A motorcycle rolls in.
Low rumble. Heavy engine. The kind that makes the air vibrate in your bones.
My blood goes cold and hot simultaneously.
Elijah turns his head, expression sharpening, shoulders tensing like he’s ready to step between me and whatever’s coming. The bike cuts through the lot like it owns the ground and stops beside the curb with a slow, controlled ease that feels like a threat wrapped in patience.
Oaks swings off.
He’s in dirty jeans, black boots and a dark tee that clings to his chest, and over it is his black leather vest that reads V.P. His hair’s damp like he washed up and didn’t care if it dried right. However, his beard is dense and perfectly groomed. His gaze is mesmerizing, yet chilling at this moment.
He takes one look at Elijah.
Then he looks at me.
And it feels like somebody reached inside my ribcage and squeezed.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod polite. He doesn’t play friendly. He steps toward me with that quiet control that makes my stomach flip and my temper flare.
His gaze drops to Elijah’s proximity, the way he’s standing too close like he has a right.
Oaks’ mouth tightens.
“Evenin’,” Oaks says, but it ain’t a greeting. It’s a warning with manners.
Elijah’s chin lifts. “Evenin’.”
The two words hang between them like a fuse.
My gas clicks off and I jump. I shove the nozzle back into the pump too fast and my hands go clumsy.
Oaks’ eyes flick to my hands, then back to my face. “You alright?”
His voice is low and controlled, but there’s something under it that makes my skin heat. Possessive. Protective. Pissed.
“I’m fine,” I snap, because the week of quiet just shattered and I hate that part of me is relieved to see him.
Oaks’ gaze drags over me like he’s checking for bruises, like he’s counting my breaths, like he memorized the shape of my fear.
Then his eyes cut to Elijah again.
“Who’s this?” he asks me, but he’s looking at Elijah like he already knows.
I lift my chin. “This is Elijah Notes.”
Elijah offers a hand because he’s polite and normal and doesn’t understand that biker etiquette doesn’t include handshakes when another man is standing too close to something he thinks is his. At least his to protect.
Oaks doesn’t take it.
He stares at Elijah’s hand like it’s a snake.
Elijah slowly drops it, face flushing with irritation.
“I’m just talking,” Elijah says, measured. “She was alone.”
Oaks’ gaze snaps to me. “You been alone?”
I hate how that lands like accusation and plea at the same time, like he’s mad at me for existing without him.
