Savage pulled on his jacket and gloves. “You keep her safe for me.”
“You don’t have to ask twice, brother,” Ink said.
Preacher nodded. “She’s safe.”
Savage took one last look at his woman. Her lashes lifted, and she looked directly at him with those teal-blue eyes of hers. His gut twisted. Never in his life had he been reluctant to go to a meet that could very well result in blood and death. That brought him up short.
As he made the ride to Boonville, speeding on his Night Rod Special, he thought about what he was asking of Seychelle. He wanted her to take a leap of faith and give herself to him. Just surrender everything. She would have to in order to live with him.
He was so fucked up he needed strict rules in his life in order to survive—in order for those around him to survive. His brothers and sisters in Torpedo Ink recognized that he had to live a certain way, and they gave him that space. It would be very difficult for a woman to do so. To give him everything she was and more. He would demand so much more from her.
If he was asking that of her, to choose him over any other life, knowing what she was getting into—and it was only fair to warn her, to show her—then he had to give her something equal in return. Her life would be a sacrifice, most likely a continuous one. So what the hell was he going to give her back that was of equal value?
What did a man so fucked up, a man who actually lived up to his name of Savage, give to a woman whose life he planned to take over completely? Whatever it was, it had to be worth it to her. What would she value? What would make sacrificing her life for his worthwhile? Once she committed to him, there would be no going back. His fucked-up personality, as well as the lifestyle he would teach her, would never allow that. He needed her to want to stay—to choose him in spite of knowing just what she was getting herself into.
Loving someone, caring on any level, made a man—or a woman—vulnerable. Every member of Torpedo Ink knew that, knew what it was like to suffer, to do despicable things in order to save the life of a loved one. Even worse, you could allow yourself to be shaped into a monster in order to save those you loved.
He groaned aloud as he hurtled through the bends in the road, mostly straightening them out. He could outrun almost anything, and he knew every back road there was between Boonville and the coast. All of them did. They left nothing to chance. That was Czar’s training. The president of Torpedo Ink had drilled it into them that every detail counted. From the moment they had arrived and chosen Caspar as their home, they had begun to study every escape route possible. He could outrun the cops, but he couldn’t outrun Seychelle Dubois.
He was so in love with her, he could barely think straight. She had to know that. She had to know that he was giving her all of him. He’d sworn to himself, on the lives of his parents, his sisters, on Reaper’s life, that he would never love another person so deeply that he would do anything to save them, no matter how vile. He did love her that much. More. She’d slipped inside him when he wasn’t looking and was wrapped there so tight, and she had to know. He had to tell her what that meant. It was the only thing he had to offer her—himself.
Seychelle had to know his life. It didn’t matter that no one else would ever have him or see that one tiny place inside him he had tried to hold sacred. She had to know that he took on the pain for his brothers and sisters and couldn’t stop even now, and what that meant for her. For them. What and why he needed her the way he did. Libby Drake was right. He had to risk everything and give Seychelle the absolute truth.
His Harley was fast, but Transporter and Mechanic had worked their magic and it was even more of a road rocket, with a wealth of hidden compartments allowing him to carry the tools he needed when he was sent on a job. He kept the weight light enough to keep the speed he needed if he was forced to outrun an enemy—or the cops. They never engaged with law enforcement. That was part of the code they all abided by. Unless, of course, a particular individual was corrupt. Then all bets were off.
The members of his club were waiting, and they weren’t happy. He was only a few minutes late, but those minutes counted. Those minutes were used to set up their escape routes and lay out their plan of action and the protection of their president. Savage had cut down their available time by being late.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, because he was. Not for the reason that he was late, but because he was Torpedo Ink and his club always came first. He’d screwed up, but this was his screwup, not Seychelle’s. “Had to retrieve Seychelle tonight. She came to the clubhouse and auditioned with the band, then got herself in a little trouble. Drank too much. Preacher and Ink are looking out for her.”