“Sure.” He wipes his hands on a rag. “But until then, you’re safe here.”
Safe. The word hits harder than I expect.
For a heartbeat, I believe him. I believe these walls are solid enough to keep everything bad out. Then my throat tightens. Safe. The last man who promised me that used the same word. Used it until I believed him. Until believing cost me everything.
I step back.
“I don’t do this,” I say. “Whatever this is.”
Breaker’s brow furrows. “This?”
“This... thing. Men. Relationships. Bikers who think they can fix what’s broken. I’m not looking for a savior.”
His mouth curves into something that’s not a smile exactly, but close. I don’t blame him; there’s more than a flicker of a lie in what I just said. As much as I want to escape, to flee to somewhere safe and start over anew, there’s a part of me that would love to be held by someone who I could be sure wouldkeep the darkness in my past at bay. Someone that could hold me so that I could rest. That I could sleep without worrying about the things in the dark.
I just wish the man who was in front of me wasn’t the same type of darkness that I’m running from.
“Good,” he says. “I’m not your savior.”
That should end it, but it doesn’t.
The air between us crackles, sharp and hot. I hate how aware I am of his size, his voice, the quiet steadiness of him. I hate that my body feels safe around the type of man my mind still fears.
I turn away before he can see too much, but I don't want him to get the last word in.
“I should get to work."
"Kitchen opens at noon today," he says behind me. "Stacy — Mayhem's ol' lady — is bringing in cupcakes later. There's coffee on the bar. Molly made a fresh pot half an hour ago. Should still be some left if Ranger or Claire haven't gotten to it. Take your time. Rest."
I don't thank him. I don't look back.
But as I walk away, I feel his eyes on me, heavy and careful, like he's already memorizing the way I move.
And for the first time in a long time, I'm scared — not of what's chasing me.
But of what might happen if I stop running.
Chapter Eight
Breaker
The guys won’t shut up about the new girl.
I thought maybe after a few hours, they’d let it go — find a new plaything, another target for their endless appetite for gossip. But when you live in a concrete box with more than a dozen men who’ve never outgrown high school, the smallest shift in the hormone profile is like a bomb detonating in a closed room. They circle it, sniff at it, poke with sticks.
Reaper’s leaning against the bar, arms crossed just loose enough to show off the new tattoo curling up his forearm. The smirk on his face says he’s seen this movie before and he knows exactly how it ends. “You sure she’s just crashing for safety, prospect? 'Cause I saw you looking at her like she’s the last beer in the cooler.”
I don’t rise to the bait. Instead, I pour myself a coffee from the battered carafe, and it tastes like burned diesel and old pennies, but it’s enough to keep my hands busy.
“Come on, Breaker,” Tank says, his broad shoulders shaking as he laughs. “She’s cute. Sweet. Makes good coffee. And I heard she invented a new sandwich the other day that was just incredible. What’s not to like?”
I take a slow sip, staring into the cup.
“Everything,” I say. “She’s trouble.”
Diesel elbows Tank, nearly knocking over his own beer. “Trouble’s your favorite flavor, man. We all know it. Rememberthe bartender in Eugene? Or that time with the twins in Astoria?”
Tank chokes on his beer. “That’s right. The twins. You ever hear from them again?”
