I paused in the doorway, looking back at them, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. “Yes.”
Ghost shook his head slowly, a warning in his eyes. “This is going to end violently.”
Knox groaned. “Jesus Christ.”
Diesel laughed, clearly reveling in the chaos. “Man’s about to start a war over cinnamon rolls.”
I pushed the door open and stepped outside, the cold night air hitting my face like a slap. My bike waited in the gravel lot, black and heavy, a beast ready to be unleashed.
I swung a leg over the seat and started the engine, the roar filling the quiet night, drowning out everything but the thought running through my head: Emma Blake. Leaning on my bikes, flirting with my men, hanging up on me.
A slow, dangerous smile spread across my face as I pulled onto the road. She wanted to push me? Fine. Let’s see how much she liked it when I pushed back.
Seventeen
Emma
I'm standing in my bedroom, folding laundry when the music shifts to a heavier beat. The speaker on my dresser isn’t loud—just enough to fill the silence that settles in the house at night. I can't stand silence, so I let it play while I prepare for bed.
The air is warm, infused with the scent of freshly laundered cotton and a vanilla candle flickering beside my bed. I’ve cracked the window open, allowing the cool night breeze to brush against my bare legs.
I'm dressed in tiny sleep shorts that ride high on my hips and a thin tank top that clings to my body. My hair is twisted up in a messy bun, already beginning to unravel, with loose strands brushing my neck. No makeup. No bra. Just me and a pile of laundry waiting to be folded.
I fold a shirt and toss it into the basket, swaying my hips to the rhythm of the music. It’s a simple movement, barely a dance, just a way to pass the time.
Another shirt folded, my hips roll again. I reach for a pair of shorts, folding them with care. I hum softly as I turn in a slow circle, reaching for the next piece of clothing.
The house is quiet—peaceful.
But then, without warning, I don’t hear the door open. I don’t hear footsteps. I’m lost in the music, swaying, when suddenly, a solid body presses against my back.
I freeze.
A sharp inhale catches in my throat as something hard presses against me from behind, and a rough hand wraps around my throat. My body goes still, heat flooding through me in an instant.
I know that hand. I know that body. More than anything, I know that scent—leather, smoke, something dark and masculine that hits me like a punch to the chest.
Hawk.
His chest presses into my back as he leans down, his mouth dangerously close to my ear. His voice is low, rough, possessive. “Did I tell you you could stop grinding on my dick?”
A shiver runs down my spine. My body betrays me, and I instinctively push my hips back against him, grinding lightly.
His grip tightens slightly, a dark rumble vibrating through his chest. For a brief moment, I melt, my eyes fluttering shut. God, I missed him. “You think you can hang up on me?”
But then reality crashes back. It's been a week—seven days since he vanished like a ghost.
No explanation. No word. Nothing.
Anger flares inside me, heating my chest. Before he can react, I twist sharply in his grip, shoving against his arm to spin around and face him.
It works—for a moment. He wasn’t expecting it. I step back, glaring up at him. “Are you serious right now?” I snap.
Hawk stands there like a wall of muscle, unyielding in the dim light. My heart races as I continue, “You disappear for a week. No message, nothing. And now you just break into my house like nothing happened?”
His eyes darken.
“And what—” I gesture between us, fuming. “You think you can just show up whenever you want—”
