“How can we be done, when we haven’t even started?”
“Oh babe,” he murmured, a faint trace of something bitter in his voice. “We’ve definitely gotten started. Just because it’s not what you expected doesn’t mean it’s nothing.”
“Maybe it’s not enough. Maybe I want more. Need more.”
Brandi watched the flicker of fury spark in Tool’s eyes. She’d pushed him—she just didn’t know how far.
Tool stared at her, jaw tight. It was always the same argument. If she couldn’t accept what he was willing to give, maybe she wasn’t his after all. Maybe he needed to let her go.
“I’ll see you when I get back,” he said, low and final.
He pulled the door closed behind him. He hadn’t claimed her as his ol’ lady. Gypsy wouldn’t be happy. Soon. He’d deal with it soon.
“No, you won’t,” Brandi whispered.
The quietclickof the door sounded like a full stop. Brandi stood in the stillness, the echo of the door clicking shut still ringing in her ears
She stared at it for a long moment, the tears she’d been holding back all night finally slipping free. She didn’t wipe them away. All she’d wanted was for him to admit there wassomethingbetween them.
But maybe she was asking too much. She didn’t move for a long moment, just stared at the space he’d occupied seconds ago. Her chest rose and fell with shaky breaths, each one morepainful than the last. Finally, she blinked, and the tears blurred everything around her.
This time, she let them fall.
Not in silent hope. Not for sympathy. But because she was done waiting for something that might never come.
She turned toward the small dresser in the corner and pulled open the top drawer. Her hands trembled as she reached in, but she forced herself to stay steady. One item after another, she folded her clothes into a duffel bag, her movements slow but sure.
A pair of jeans. Two worn tees. An oversized sweatshirt she didn’t remember buying but wore on nights she missed the sound of his voice. She hesitated when her fingers brushed the edge of one of his shirts—left behind after a late night when he’d held her like he didn’t want to let go.
She pressed it to her chest for a heartbeat. Then shoved it in the bottom of the bag. She zipped it shut and took a step back, arms crossed tight over her chest, as if holding herself together.
He hadn’t asked her to stay. Not really. He’d just drawn another line. Another wall between them.
This time, she wasn’t going to sit on the other side of it and wait. She was leaving. Maybe for good.
Chapter Eighteen
The growlof engines echoed through the night as Gypsy and the boys rode out with Tailor’s crew, weaving through town like a shadow stretching across asphalt. The air was thick with the promise of violence, the scent of oil and leather mixing with the distant aroma of burning wood from a backyard fire pit.
As soon as they parked, Gypsy swung off his bike, reaching into his saddlebag. The cold metal of the chain felt familiar in his grip. He pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, flexing his fingers. His breath came slow and steady. There was no hesitation in his movements—this was muscle memory, a ritual as old as the club itself.
It was time to remind everyone who the fuck he was.
Brandi turned off the headlights as she eased the SUV to the side of the road. She’d lost her damn mind taking Quinn’s SUV without asking. She had been given the keys to hang on to, so was it stealing? She wondered.
She had kept her distance, trailing the bikes, but she had known when to backoff. Putting the truck in park, she turned off the lights and watched. Chewing on her thumb she needed to tell him the truth. Even if he couldn’t come to terms with what was between them. She shouldn’t have given him an ultimatum.
When Quinn had called Gypsy for help, Tool had come. Not just him—the entire club. They were here for her and the other women. To keep them safe.
Her heart sank as she watched the men arm themselves. The cold efficiency in their movements made her stomach knot. The tension in the SUV was suffocating.
Was this really happening? Were their men about to put their lives on the line—for what had happened to her. To Layla?
Brandi gripped the steering wheel, trying to calm the panic rising in her chest. Her breath came too fast, too shallow.
A sudden knock on the driver’s side window made her jump. Killer stood there, motioning for her to roll it down.
She hit the button, the window sliding down as she met his gaze. He wasn’t much older than her—maybe two or three years—but in that moment, she feltold. Maybe it was the weight of being at the center of the situation. Maybe it was knowing that no matter how strong she was, she couldn’t protect the man she loved from the choices he was about to make.
