A lie. I'm starting to realize he's not big on words—or truth, when it comes to himself. But he cleaned and bandaged my feet last night with hands that should have been too rough for that kind of work, and he gave me his hoodie when I was shivering, and he brought me here instead of leaving me on the side of the road.
I'm learning to read between the lines.
The clubhouse is different in daylight.
Last night it felt like a fortress—all shadows and silence and the weight of eyes tracking my every move. Now I canhear voices from the main room, someone's laugh, the clink of coffee mugs. Normal sounds. Almost domestic, if you ignore the leather and the ink and the general air ofdangerous men live here.
The kitchen is small. Cramped, really—a galley space off the main room with a coffee maker that's seen better decades and a fridge humming ominously in the corner. I hover in the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place I am. A florist from the suburbs in borrowed clothes, standing in a biker clubhouse like I have any right to be here.
Grim moves past me without a word. Starts making coffee with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times before.
I watch him.
I can't help it. He's too big for this space. His hands, wrapped around the coffee pot, look capable of terrible things. But he moves carefully. Precisely. Like he's always aware of exactly how much damage he could do and is actively choosing not to.
He pours two cups without asking if I want one. Slides one across the counter toward me.
"Thank you," I say softly, wrapping my hands around the warmth.
He nods. Takes a sip of his own coffee. Watches me over the rim with those grey eyes that see too much.
"The fiancé." No preamble. No easing into it. Just the question, direct and blunt. "What do you actually know about him?"
I hesitate.
It's embarrassing, how little I know. How blind I was. Eight months of dinners and flowers and whispered promises, and I never once thought to ask the questions that mattered. Never pushed when he was vague about work. Never wondered whyI'd never seen his office, never met his colleagues, never been introduced to anyone from his life before me.
"He said he was in business. Investments, consulting." I look down at my hands, wrapped around the mug. "He was always vague about it. I didn't push." A pause. "I should have pushed."
"What did you hear? Before you ran."
I tell him.
The cold voice. The way Dominic talked about me like property—she'll learn her place,easy to manage,too trusting for her own good. The references to my flower shop being useful. Good cover. Cash transactions. The sense that the man on that phone call was someone I'd never met before, someone who'd been wearing a mask for eight months and had finally let it slip.
"I don't know what he actually is," I admit. "I just know it scared me enough to run."
Grim is quiet for a moment. Processing. His expression gives away nothing—that same hard, flat look he's worn since he pulled up on the road last night. But something in the quality of his silence feels different. Heavier.
"You did the right thing."
Four words. That's all. But the way he says them—certain, absolute, like there's no room for doubt—loosens something in my chest that's been tight for hours. Days. Maybe longer.
"Thank you," I say again. It feels inadequate. Everything I say to him feels inadequate.
He just nods. Takes another sip of his coffee.
I'm hyperaware of him. The space he takes up. The rumble of his voice, low enough to vibrate in my chest. The way my skin prickles when he shifts his weight, moves even slightly closer. The kitchen is small enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, can smell that smoke-and-leather scent that's already starting to feel familiar.
It's ridiculous. I just ran from one man. I shouldn't be noticing another. Shouldn't be cataloging the way his shirt stretches across his back when he turns to set down his mug. Shouldn't be wondering how far down those tattoos go, what they'd feel like under my fingers, what his skin would taste like if I?—
I look away. Take a sip of coffee. Try to get my head on straight.
I notice anyway.
Later, I'm in the main room.
Grim disappeared after our conversation in the kitchen—said something about making calls, checking on things. I've been sitting on one of the worn leather couches, trying to look like I belong here, failing miserably. The other men in the room have been giving me a wide berth. Curious glances, but no one approaches. No one talks to me.
