I blink, stunned. “What? No. That’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice rises, laced with venom. “You really think a man could wantyou? Please. You waddle around here like you’re hot shit, stuffing yourself into jeans two sizes too small, flashing those hips like they’re an asset instead of an accident. He didn’t want you. Hepitiedyou.”
My stomach drops. Shame flashes through me so fast it steals my breath.
Then Havoc steps forward.
Slow. Controlled. Terrifying.
His voice is low, tight. “Watch your mouth.”
Mrs. Hayes flinches.
“You throwing her out?” he asks next, dead calm.
“That’s right,” she snaps, but her voice wavers now.
“Good.” His tone sharpens. “Because if you weren’t, I’d be telling her to leave anyway. No one with sense stays under the same roof as a man who corners a tenant and a wife who spits poison because she can’t face it.”
She opens her mouth. He doesn’t give her the chance.
“You should be talking to your husband,” he says. “Not attacking a woman who’s beautiful, inside and out, just because you couldn’t handle the way he looked at her.”
She reels back like she’s been slapped.
He reaches down, lifts my bag like it’s nothing, and turns from her without another word.
“You’re coming to my place,” he says to me, quiet but certain. “At least for tonight.”
I nod. No protest. No questions.
I shouldn’t feel so excited.
But my skin is buzzing. My pulse is a drumbeat in my throat.
Heat blooms low in my belly, sharp and aching, and I can’t tell if it’s from adrenaline… or from the way he called me beautiful like hemeantit.
Chapter 4
Sage
ThisisnotwhatIexpected.
I step into Havoc's cabin and freeze for a second, blinking like I walked into the wrong place.
It’s small. Quiet. Not some sprawling biker compound or bachelor cave stacked with whiskey bottles and bad decisions. The front door opens straight into the living room, and the first thing I notice is how clean everything is. Not spotless, but lived-in. Comfortable. Soft.
One big couch. A worn leather armchair. A coffee table made from what looks like reclaimed wood, scarred but solid. There’s a bookshelf in the corner. Real books. Military ones. And there’s a dusty old turntable with a neat stack of vinyl beside it.
The walls are a faded forest green. One has a framed black-and-white photo of a group of men in uniform, all hard eyes and dirt-streaked faces.
“This is…” I trail off, trying to find the right word.
Havoc brushes past me, setting my bag on the floor. “Not what you thought?”
“Honestly? No.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What did you picture?”
