I blink. “Excuse me? First of all, I’ll wear whatever the hell I want. Second, that’s wildly misogynistic, and third?—”
He steps forward, cutting me off with the weight of his presence alone. His jaw is tight. His voice is low.
“And third,” he says, “if you show even an inch more skin than necessary, you might be dragging me out of there in a body bag.”
I go still. His eyes burn into mine—no teasing, no smirk.
“These guys, Jasmine, they’re entitled. They’re handsy. And I can’t take on an entire biker gang in one room just because one of them decides to touch what’s mine. But Iwill.You get that? I’ll go down swinging. But I think you’d rather take me home breathing than bleeding out on their marble floors.”
My mouth goes dry. The room feels colder somehow. I just nod.
He exhales, the tension in his shoulders tight as ever. His hand slides up the side of my head, gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. He pulls me in, presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Be ready in an hour.”
And then he’s gone. I don’t speak. Not because of the threat he painted so vividly, but because he called meJasmine. Not Peach.Jasmine.
And Landon never uses my real name, so that must mean shit is getting real.
After I finish up my paragraph on the cheating life of Shakespeare, I take the longest shower of my life—half because I need the heat to loosen the knot forming in my spine, half because I’m procrastinating like my life doesn’t literally depend on what I wear tonight.
When I step out, the mirror’s fogged and my nerves are worse. I try on three different outfits. A dress that’s too short. A top that clings too tight. Jeans that look like I’m trying too hard.
Eventually, I settle on a black off-the-shoulder romper. It’s fitted at the waist, loose around the sleeves, the shorts land mid-thigh and shows just enough skin to remind them I’m not weak—but not enough to invite attention Idon’twant. I throw on my heeled combat boots, the ones that make me feel ten feet tall and like I could kick through a man’s rib cage if necessary. A little silver jewelry, and my hair pulled back into a high ponytail, the strands wavy from air drying from the shower.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Not a princess. Not bait, but still vulnerable to everything.
I crack open the door and poke my head out. “Hey.”
Landon’s lounging on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone, but he looks up the second he hears me.
His eyes rake over me in one slow, searing pass. He groans.
“Seriously?” he mutters. “You really want me dead tonight?”
I roll my eyes. “Stop being dramatic.”
“You’rethe one coming to a Raider sit-down in a sexy little romper that will force me to break at least two pairs of hands before we see Marcus.”
“Then give me your jacket and you won’t have to break any hands,” I say, lifting a brow. “And who’s Marcus?”
“Marcus is a fucking twat, and the head of the Raiders.” He says with a low sigh, as he stands and shrugs off the black leather jacket he’s wearing—his favorite one, the one that smells like smoke and danger and him.
It’s only then I notice:he changed too.
Gone is the lazy gym wear. Now he’s in a tight black long-sleeve that clings to his chest and arms like it was sewn onto him. Baggy grey jeans hang low on his hips, and his black boots are scuffed just enough to look like they’ve been through hell.
He looks like a fallen god. Like the kind of man you don’t survive loving.
A smirk creeps onto his face as he catches me staring. “Stop drooling,” he says, tossing me the jacket.
I catch it and shrug it on, burying myself in the warmth of it—his warmth.
“I’m not drooling,” I lie, zipping it halfway.
Landon steps closer. Just enough to make my breath hitch.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because we’re walking into hell tonight, Peach. And I need you sharp.”
