Blake parks the truck near the main building—a sprawling log structure that looks like a lodge gone feral. He kills the engine, and the silence follows, heavy and suffocating. He turns to me, taking off his sunglasses. His eyes are nearly black, twin pits of darkness, intense and searching.
He reaches out, cupping my jaw, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "Listen to me, Tiffany." His voice drops to that rough, intimate register that melts my insides. "In there... it’s different. Loud. Rough. My brothers are good men, but they’re animals. You stay by my side. If I have to step away, you stay exactly where I put you. Do not wander. Do not talk to anyone you don't know."
"You're scaring me," I admit, leaning into his touch despite the warning bells in my head.
"Good." His eyes narrow. "Fear keeps you alert. I need you alert until we put Ramon in the ground."
He doesn't wait for me to agree. His hand tangles in my hair, snapping my head back so hard my throat arches. "Open up," he growls against my lips, and then he’s inside, his tongue thick and wet, invading my mouth. He tastes of black coffee and raw aggression, claiming my breath as his own. He sucks on my tongue, the sound of our saliva thick in the quiet cab, while his other hand fumbles with my flannel, his knuckles grazing the soft swell of my breasts. He isn't kissing me; he's reminding me that every inch of my skin is his territory before we walk into that clubhouse. I moan into his mouth, my fingers digging into the corded muscle of his arms, my body instantly slicking for him.
When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide. "Let's go."
The clubhouse reeks of leather and sawdust. A thick, musk-heavy scent clings to the back of my throat. Blake keeps me tucked under his arm, his body a solid wall shielding me from the room.
We walk into a common area. A pool table sits in the corner, surrounded by smoke. A bar runs along the back wall. Several men look up as we enter. Their eyes land on Blake with respect, then slide to me with open curiosity. I feel like prey dropped into a pit of wolves.
"Blake," a deep voice booms. A man pushes off the bar and walks toward us. Massive, perhaps even broader than Blake, with dark hair and eyes that seem to see everything at once. He wears a patch that says PRESIDENT. This must be Logan.
"Prez," Blake acknowledges, his body tense.
Logan stops a few feet away, crossing his arms. He looks me up and down, not with lust, but with a clinical assessment. "So this is her."
"This is Tiffany." The steel in Blake's tone serves as a warning. "She's with me. She's staying."
Logan nods. "I heard about the perimeter breach. Two extraction specialists? Ramon is spending serious money."
"He's desperate. He knows I have her."
"We need to talk strategy." Logan’s gaze flicks to the hallway behind the bar. "War room. Now. Austin and Shane are already in there."
Blake stiffens. I feel his hesitation. He doesn't want to leave me.
"She stays here?" Blake scans the room.
"She'll be fine," Logan says. "Tristan is at the bar. He’ll keep an eye on her."
Blake turns to me, his hands gripping my shoulders. "I have to do this. It’s for your safety. Sit at the bar. Do not move. I'll be back in twenty minutes."
"I'll be okay," I lie, trying to sound brave. "Go."
He hesitates one last second, then kisses my forehead hard and follows Logan down the dark hallway. I am alone.
I walk to the bar, my legs feeling like jelly. The man behind the counter—Tristan—gives me a nod. He has kind eyes, softer than the others, but there’s still a dangerous edge to him.
"Whiskey?" he offers.
"Water, please."
He slides a glass of ice water toward me. I wrap my hands around it, trying to stop the trembling. I look around the room. A few women cluster by the pool table, dressed in leather and lace, laughing loudly. They glance at me and whisper, their expressions unreadable. I feel out of place in my flour-dusted jeans and one of Blake’s oversized flannels.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Anxiety starts to claw at my throat. My mind, scarred by years of Ramon’s gaslighting, begins to spiral.You’re a burden,the voice whispers.Look at this place. Look at these men. Blake is a soldier. You’re just a mission.
I need to use the restroom. I need to splash cold water on my face. I catch Tristan’s eye. "Restroom?"
He points to a door down the hall, the same direction Blake went. "Second door on the left. Don't go past the double doors at the end. That’s Church business."
"Thanks."
I slip off the stool and head down the hallway. The air is cooler here, the music muffled. I find the bathroom, wash my face, and stare at my reflection. My eyes look wide, haunted. My lips remain swollen from Blake's kiss.
