Chapter 4: Flames of the Past
Chapter 4
The desert night smelled of smoke and vengeance.
Rowe clung to Reaper as the Road King tore down the dark highway, the wind whipping tears from her eyes that had nothing to do with speed.
Behind them, a convoy of Iron Reapers followed—headlights cutting through the blackness like predatory eyes.
The glow on the horizon grew brighter with every mile, an orange-red beacon of destruction.
Her home.
The place where her father had taught her to ride, where Cade had taken his first steps, where Reaper had once carried her on his shoulders after she’d skinned her knee chasing fireflies.
Now it was burning.
They skidded to a stop in the gravel drive.
The barn was fully engulfed, flames roaring toward the sky.
The old wooden structure groaned as beams collapsed inward, sending sparks dancing into the night.
The ranch house itself was untouched so far, but embers drifted dangerously close.
Reaper killed the engine and swung off the bike in one smooth motion, pulling Rowe with him.
"Stay behind me."
She didn’t argue.
Not yet.
Her eyes scanned the shadows for movement while Reaper barked orders.
Members fanned out to secure the perimeter.
Ghost and two prospects grabbed what fire extinguishers they could find from the outbuildings and attacked the edges of the blaze.
Rowe’s chest ached as she watched years of memories turn to ash.
"They did this because of me."
Reaper’s hand found the small of her back again, steadying her.
"They did this because they’re cowards who know they can’t take us head-on."
His voice dropped.
"But they just made the biggest mistake of their lives."
Viper jogged over, his face streaked with soot.
"No sign of them now. Looks like a quick hit-and-run. They left a message, though."
He jerked his thumb toward the side of the barn that was still partially standing.
Spray-painted in dripping red letters across the charred wood were the words:
THE PRINCESS DIES NEXT.
Rowe stared at the message, fury rising hot and sharp in her throat.
She stepped forward, but Reaper’s arm snaked around her waist, holding her back.
"Don’t," he warned. "It’s what they want—drawing you out."
She twisted in his grip, glaring up at him.
"Let them come. I’m done hiding."
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, the fire reflected in them made him look every bit the man they called Reaper.
"You’re not dying on my watch. Not today. Not ever."
The intensity in his voice stole her breath.
They stood locked in a silent battle of wills while the barn crackled and popped behind them.
The heat from the flames warmed their skin, but the real fire was the one simmering between them—years of suppressed longing, duty, and forbidden need threatening to consume them both.
Ghost approached, coughing from the smoke.
"Barn’s a total loss, Prez. But the house is secure. No explosives."
Reaper nodded.
"Post guards. Rotate every four hours. Rowe stays at the clubhouse tonight."
"Like hell I do," she snapped. "This is my land. My fight."
Reaper’s patience snapped.
He hauled her away from the group, around the side of the house, where the shadows were deeper, and the roar of the fire muffled their words.
He pinned her against the weathered siding, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip.
"Listen to me, damn it," he growled. "You prospecting means you follow orders. This isn’t some game where you get to play hero because you’re hurting. Those bastards will put a bullet in your pretty head the first chance they get."
Rowe’s breath came fast and shallow.
Being this close to him—his body heat mingling with the fire, the hard press of his frame against hers—ignited something reckless inside her.
"Then teach me how to fight them properly. Don’t push me away again."
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
The hand on her hip tightened, his fingers digging in possessively.
"You have no idea what you’re asking for, Rowan. What being close to me really means."
"Show me."
The words hung between them, daring and dangerous.
Reaper made a low, tortured sound in his throat.
Then his mouth crashed down on hers.
The kiss was not gentle.
It was five years of pent-up frustration, guilt, and raw hunger unleashed.
His lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue sweeping inside when she gasped.
Rowe’s hands fisted in his cut, pulling him closer even as her mind screamed that this was madness.
He tasted like smoke and sin and every dark fantasy she’d never admitted to having.
Reaper groaned against her mouth, lifting her slightly so their bodies aligned perfectly.
One of his thighs pressed between hers, and heat pooled low in her belly.
For long, dizzying moments, there was nothing but the fire, the night, and the devastating feel of him finally kissing her as he owned her.
He broke away first, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers.
"Fuck," he rasped. "This can’t happen."
Rowe’s lips felt swollen, her body alive in a way it hadn’t been in years.
"It already did."
Reaper stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair.
The loss of contact left her cold.
"You’re my ward. My responsibility. Your father trusted me to protect you—not to..."
He trailed off, his jaw clenching.
"Not to want me?" she finished softly.
The truth of it hung heavy in the air.
A shout from the front of the house interrupted them.
Viper appeared, urgency in his stride.
"Prez! We found something in the ashes. You need to see this."
Reaper shot Rowe a look that promised this conversation wasn’t over, then followed Viper.
She trailed close behind.
Near the collapsed remains of the barn, Ghost was carefully sifting through debris with a shovel.
He lifted something metallic, blackened by fire but still recognizable.
A lockbox.
The kind her father used to keep important documents in the loft.
It had survived.
Reaper took it, prying the warped lid open with a knife.
Inside were papers—some charred at the edges, but mostly intact.
Rowe’s breath caught as Reaper pulled out the top document.
It was a letter, dated the week before her father’s murder.
Addressed to Reaper.
She leaned in to read over his shoulder.
The handwriting was unmistakably her father’s.
Jax,
If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. The Disciples found out about the deal. Watch my kids. There’s more at stake than territory. Tell Rowe I love her—and that the truth is in the blood.
Don’t let them take everything.
—Cal
"The truth is in the blood," Rowe whispered.
Her mind spun.
What did that mean?
Her blood?
The club’s?
Something else?
Reaper’s face had gone deathly still.
He folded the letter quickly, but not before she saw the flash of raw pain in his eyes.
"You knew," she accused, her voice trembling. "Even then, you knew he was in danger."
He didn’t deny it.
"We need to get this back to the clubhouse. Secure it."
As the Reapers prepared to ride out, leaving a small crew to watch the ranch, Reaper pulled Rowe onto his bike again.
This time, when her arms wrapped around him, the embrace felt different—charged with the ghost of their kiss and the weight of new secrets.
The ride back was tense.
Every mile carried them deeper into a web of lies and desire.
Rowe pressed her cheek to his back, feeling the steady thrum of his heart.
She was falling.
Fast.
But as the clubhouse lights appeared in the distance, a chilling thought settled over her.
If the truth were in the blood, whose blood would ultimately be spilled to uncover it?
And how much of it would belong to the man she was already helpless to resist?
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