” he continued.

She shook. He watched her shake. Her fingers flexed. Her toes curled. “What…what are you going to do?”

Dash situated himself at her side. “Here,” he said by way of answering, and dabbed her mouth with one of the towels. She would have jumped out of her skin had she the option. “Chill out, okay?”

Chill out. Had dumber words been uttered?

Apparently, Rennie didn’t think so. The transformation from terrified hostage to emboldened, angry phoenix was truly remarkable. “Chill out?” she echoed. “You have me cuffed and blindfolded. How the fuck am I supposed to react?”

In spite of himself, Dash grinned. “Ah. Now you’re pissed. Gotta say, I like this better than barfing all over the place.”

Rennie stilled, and inexplicably, scarlet tinged her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to. Being kidnapped doesn’t sit well with my stomach.”

Dash dragged the towel down her neck, then tossed the terrycloth over the pile of sick beside her. He reached for a bottle of water, unscrewed the lid, and raised it to her lips. “All right,” he murmured. “Now open up.”

She blanched. “What?”

“It’s water. Figure the inside of your mouth has to taste like a jock strap.”

“Water, huh? Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t,” he conceded. “But I could always make you open that pretty mouth of yours, couldn’t I? At least this way it’ll be your choice.”

A beat passed between them, then Rennie parted her lips. Dash pressed the bottle to her mouth, and held as she gulped down several hearty swallows of water. When he began to pull away, she made a sound of protest, and he didn’t have the heart to deny her more. He hadn’t considered how thirsty she must be.

“Thank you,” she said when the bottle was empty. Before he could summon a reply, she continued, “You’re with Gunner, aren’t you? That’s why I’m here.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“He killed two people. I saw it happen.”

Dash bit back the instinctive response, knowing that engaging in any conversation would only lead them in circles. Yes, Gunner had killed two people. That was what happened when a man walked in on another man screwing his woman. Things went south. The fact that the man in question just so happened to be a deputy sheriff complicated things, but the deputy was none too clean where the law was concerned. The sort of stuff reporters didn’t print boggled his mind. Sure, Gunner had been a bit trigger happy, but what man could blame him after what he’d seen?

Following Gunner there didn’t take much, and if Dash stopped thinking, he could pretend everything about this situation was normal.

It wasn’t enough, though. Gunner couldn’t go to prison. The one person standing between him and the death penalty was Rennie. No one had expected her to show up to take the stand today—already, from what he’d seen, reporters were commenting on how Gunner’s elite network had managed to silence her. The elite network that happened to be in the audience—all save Dash.

No one expected her to show up. Most people likely assumed her dead.

Dead she would be had the task of taking her out fallen on Butch or Pete or Jax’s shoulders. Either dumb fucking luck or the goddamned universe had intervened. Gunner knew precious little of Dash’s past before Lucifer’s Legion. He’d known enough to keep Dash from killing himself, to give him a reason to not follow his brother.

Gunner had saved his life. Now he was asking for one.

And were that life anyone but Rennie’s…

“He killed two people,” Rennie repeated, her tone notching up an octave.

“A dirty cop and a cheating bitch.” The words came out with more venom than Dash intended, feeling almost rehearsed. Still, facts were facts. “Not the kinda people I’d cry too hard over.”

Rennie recoiled, swallowing visibly. “So the sentence for infidelity is death?”

“In this world, sugar, it’s the sentence for crossing Gunner.”

“That’s barbaric.”

He shrugged, then when he realized she couldn’t see him, said, “Tough shit.”

“And Tanner was an asshole.” Her assessment caught him off guard, but she continued before he could dwell. “He was even a criminal asshole—”

“Who you were on a date with.”

Rennie made a face. Either surprise or disgust—he wasn’t sure. Maybe a combination thereof. “Yeah. I was.”

“Straight-shot, you are,” Dash said, settling in beside her. He’d never spent so much time in the garage without his hands on tools. This particular corner had never seemed remarkable. Now he’d never look at it the same way.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How’s a straight-shot like you get tangled with a dirty cop like Wilcox?”

“I didn’t know he was a dirty cop,” Rennie spat, pressing against the cuffs again and agitating her bleeding wrists. He cursed and began dabbing the injuries with a clean towel. The cuts were superficial—the sort that looked worse than they were and would sting like a bitch for a few days. But he hated that they were there at all. That she’d hurt herself because of a situation he’d put her in.

She continued talking as he tended to her wounds. “People typically don’t air their dirty laundry on a second date.”

“Yet you went anyway.”

“Went where?” she barked.

Here. To the clubhouse. Rennie had walked these halls. Having her here now was surprise enough. Now he couldn’t help but imagine her everywhere.

Flushed on his Victory Hammer, her chest heaving, her legs spread, her pussy wet and ready for him.

Dash shoved the thought back, though not before it earned his cock’s attention. Shit, he’d imagined fucking Rennie Jones for over a decade, had an endless series of both prepubescent and adult fantasies waiting to be exorcised. Feeding Rennie his dick while she clung to his ride was one of the more classic, cliché and all. While he doubted she’d thought much of him since the days at Joplin High, she’d clung to him like a persistent ghost. The one shade of the man he’d been before.

Before heroin had claimed Dalton’s life. Before Dash had tried to take his own. Before Gunner. Before Lucifer’s Legion.

“Are you still there?” Rennie prodded, drawing him back to the present. “I already admitted I went on a date with the man. How was I supposed to know—?”

“You went with him,” Dash said. “You can’t tell me you thought a cop taking a nice girl to a motorcycle gang clubhouse was normal.”

“He thought it’d impress me, the big dumbass.” She shuddered and turned her face from him. He took the opportunity to open one of the other bottles of water and douse the towel. When he applied the damp cloth to her bleeding wrists, he expected a struggle—a jolt. Something.

She didn’t react. She just stared. Which was damn annoying, considering she had that blindfold on. What the hell was she staring at?

Dash’s brow furrowed. “Why’d he think it’d impress you?”

Something that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob choked through her lips. It made his heart wrench. “He’d asked me about church. Why I never went. I told him I don’t believe in God. He thought that meant… Fuck, I don’t know what he thought that meant. That I wouldn’t care, maybe. That he could come clean about being in Gunner Black’s pocket. That it’d impress me, or something.”

He couldn’t help it. He stared. “You’re Orson Jones’s daughter.”

Rennie stiffened. “And?”

“And you don’t believe in God?”

She snickered, relaxing a fraction. “That’s what Tanner said.”

“And what’d you say?”

“Does it matter? He’s dead.”

Dash studied her a moment longer, then forced himself to break away. He drew in a breath and exhaled it on a humorless laugh. “Little Rennie Jones doesn’t believe in God,” he muttered. “Don’t that beat all? I never thought I’d see the day.”

It took a blink—half a second—for him to realize his error. For the words to cycle through his filter. For his guard to snap back in place. A stab of alarm pierced his gut. At once, he couldn’t look at her. No matter that she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t look at her. As long as he didn’t look at her, there was a chance—

But he did look at her, and one look was all it took.

She’d caught his slip.

She knew.

“Dash?”