My jaw is still tight. My whole body’s wired, like it’s waiting for a fight that didn’t happen.
Viper makes a face like that’s not enough of an answer. Ghost, sitting at the far end of the bar with his arms crossed, raises a brow.
“Is this about the baker?” he asks. No emotion. Just watching. Always catching more than he lets on.
“Yeah.” I grunt.
I was leading a ride through town when I first saw her. Standing on the sidewalk with flour on her cheek, curves that made my body react hard and fast after years of nothing. Years of discipline. Years of choosing quiet over touch.
The bike didn’t slow, but something inside me did.
Grip locked on the throttle. Jaw clenched. Blood roaring like it remembered how to want.
Yeah, she was fuckable. My body made that clear.
But it didn’t stop there.
There was something about her that went deeper than heat. Something soft and wounded and stubborn all at once. The kind of woman a man doesn’t just take to bed. The kind hekeeps.
The kind he protects even from himself.
I felt it in my chest, sharp and unexpected. Not just desire, but recognition. Like some buried part of me sat up and paid attention for the first time in years.
Careful, I told myself.
Men like me don’t get to want hearts.
But I watched her anyway. Memorized the way she held herself like she’d learned not to lean on anyone. Thought about how she’d feel under my hands and how I’d want to do it slow, like I had something to prove.
Like I wanted more than her body.
And that scared me more than the want ever could.
The next day, I saw her leaving the community center after teaching. I trailed her, kept my distance. Not to scare her. Just to figure out what the hell my instincts were trying to tell me.
She walked fast. Head low. No headphones. No distractions. She took back streets instead of the main ones. Checked over her shoulder three times between the diner and her place.
That’s not a womanlivingher life.
That’s someonesurvivingit.
And when I saw her landlord grab her tonight, something in mesnapped.
“She smelled like vanilla,” I murmur before I can stop myself. “Like vanilla and sugar and peace. And that landlord put his hands on her.”
Ghost’s expression hardens. “He alive?”
“For now. If he touches her again, he won’t be.”
Viper whistles low. “Damn. You’re gone already.”
“Do we need to throw a shower? Register at Bed Bath & Beyond?” he grins.
I flip him off. He cackles like it’s the funniest thing he’s seen all week.
The sarcasm’s part of the rhythm around here. It keeps us from splintering under pressure. Keeps us sane while we track cartel movements and try to clean up a town that doesn’t want to admit it’s bleeding out.
“Go slow,” Ghost says, voice low. “She’s not just scared. She seems like she’s hiding from something.”
