“Not like I was staring or anything,” I add, too fast. “Dorothy basically shouted your name to half the market. I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
A beat passes. Then the edge of his mouth shifts, like he might actually smile.
“I saw you too,” he says.
Something tightens low in my chest.
“They call me Havoc, but my name is Kane,” he says, offering his hand like he’s giving me something dangerous to hold.
I take it anyway. His palm is warm and rough and steady in a way my body has forgotten how to trust.
“Nao...” The name sticks in my throat. “I mean, Sage.”
You are Sage. You don’t get to be Naomi anymore.
“You heading inside?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He glances toward the dark street, eyes scanning as if he is measuring every shadow for intent. “Make sure your door is locked.”
He reaches into the inside pocket of his cut and pulls out a small, worn card. He holds it between two fingers, offering it to me without ceremony.
“Take this,” he says. “It’s the number for the clubhouse. Direct line. If anyone puts hands on you again, you call and ask for Havoc. They’ll find me fast, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
The promise coils through me, unsettling and strangely safe all at once.
I nod and take the card from him.
His hand lifts like he might touch my face, then he curls it into a fist and lets it fall to his side.
“Lock it tight, sweetheart.”
I step inside and make it to my room on unsteady legs. The door closes with a soft thud and the deadbolt clicks on the second try. Outside, his motorcycle growls back to life, the sound rolling through the night like a warning and a promise.
I press my forehead to the cold window. My breath fogs the glass.
“What am I doing?” I whisper, because I should not be thinking about the warmth of his hand on my waist or wondering how a man like him would taste if I were foolish enough to find out.
He looks like heartbreak, and I have a bad habit of pretending it might be worth it.
Chapter 2
Havoc
“Yougoingtotellme why you hauled ass across town to scare some old man on a porch instead of coming straight to the clubhouse?” Viper drawls, flicking ash off his cigarette.
He’s leaning against the pool table like he owns it, sharp grin curling around the filter. His eyes glint, amused.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know everything that happens in Lovestone Ridge.”
The Damned Saints’ clubhouse hums around us. At this hour, just after dusk, the place is alive with movement. Leather creaks, boots thud, laughter breaks out at the prospects’ table. The scent of grease, chili, whiskey, and gun oil wraps around it all like smoke.
I drop my keys on the bar and pour myself a coffee instead of reaching for the whiskey that would take the edge off. Being president means I can drink whenever the hell I want.
It also means I don’t if there’s work to do.
“Old man had it coming,” I say.
