Even if it ruins me.
Even if it starts a war.
Chapter 3
Grace
Weeatinsilence,the only sounds the scrape of cutlery and the low crackle of the fire. The steak is tender and juicy. I close my eyes for a second as the flavor fills my mouth. Something sharp pricks behind my eyes.
I blink hard.
I’m not crying over steak.
“Havoc’s lady makes a mean cake,” Diesel says suddenly, like he can feel the quiet getting too heavy. “Sage dropped some off this morning.”
He gets up, opens the fridge, and pulls out a container with two thick slices of chocolate cake. He sets one in front of me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
My jaw drops.
“You have cake,” I say, stupidly.
Diesel’s expression shifts, like he doesn’t know what to do with my shock.
“Havoc’s our president,” he says, like that should explain everything. “Damned Saints. And Havoc and Sage bake together when they’re bored.”
Havoc. The president of the Damned Saints. Same title as my so-called father, same seat of power, but nothing about them feels the same.
In the Wolves’ world, a president collects fear like currency. Women are decoration, leverage, punishment. You don’t get given dessert in that world. You get given orders. You get measured. You get used.
Here, the president’s woman bakes cake because she feels like it, and the president apparently gets bored and helps her.
Havoc was on my no-target list for a reason. We had info that he was already in a committed relationship.
I stare at the glossy frosting. In the Wolves’ world, cake is for birthdays or bribes. Here, a biker hands me dessert like it’s nothing. I pick up my fork and take a bite.
It melts on my tongue.
A hum slips out of me before I can stop it, embarrassingly soft, almost a moan.
Diesel goes still.
His mouth twitches, his eyes flick to my face and hold. Something darker rolls through his expression, quick and hot, like lust trying to take over before he can rein it in.
For one stupid heartbeat, I think it’s for me.
I shove the thought away so fast it stings. Men like him don’t look at girls like me. Not really. Not the curvy, soft kind. Not the kind my father called “piggy” like it was my name.
So whatever I saw in Diesel’s eyes, I must have imagined it.
At least, he doesn’t ask me questions. He doesn’t interrogate me about why I was on the road or where I’m from. At first itfeels suspicious, like a trap I can’t see. Then it starts to feel like a reprieve.
I’m used to being accounted for. To having my day demanded from me, detail by detail.
Who looked at me.
What they said.
How they said it.
