East’s eyes find mine immediately. His gaze softens for just a fraction of a second, taking in the shopping bags in my arms and the real, lingering smile on my face. The grim line of his mouth almost quirks. He cuts through the room, his purpose clear.
He stops in front of me, his voice low so only I can hear it. “Looks like you had fun.”
My smile falters as I take in the heavy, grim weight in his eyes. The war is back. “Yeah,” I breathe. “I did.”
“Good,” he says, but his expression turns serious. “We need to talk.” He nods toward the quiet, empty corner of the bar, and I follow him, the bubble of our afternoon popping.
He turns to face me, his expression serious, treating me not as a fragile victim, but as an equal. “Malachi just laid everything out for us. From his mentor, Cornelius. It’s older than we thought. Deeper.”
I listen, my heart pounding, as he tells me everything. The story of Malachi’s lost siblings. The evidence that my father wasn’t just a corrupt politician, but that he was directly involved in the cover-up of Cornelius’ death nine years ago.
He’s laying out all the club’s deepest, darkest secrets for me, trusting me with their history, their pain. But my secret is a toxic, burning thing in my chest. A secret that would change the look in his eyes right now. The words are right there, a desperate, stupid urge to just let it all out.
My mouth opens, the need to tell him, to warn him, so overwhelming I can’t breathe. “East, there’s something else… that night…”
“East.”
Nash’s voice cuts through the moment. He’s standing at the end of the bar, his expression grim. “Malachi needs you. We’re rolling out the mission board.”
The moment shatters. The confession I was about to make dies on my tongue, swallowed back down with a fresh wave of fear. I nod, unable to speak, and East gives my arm a quick, frustrated squeeze before turning to answer the summons.
He takes two steps away, then stops and turns back to me. The air is thick with everything that was just said, and everything that wasn’t. The danger, the history, the secrets—it all converges in the space between us. He looks at my face, at the terror I know is plain to see, and something in his expression shifts. The soldier is gone, replaced by the man.
He closes the distance in a single, silent stride. “We’ll get him, Darla,” he vows in a low murmur. “I promise you.”
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking with an impossible gentleness over the bruised skin of my cheek. He’s not avoiding the injury; he’s acknowledging it, tracing the edges of my pain with a reverence that makes my breath catch. The pull is too strong. The need to feel something other than fear is too great. He leans in, and this time, I meet him halfway.
The kiss is nothing like the first one. That was a desperate, frantic crash in the dark. This is something else entirely.
This is slow. Deliberate. A question.
His lips brush mine, soft and searching at first, a ghost of a touch that asks a question I didn’t know I could answer. I’d been kissed before—awkward high school kisses, polite, dry pecks at my father’s events—but I hadn’t known what a kiss truly was. Not until now.
No one has ever kissed me like this. Not like they’re trying to own me, but like they’re trying to understand me. A jolt of pure, unexpected heat shoots through me, pooling low in my belly. It’s a heavy, liquid pulse that makes my knees weak. This isn’t just comfort. This is want.
His thumb moves from my cheek to my jaw, his grip firming, holding me in place as he deepens the kiss. A low groan rumbles in his chest, and the sound vibrates straight into my mouth, shattering my composure. His lips are firm and sure, moving over mine with a deep, searching heat. He tastes of coffee and resolve and something that is just East, a flavor I’ve been starving for without even knowing it.
He’s not just taking; he’s giving. He’s pouring all of his strength, his fury, his promise into me, and demanding mine in return.
I crave it.
A soft sigh escapes me, but it’s not a sigh of surrender. It’s a sound of need. My mouth opens for him, my tongue meeting his, hesitant at first, then hungry, desperate to learn the taste of him. I devour him, wanting to taste every part of him. My hands come up, not just to hold on, but to grip the front of his cut. My fingers fist the rough, worn leather and feel the hard muscle beneath it. I need him closer. I need an anchor in a world that’s tilting.
This is a conversation with no words. His other hand finds the small of my back, fingers splayed, pressing gently at first, then with a firm, possessive pressure that leaves no doubt. He pulls me flush against his body. The move is so sudden it steals my breath. I can feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against mystomach, an undeniable, solid proof of his own want. The feeling of him, hard and ready against me, sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through my veins. My pussy clenches, a secret, liquid ache. This isn’t just a kiss anymore. This is a promise. A kiss that says we are in this together.
His forehead rests against mine until he pulls back just an inch. His breath is warm and unsteady on my skin. Looking at me, his eyes dark and full of a million unsaid things, he finally lets me go. Straightening up, the soldier is back, but the soldier is also a satisfied bastard. He pulls a piece of gum from his pocket, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth. Chewing once, his jaw working, the casual, everyday action is a stark contrast to the intimacy that just shattered between us. Then, just as he’s about to turn, he catches my eye and gives me a slow, wicked wink. A silent, shameless promise of later that sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to my core.
Then he turns and walks away, and I swear I can see the smirk on his face even from the back.
Chapter 22
East
Iwakeuptothe familiar, welcome feeling of silence. No alarms, no shouting from the clubhouse, just the soft morning light filtering through the blinds of my bedroom. This is my sanctuary. The one place in this world that is quiet, ordered, and mine.
The memory of last night crashes over me—the grim meeting, the weight of the secrets I shared with Darla, the raw, desperate kiss that tasted of grief and hope. My body tightens, my cock already hard and heavy under the sheets. I see her face—the terror in her eyes, the way she met my kiss with a desperate hunger of her own. A low groan rumbles in my chest. I wrap my hand around my shaft, my fingers sliding over the slick, pre-cum-dampened head. Just one stroke, slow and agonizing, as I picture her in my kitchen, her eyes challenging me. Fuck. This is more than just a morning-after fantasy. This is a seven-year-old itch that’s finally, dangerously, been scratched.
The war is on, but first, coffee.
