“I do,” I shoot back, sharper than I mean to. My arms fold tight across my chest, like the posture alone could prove him wrong.
His eyes drop then lift slow, steady, like he’s seeing right through the lie. His silence needles at me, like he’s already peeled back every layer I’ve tried to hide behind. I shift, forcing my weight to one leg, my chin tilting up.
“You don’t have to look at me like that,” I mutter. “I said I’ve got somewhere.”
Shadow leans a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, all calm authority. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be hanging around here killing time.”
I let out a short, humourless laugh. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”
He doesn’t blink. “I think you’re stubborn. And I think you’d rather chew glass than admit when you need help.”
The words land harder than I expect, but I don’t flinch. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Lucky for me, I don’t need help.”
I turn, ready to walk away, but his voice follows, low and steady.
“Then prove it. Don’t let me catch you drifting in here like you’ve got nowhere to be.”
I pause, spine stiff, refusing to give him even a glance. Then I go over to Roxy. “I have to get out of here.”
She frowns, her eyes flicking behind me to where Shadow is probably still watching. “Oh. Okay. Look, if you finish early, stop by here and get the key. Don’t wait on me getting home, I might meet with Dean anyway.”
I smirk. “Dean? The guy you met last week?”
She nods and I kiss her on the cheek and head out.
I walk ten minutes before stopping outside the gates of the Hell’s Avengers. Behind the metal railings sits a warehouse type building similar to the Chaos Demons.
I tap out a quick text to Ragnor and wait for the main door to swing open. He grins the moment he crosses the carpark, unlocking the gate.
“When you said you were stopping by, I didn’t realise you meantright now.”
“I had some time to kill,” I shrug.
His eyes sweep me up and down as he quickly releases the lock, then holds the gate open. “Axel said he’s fine with you picking up some shifts,” he adds, hand brushing the small of my back as he guides me toward the building.
Inside, it feels familiar, like the Demons’ clubhouse, only quieter. Worn couches, a scratched-up pool table, a huge screen blaring country music. A handful of bikers linger, but the hum of conversation is low, almost casual.
“My office,” he says, nodding to an open door.
We step inside, and he drops onto the chair behind the desk. I sink into the one opposite, careful to keep my posture straight.
“So,” he starts, leaning back, “you need work?”
I nod.
“Anything in particular?”
I shake my head. “I can clean, do bar work, whatever you need.”
He smirks. “You’d be wasted behind a bar. And I’m not sure how I feel about you scrubbing floors.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“A pretty lady like you doesn’t belong on her knees scrubbing other people’s mess,” he says smoothly, eyes locking on mine.
I arch a brow, refusing to let him see I’m flustered. “Oh yeah? Then wheredoI belong?”
