Hell Hounds MC: A Dark Biker Werewolf Romance

The apartment reeks of him expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of last night's violence.

I stand in the doorway of Julian's bedroom, staring at the wreckage. The lamp I knocked over trying to shield my face lies shattered on the hardwood. Blood my blood stains the Egyptian cotton sheets he's so fucking proud of. The pills he flushed down the toilet yesterday are gone, my last hope of control scattered in the sewers.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror stops me cold. Purple and yellow bruises bloom across my left cheekbone. My lip is split. The concealer I've been using won't touch this.

Good.

I'm done hiding it.

'Seven days,' I think, checking my phone. Julian's flight landed in Singapore three hours ago. His conference runs through next week. Seven days before he comes back to finish what he started.

Seven days is all I need.

I walk through his apartment like I'm already a ghost. The living room where he slapped me for looking at another man. The kitchen where he pinned me against the counter and whispered that if I loved him, I'd give him a son. The bathroom where I found my birth control pills in the trash.

"You're mine, Seraphina," he'd said, his hand around my throat. "You'll give me what I want."

I pick up the engagement ring from his desk the one place he never let me enter. The diamond catches the morning light, beautiful and worthless.

I leave it there.

Two suitcases. That's all I can carry. I pack fast clothes, documents, the cash I've been hiding in tampon boxes for six months. Thirty-eight thousand dollars. Every penny I could skim from my salary without him noticing.

The front desk clerk barely looks up when I drop off the keys.

"Ms. Vance, are you "

"Tell Mr. Croft I won't be back."

The words taste like freedom.

The taxi drops me at Chase on Fifth Avenue. I walk in wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky. The teller's eyes widen when she sees my face, but I'm past caring.

"I need to close my account."

"Miss, are you "

"Now. Please."

She processes the withdrawal in silence. Thirty-eight thousand in cash fits neatly into a manila envelope. I sign the papers with shaking hands and walk out.

The train station smells like diesel and desperation.

I spot them near the platform a group of teenagers in dirty hoodies, passing a joint between them. The boy in front can't be older than sixteen, but his eyes are old. They track me as I approach.

Smart kid.

"Hey," I say, pulling out my phone and credit cards. "How would you like to make some easy money?"

He steps forward, suspicious. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. I need someone to use these for the weekend. Go crazy. Movies, food, whatever. Keep them after." I hold out the cards and my iPhone. "Just... use them here. In the city."

The kid looks at his friends, then back at me. His eyes narrow. "You running from someone?"

I don't answer. Don't need to. He can see it on my face.

His expression shifts something harder than pity, sharper than sympathy. He takes the cards.

"My mom," he says quietly. "She had bruises like that. Stayed too long."

"I'm not staying," I say.

"Good." He pockets the phone, the cards. "I'll make it look like you're partying all weekend. Promise."

I believe him.

The Greyhound station is three blocks away. I buy a ticket on the next bus heading west doesn't matter where. The destination is anywhere that isn't here.

The seat smells like old upholstery and someone else's problems. I press my forehead against the window as the city slides past.

My mother's voice echoes in my head: "Julian Croft is a good match, Seraphina. His family has connections. You'll be taken care of."

Taken care of. Like a pet. Like property.

I begged her. Told her he hurt me. She'd looked at me over her wine glass with those cold eyes and said, "Marriage requires sacrifice, darling. You're being dramatic."

My father didn't even respond to my calls.

The Vance family needed the Croft alliance more than they needed a daughter who couldn't keep her fianc�� happy.

So I ran.

I've always been good at running. Track team in high school, cross country in college. My body knows how to push through pain, how to keep moving when my mind screams to stop.

Julian has seven days before he realizes I'm gone. Seven days before he starts looking.

I have to make them count.

Trenton. The bus stops at a depot that looks like every other depot in America concrete and fluorescent lights and vending machines.

I don't transfer to another bus. Too predictable.

Instead, I find a motel off the highway. Pay cash for one night. The clerk doesn't ask questions when I keep my sunglasses on.

