Page 50 of Tinsel & Chrome

A snarl tears from my throat, but before I can move, Larissa’s already there. She lunges, her fist connecting with Viper’s jaw with a crack that echoes through the yard. He stumbles back, eyes wide with shock and fury.

“You fucking cunt—”

The yard erupts in chaos.

Guns fire, fists fly, and the roar of rage fills the air. I lose sight of Larissa for a second, my blood running cold, but then I see her — a blur of black and silver, a knife in her hand, moving like she was born to spill blood.

I focus on the Reaper in front of me, a beefy asshole swinging a tire iron. He charges, and I sidestep, slamming the butt of my gun into his temple. He crumples, but there’s no time to celebrate. Another comes at me, a blade flashing. I block, twist his wrist until the knife clatters to the ground, and put a bullet in his knee. He screams, falling to the snow-streaked dirt.

I spin, searching for Larissa.

She’s locked in a grapple with Viper, his hand tangled in her hair, a knife at her throat. My heart stops.

“Tex!” she grits out, her eyes blazing.

I don’t hesitate. I raise my gun, my finger steady on the trigger.

“Let her go, Viper.”

He grins, his teeth red with blood. “Make me.”

His mistake.

I fire.

The bullet punches through his shoulder, and he howls, dropping the knife. Larissa breaks free, spins, and buries her own blade into his thigh. He collapses, screaming.

The fight is over. The Reapers are either dead, wounded, or running.

Larissa straightens, chest heaving, her eyes finding mine. Blood stains her cheek, but she’s grinning like a devil.

I close the distance between us, cupping her face. “You okay?”

She nods, breathless. “I told you I could handle it.”

I pull her close, my forehead resting against hers. “And I told you I’d save you anyway.”

Her lips crash against mine, hard and desperate, and I know one thing for certain:

This war isn’t over.

But neither are we.

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Chapter Nine

Larissa

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The scent of blood and smoke still clings to my clothes as I follow Tex through the clubhouse doors. My knuckles ache, my ribs throb, but I’ve never felt more alive. The rush of the fight still pulses in my veins, and the satisfaction of seeing the Hell Reapers broken and bleeding leaves a vicious, primal joy in my chest.

I glance over at Tex. His jaw is tight, the muscles ticking like he’s barely holding something back. He hasn’t let go of my hand since we left the truck yard. I don’t mind. His grip is firm, steadying, the only thing anchoring me to the here and now.

Cyclops and Mace step in behind us, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoes through the room. The rest of the club filters in, murmurs of satisfaction and relief filling the air. The Reapers got the message loud and fucking clear:The Merciless Fewdon’t forgive, and they sure as hell don’t forget.

I pull off my leather vest, the adrenaline starting to wear off, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. But before I can take two steps toward the bar, Tex tugs me back, spinning me to face him.

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