"It never is." She uncurls from the chair and stands, moving around the desk until she's standing directly in front of me. "But here's what I know. Last night, you stepped in to help a stranger when you could have walked away. Today, you showed up at my house with coffee and offered to help me rebuild when you had no obligation to do so. When those men attacked, you could have left me behind, but you made sure I was safe."
She's too close. Close enough that I can see the subtle flecks of darker blue in her blue eyes. Close enough that if I reached out, I could pull her onto my lap with minimal effort.
"Those aren't the actions of someone who doesn't care," she continues. "Those are the actions of someone who's trying to do better than they've done before."
Her insight is uncomfortably accurate. Since killing Marcus Reeves, I've been trying to balance the scales. Not just to protect my club and my territory, but to be worthy of the loyalty my brothers show me. To be better than the violence that comes so easily to me.
Chapter 6 - Luna
"I'm trying to be better," King says, his voice dropping to something raw and honest. "But it's not easy when violence is everywhere around you. When it's the first solution that comes to mind because it's the one that's always worked."
I have no idea what to say to that. What do you tell a man who's spent his life solving problems with his fists when he admits he wants to be different? What comfort can I offer someone whose entire world is built on strength and dominance and never showing weakness?
My eyes drift to the wound above his eye, and I notice it looks angrier than it did before. Red around the edges, slightly swollen. Without thinking, I step closer, my nurse's instincts kicking in.
"Your cut is looking worse," I murmur, leaning in to examine it. "Mind if I check?"
King doesn't move, doesn't flinch, just watches me with those intense blue eyes as I reach up to gently probe the area around the stitches. He's radiating heat like a furnace, and this close I can smell the leather in his clothes.
"How does it feel?" I ask, trying to focus on being professional despite the way my heart has started racing.
"I've felt worse," he says, his voice a low rumble that I feel as much as hear.
Of course. Men always have to act tough, even when they're clearly in pain.
"I should clean it again," I tell him, reaching for the first aid kit I left on his desk. "Make sure it doesn't get infected."
I've been moving on autopilot for so long that I'm only now noticing how close we are, how intimate this position feels. My body between his spread knees as he sits in the chair, my hands on his face, his breath warm against my wrist.
And God, he's fucking handsome. Not in the polished, manufactured way of the men I dated in Seattle. There's nothing soft about King. Everything about him is hard edges and brutal honesty. The lines carved beside his mouth, the silver threading through his dark hair, the coldness in his eyes that somehow softens when he looks at me.
He gives no shits about anything or anyone, takes what he wants, answers to no one. I envy that freedom, that certainty.
"You okay?" King asks, and I realize I've been standing with my hand on his wound, staring at him like an idiot.
"Sorry," I mutter, stepping back. "I just—"
Before I can retreat, his hand is on my hip, warm and heavy, keeping me in place. My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow dryly as my heart thunders against my ribs. Between my legs, I feel a clench of desire so sudden and intense it makes me grip the edge of his desk with my free hand.
Oh fuck. My panties are already dampening as heat floods my pussy. I need to cool down, to think clearly. This is too much, too fast, too overwhelming. What if someone walks in? What will they think?
But King doesn't seem concerned about any of that as he tugs me closer, his grip on my hip firm but not painful. Even sitting, he's nearly at eye level with me, his broad shoulders blocking out everything else in my field of vision.
"I shouldn't be doing this," he says, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Touching you. Thinking the things I'm thinking."
I have a pretty good idea what he's thinking. The same filthy thoughts currently racing through my own mind, but I need to hear him say it.
Gathering every ounce of courage I possess, I meet his gaze squarely. "Tell me what you're thinking."
King rises from the chair, towering over me, "If I put those thoughts into words," he says, each syllable weighted, "I'm not sure I'll be able to stop myself from acting on them."
Fuck. He's so hot, so dominant, his presence filling the room until I can barely breathe. I didn't come to Blackwater Falls for this. I didn't uproot my life to act like some horny teenager with a crush on the town bad boy. But King isn't a bad boy; he's a fucking force of nature. A man who could easily lift me despite the extra curves I carry, who could break someone with his bare hands but touches me with unexpected gentleness.
I glance nervously toward the door, suddenly aware of how exposed we are. Anyone could walk in, could see whatever is about to happen between us.
King follows my gaze and seems to understand my concern. He reaches under his desk and presses something, and I hear the subtle click of a lock engaging. The frosted glass of the office door darkens, becoming completely opaque.
"No one can see or hear what happens in this room now," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