The room smells like cigarettes and bleach. I lock the door, check the window, wedge a chair under the doorknob. Then I sit on the bed and let myself shake.

I'm free.

I'm terrified.

I'm alive.

Morning comes too fast. I buy a local newspaper from the motel office and circle ads for used cars. The third number I call belongs to a man who sounds old and tired.

"Cash only," he says. "No title issues, but she runs decent."

The car is a '98 Honda Civic with rust on the doors and a crack across the windshield. It's perfect.

"Two thousand," I say.

"Twenty-five hundred."

"Deal."

I hand over the cash and take the keys. The engine turns over on the second try.

I drive west.

Pennsylvania rolls past in browns and grays. Small towns with names I'll forget. Gas stations where I pay cash. Diners where I eat without tasting the food.

By the time I cross into Ohio, I'm exhausted. The road ahead is straight and empty. I press the gas pedal down and feel the Civic shudder.

Fifty miles later, the engine starts to knock.

Seventy-five miles, and smoke begins to seep from under the hood.

I pull onto the shoulder just as the car dies completely.

The highway stretches in both directions, empty except for the wind. No cars. No houses. Nothing.

I get out and stare at the hood, at the smoke curling into the gray sky.

Then I laugh.

Because of course. Of course this is where my brilliant escape plan ends stranded on a highway in the middle of nowhere with two suitcases and diminishing hope.

I'm still laughing when I hear them.

The sound comes from the east a low rumble that builds into a roar. Two motorcycles crest the hill behind me, chrome gleaming even in the flat light.

They slow as they approach.

Stop behind my dead car.

I stop laughing.

The riders are big men in black leather. The patches on their vests read "Iron Serpents MC" in silver thread. The older one has a beard going gray. The younger one has scars on his knuckles.

Neither one is smiling.

The older one kills his engine and swings off his bike. He's tall six-three, maybe with shoulders that could break doors. His boots crunch on the gravel as he walks toward me.

Every instinct I have screams run.

But there's nowhere to run to.

"Car trouble?" His voice is surprisingly gentle.

I nod, keeping the distance between us.

He looks at the smoking Honda, then at my face. His eyes linger on the bruises I'm not hiding anymore.

"Mind if I take a look?"

I step back. He moves to the hood, pops it open. The younger one stays on his bike, watching.

"Timing belt," the older one says after a moment. "Probably took out the engine when it snapped. You're not driving this anywhere."

"How far to the nearest town?"

"Havenwood. About six miles west." He wipes his hands on his jeans. "I'm Breaker. That's Flint."

Road names. These aren't the kind of men who give out their real ones.

"Seraphina," I say, because it doesn't matter anymore. Julian won't find me through a first name.

Breaker's eyes drop to my face again. Something shifts in his expression recognition, maybe. Understanding.

"You planning to walk to Havenwood with those suitcases?"

"If I have to."

"You don't have to." He turns to Flint. "Strap her luggage to your bike."

Flint grins. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

I should say no. Should thank them and insist I'm fine. But I'm tired of being fine. Tired of pretending.

"Why would you help me?"

Breaker looks at me for a long moment. "Because you look like someone who needs help."

There's something in his voice that makes me believe him. Or maybe I'm just desperate enough to take the risk.

Flint secures my suitcases with bungee cords while Breaker gestures to his motorcycle.

"Ever ridden?"

"No."

"Hold on to me. Don't lean into turns I'll do the leaning. If you need me to stop, squeeze my ribs twice."

He swings onto the bike and holds it steady. I climb on behind him, my thighs pressed against his.

His back is broad and solid. When he says "Arms around my waist," I obey.

The engine roars to life. The vibration travels through my entire body.

Then we're moving.

The wind tears at my hair. The world blurs into speed and sound. I hold on tighter, press my face against Breaker's leather jacket, and feel something I haven't felt in months.

Safe.

Six miles later, a sign appears on the horizon:

WELCOME TO HAVENWOOD

Population 8,472

I close my eyes and let myself hope.