Page 113 of Dublin Beast

She’s alive.She has to be.

But she must be so scared. Bleeding. Alone. Running from men hunting her.

The throaty rumble of Harley engines getting close has me racing back downstairs to meet my brothers.

Tag is barking at someone to turn off my truck as he jogs up the front steps to the porch. Sean and Brenny are right behind him.

They take one look at me and are soldiers ready to go to war.

“What do you need?” Tag asks.

“She killed Eddie Mason. He’s upstairs.”

“And Harper?” Brenny asks.

“She went off the balcony and is running with two goons after her. I need the Devils.”

Sean holds up his keys. “You’ve got them. We’ve got this. You go.”

I leap off the porch and sprint across the lawn, straight toward Sean’s Harley. My boots thud against the grass, and every breath is a growl in my throat.

“We’ll find her,” Brenny says, mounting his bike.

I swing a leg over the bike and shout to the pack forming behind me—the Devils rolling up in a rumble of chrome and vengeance.

“My girl is running. She’s bleeding and being chased by two Mason men. Find her. Secure her. I want her home, lads.”

Frenchie adjusts his gloves, his massive shoulders flexing beneath his leather cut. “And the Mason men?”

“Whatever it takes,” I snarl.

“They made a move on one ofus,” Brendan bellows, gripping his bars. “Take them down.”

“Fucking right,” someone growls behind us.

Engines roar to life like wolves howling for blood.

The weight of Sean’s bike hums beneath me—heavy, solid, lethal. The pull of the engine matches the rhythm of my heart. I may be a thug and a killer, but thank fuck for that.

Right now, that’s who Harper needs me to be.

Brendan rolls up beside me, his face grim. “We’ll find her, brother. Keep it tight.”

I’m trying, but it might be a losing battle.

I tighten my grip on the throttle and tear off down the street, the Devils breaking off in every direction in a symphony of steel and fury.

Different streets, different angles, we comb the neighborhood, tightening the net around our prey. I lean low into the curves, eyes sharp, scanning every yard, every shadow, every goddamn bush for a glimpse of her—of blood, of movement, of anything.

People start poking their heads out of doors, curious or afraid. I wave them back inside with sharp jerks of my hand, not slowing down.

Don’t get involved. Don’t get caught in this.

This isn’t your fight.

It’s mine.

Harper’s blood is in the dirt somewhere, and I’ll burn this whole fucking neighborhood down before I let her bleed alone.

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