“How do you know that the parts will take time to be delivered if you don’t even know what’s wrong with my car?” she asked.
“You don’t trust me,” he said, voice low, almost amused.
Princess crossed her arms. “I don’t trust anyone, so don’t be offended.”
“Okay, no offense taken then. The parts will take some time because getting anything delivered to this town takes forever. I’ve been doing this for ten years now, and I can tell you that it’s going to take a few weeks to get any parts delivered. But fromwhat I’ve noticed so far about your car, you’re going to need a new radiator.”
The tow truck driver had unloaded her poor car and waved back at the guy. “See you later, Butcher,” he drawled. “Good luck with this one.” She wanted to protest and ask him just what he meant by that comment, but he was in his truck and driving down the dirt road before she could even open her mouth.
Princess decided to concentrate all her frustrations on the man standing in front of her. “So, you’re Butcher?” she asked.
He gave a slight nod, “I am,” he said.
“Well, Butcher, how can you tell from just looking at my car that the radiator is busted?” she asked.
“From the steam coming out of the hood,” he said, not even blinking. He was good, she’d give him that, but she still didn’t trust him.
“Fine, how long will it take to get a new radiator in?” she asked.
“A few weeks, just like I said a minute ago. If you want quick and easy, then you’re out of luck. Nothing around here is quick or easy.” He winked at her—actually winked, and she wasn’t sure if she was turned on or repulsed. That would be something for her to sort out later when she was tucked away in a nice little hotel room.
She couldn’t explain why, but she felt a bit off as she stood there looking at the mechanic. For the first time in years, Princess felt the ground shift beneath her, and she hated it. She knew that bikers were bad news. They were always wild cards—rogue assholes who didn’t give a fuck about anyone but themselves. But for some reason, she didn’t sense that in the man staring her down.
“Let’s take a look at your car, and I’ll try to give you a more defined answer,” he offered.
“Fine,” she spat. She watched as he took her keys and walked over to her car. He popped the hood and stuck his head under, giving a small whistle. She was sure that wasn’t a good sign.
Butcher moved around the vehicle with a kind of deliberate patience that made her uneasy. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t flustered—just steady, methodical, like every bolt and wire had its place and he knew exactly where it belonged. His hands were scarred, knuckles roughened by years of work. Grease streaked across his forearms, but beneath the grime she could see the faded lines of old wounds—cuts that had healed jagged, burns that told stories she didn’t want to imagine. She told herself not to stare. But her eyes kept drifting back to him.
The man was a shadow of something dangerous, something untamed, but she already knew that much about him. And yet, there was a quiet discipline in the way he worked, a focus that contradicted everything she thought she knew about men like him.
“You always watch people this hard?” Butcher’s voice broke the silence, low and rough, without looking up from the engine.
Princess stiffened. “I’m making sure you don’t screw me over.”
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “If I wanted to screw you over, sweetheart, I wouldn’t be fixing your car.”
Her pulse jumped at the term of endearment, though she hated herself for it. She shifted her weight, her tone flat. “Don’t call me that.”
Butcher finally glanced up, eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, she thought she saw something flicker there—something heavy, something haunted. Then it was gone, buried beneath the same stoic mask he seemed to wear like armor.
Princess looked away, but not before noticing the scar that cut across his jaw. It wasn’t the kind of scar you got from an accident. It was the kind you earned in a fight, the kind that toldher that he’d survived something brutal. She hated that part of her wanted to know the story behind his scar.
The sound of his tools filled the silence, metal clinking against metal. He worked with precision, but there was a weight in his movements, like every turn of the wrench carried more than just the burden of fixing her car.
“You don’t trust bikers,” he said finally, voice steady, eyes still on the engine. She hated that he seemed to have her all figured out already.
“I don’t trust men who think the world owes them something,” she shot back.
Butcher chuckled, though it wasn’t warm. “Then you’ve got me all wrong. The world doesn’t owe me a damn thing. I owe it.” The words hung between them, and Princess frowned, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. She wanted to dismiss him, to keep her walls high, but something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.
She watched him again, this time not just the scars but the shadows—the way his shoulders carried a weight she couldn’t name, the way his silence spoke louder than his words. For the first time, she wondered if Butcher wasn’t just some biker.
Maybe he was something else entirely. Something broken and dangerous. Something she should stay far away from.
Princess cleared her throat, garnering his attention away from her car. “Um, I’ll need to know where the closest hotel is if I’m going to be in town for a while,” she said.
He chuckled again, and this time, she thought back over what she had said that might have been remotely funny. “You’re not going to find any place to stay around here. The closest motel is three towns over. It will take you about four and a half hours to drive there, but without a car, you’re out of luck.” Yeah, her luck seemed to have run out about five states ago.
