She doesn’t. So I kiss her.
Not hard. Not desperate. Just… true. A slow press of lips that says everything I’m too wrecked to voice. She stiffens, just slightly, her body at odds with her heart. Then I feel it—her breath catching, her mouth parting. The faintest taste of surrender.
I should stop. I don’t.
She’s still sugar and sharpness, still something I could drown in without ever finding the surface. Beneath the breath mints and maybe Ruby’s candy stash, there’s the pulse of her. Bitter, bold, unforgettable. The kind of taste that ruins you for anything else.
My hand slips to her waist, fingers resting just above her hip bone. I don’t pull her in. I just anchor. Something in me hopes that if I hold her steady, maybe everything else will stop spinning.
She makes a sound then. It’s tiny, helpless, caught halfway between protest and need.
It wrecks me.
Then she kisses me back.
Slow, hesitant, then with urgency you can’t fake. Her hand fists in my shirt, trying to drag me into her ribcage. The other finds my neck, pulling me closer. It’s not clean or sweet. It’s years of ache, fury, and what ifs packed into the space between heartbeats.
We kiss, bleeding under the surface, and this is the only thing that stops it from spilling out.
When we finally break apart, we stay close—breathing each other’s air, undone and silent. Her lips are parted. Her eyes glassy. She looks torn, trying to figure out if this is a mistake or the start of something real.
I brush my thumb along her jaw. “Leave your car. I’ll have a prospect grab it.”
Kyle finished working on it a few days ago; new brakes, clean rotors, fresh alignment. I didn’t tell her I was the one who made sure it got pushed to the top of the list. I didn’t tell her I checked every inch of it myself before Kyle touched a wrench. She doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.
Her brows twitch. She wants to argue, I see it in the set of her mouth, but she doesn’t. She just nods. It’s a quiet surrender that lands in my chest, a heartbeat I didn’t know I was missing.
Outside, the night air is sharp and clean, cold enough to bite. My bike waits by the curb, matte black and gleaming under the porch light. I hand her my helmet without a word.
She stares at it. Then at me. Then slides it on, choosing trust with shaking hands.
Once we’re on the bike, her arms wrap around me tighter than they need to. I feel the way she fits against me, the uneven rhythm of her breath, the fear and the want tangled in every inch of her.
This isn’t just a ride. It’s her saying okay in the only way she knows how right now.
The clubhouse is quieter by the time we pull in. Not empty. Just settled. The kind of quiet that comes after the storm, when only the real ones remain.
I kill the engine. Gravel crunches under our boots. The lights throwing long shadows across the lot.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the back. “Less chance of stepping in blood or vomit.”
“Charming,” she mutters, but falls in beside me anyway.
Inside, the air is warm. Lived-in. Music hums low. It’s something old and slow, the bass a heartbeat in the floorboards. Blankets draped over chairs, bottles scattered, jackets flung without care.
Ruby’s already curled on the massive couch in a hoodie three sizes too big. Her laugh bounces off the walls, something wild and unfiltered. Candace stiffens at the sight of her, surprise flicking through her gaze.
Frankie doesn’t look up right away. She just swirls her drink in slow circles, eyes half-lidded, like she knew Candace would walk in before she did. The candles on the table flicker for a beat, though there’s no draft.
“Took you long enough,” she says, without looking. “Thought maybe you’d show after the third round.”
Candace stares at her. Frankie finally lifts her gaze, and there’s something uncanny in the weight of it. She sees more than she should. Or watching not just this moment, but all the tangled threads spinning toward it. Her eyes are too clear. Her presence too still. She hums something under her breath, and for a beat, it feels like the room exhales.
Nash leans against the pool table, unreadable as ever, arms crossed. East walks in from the hallway carrying a beer and nods at us as he joins Frankie and Nash by the table, muttering something under his breath.
Knox is on the couch with Sloane tucked against him, but not quite touching. Her smile is there, soft and practiced, but her eyes drift away from him mid-laugh. Her hand sits on the armrest instead of in his. When Knox reaches for his drink, she doesn’t lean in like she used to. Just offers a small smile and goes back to listening.
“Hey!” Darla grins. “Look who came crawling back from the dead.”
