BRIANNA’S PERFUME STILLclung to the nightair long after she stormed off—floral, too-sweet, the kind of trouble a man didn’t brag about, but my eyes weren’t anywhere near her.
They were on Lark.
She didn’t look shaken. And she damn sure didn’t look impressed. She just walked toward my bike with that unshakable, chin-up posture that told the worldI don’t break for anybody.Somehow that hit worse than any jealous scene could’ve.
“Lark—” I started.
“I’m fine,” she said—crisp, controlled, blade-sharp.
Fine.The kind of fine you heard right before somethin’ was thrown at your head.
She swung her leg over the bike without waitin’ for me and sat behind me with her hands on the seat instead of touchin’ me like she’d been doing. That small shift cut sharper than Brianna’s whole damn performance.
I held out the helmet. Our fingers brushed. She pulled back like that little contact burned her. I started the engine, the rumble swallowin’ the quiet between us. Normally, once we hit the road, she’d lean in, hands at my waist, cheek warm against my back. I was startin’ to be addicted to those moments.
Tonight she stayed straight. Distant. Barely touchin’ me at all. It felt wrong. Wrong in a way that settled low in my gut. Halfway down the highway, the tension behind me got too damn loud. I slowed, pulled onto the shoulder by the marsh, and killed the engine. The sudden quiet pressed thick around us.
Behind me, she stiffened. “Why are we stopping?” she asked, her voice cool enough to sting.
“’Cause somethin’s off,” I said. “You’re quiet in a way I don’t like.”
“I don’t see how that’s your concern.”
I turned enough to see her over my shoulder. Moonlight slid across her face, catchin’ the anger she was tryin’ to bury deep.
“When you start treatin’ me like a damn leper?” I murmured. “It’s my concern.”
She blew out a breath—slow, shaken—the kind you used when you were tryin’ damn hard to stitch yourself together. “You don’t have to fix me, Chain.”
“I’m not tryin’ to fix you,” I said quietly. “Just wanna know what’s goin’ on.”
Her jaw tightened. She looked toward the marsh like the dark water might swallow the truth she didn’t wanna say. “I just…” Her voice thinned. “I had a strange night.”
“That’s not all.”
I felt it. Hell, it sat in the air between us—dark, heavy, unspoken. Her hands twisted in her lap. A small tell, but loud enough for me. Then she finally looked at me. Eyes calm, but bruised around the edges.
“Chain,” she whispered, “I’m not jealous of that woman.”
“Didn’t figure you were.”
“I’m scared of what she represents.”
My frown cut deep. “Say more than that.”
“It means I know what men like you have,” she said, lookin’ sad. “And what they want.”
“Men like me?” I echoed.
“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Men who have options. A lot of them. Men who take their pick, have their fun, and move on without looking back.”
The words hit dead-center. Not harsh. Just honest.
“You think that’s what I want from you?” I asked.
“That’s what I saw.” She didn’t even try to hide the ache in her voice. “A woman throwing herself at you like it was routine. Like she’s done it before. Like you’ve… let her. Like you’ll do again.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
