“I want you living here with me permanently,” I say, slow, clear, true. “If this threat is what gets you here faster, then fine. I’ll take it. But don’t expect me to want you to leave once it’s over.”
She freezes like her whole soul needs a second to catch up to her ears. Vulnerability feels like swallowing glass, but I don’t take back shit. “Blade,” she breathes, my name soft as silk and heavy as a vow.
I lift her chin so I can see every emotion flicker in her eyes. “You are not temporary to me,” I tell her. “You think I’m letting you walk away once this blows over? There is no chance in hell.”
Her eyes shine with something that knocks the wind out of me. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt as she rises onto her toes, pressing her forehead to mine like she needs skin-to-skin contact just to handle the moment.
My hands slide around her waist, anchoring her there. “You’re here now,” I murmur. “This is home. With me.”
She whispers back, voice soft and shaking with something big, “I don’t want to leave.”
A slow, dark satisfaction spreads through me. “Good,” I say, breathing her in like she’s oxygen. “Because now that I finally admitted what you are to me… I’m never letting you go.”
EIGHTEEN
BRI
It’sThursday afternoon that feels way too normal for my life lately. The shop smells like oil and tire rubber, Rev and Jax are elbow-deep in a custom build, and I’m sorting inventory while pretending I’m not staring at Blade every five minutes like a lovesick degenerate. He’s in the corner welding, tattoos on full display, and if OSHA knew how much hotter he makes protective eyewear look, we’d have a national crisis.
I’m mid-daydream when the shop door opens and the vibes instantly nosedive. The kind of nosedive where you know you’re about to watch a disaster and also grab popcorn.
The college douche brigade walks in. The same ones Blade shut down last month when they tried swinging their daddies money and demanding custom bikes.
Blade notices before anyone else because Blade always notices. He turns off the welder, lifts his visor, and gives a look that could peel paint off steel. A slow, dangerous look like he’s already picking out which bone he’ll break first.
The trio strolls in like they’re on a campus tour, not stepping into a den of people who could bury them and be back by lunch. The leader tries to act like the heat in here isn’t from the men watching their every move.
“We’re here about the bikes,” he says. “You said to come back when we were serious. We’re serious.”
Rev snorts without looking up. “You serious about dying?”
The kid ignores him. Bad choice.
“We want something with presence,” the second one adds. “Flashy. Like you guys.”
Switch wipes his hands on a towel and leans a hip on the lift. “Bro. You’re wearing loafers. Relax.”
Blade takes a slow step forward. The shop goes quiet in that way that says everyone is listening and no one wants to miss the moment this goes sideways.
“You want Reaper bikes,” Blade says.
“Yeah,” the leader confirms. “We’re ready to pay. Top dollar. So let’s cut the bullshit and talk business.”
Blade laughs once. A single, dead sound. “You got no clue what business you’re stepping into.”
Cologne Boy crosses his arms. “We got money. Isn’t money what matters?”
Lucky drifts closer, arms folded across his chest. “Money matters until blood shows up. Then money runs.”
The kid pretending to lead scoffs. “We can handle heat.”
“You sure?” Rev asks. “Cause you look like you cry if your DoorDash driver forgets extra sauce.”
Sunglasses steps up like he’s not terrified. “Whatever. We want the same look your guys have. Bikes. Cuts. Reputation.”
Blade’s eyebrow lifts. “Cuts?”
“Yeah,” Sunglasses says. “Like an official membership. We want in.”
