"Watch their eyes when they're angry. A cruel man's eyes light up with pleasure when he hurts someone weaker. A protective man's eyes go cold with necessity when he eliminates a threat." She reaches over and squeezes my hand gently. "I saw Wrath's eyes when Bulldog was crowding you, they were cold as winter—pure protective instinct. But when he looks at you? They're warm. Tender. Like he can't believe you’re real."
The accuracy of her observation makes my breath catch. She’s right. That's exactly how he looks at me—like I'm a miracle he's afraid might disappear if he blinks too hard.
"I've never had anyone treat me like he does," I admit quietly, the confession scraping my throat like broken glass.
"I know, honey. It's written all over your face every time he walks in a room." Lizzie's voice gentles with maternal concern that makes my eyes sting. "Someone hurt you bad, didn't they?"
The question breaks something open inside, releasing pain I've carried for so long it feels like part of my bone structure. I nod, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I try to speak.
"Then you know the difference better than anyone. You know what it feels like when someone uses their power to hurt instead of protect." Lizzie's hand tightens on mine. "Trust your instincts."
The rumble of multiple motorcycles cuts through the moment. Through the open bay I see them turn into the compound—Steel’s Harley in the lead, flanked by Wrath and Diesel.
They park in formation. But something's wrong. Instead of the usual easy banter and casual dismounting, the men's body language screams tension. Several members immediately disappear into the clubhouse.
Whatever news they brought back, it's bad.
Wrath's gaze finds mine across the distance. Something in those ice-chip eyes makes my pulse stutter as he strides toward the garage.
"Everything okay?" I ask. He looks worried.
"Club business." He scans my face like he's cataloging every detail. "How was your day?"
"Good. Really good. Jigsaw thinks I could sell my artwork. Make real money and Lizzie is going to help me put together a portfolio.”
His gaze softens from concern to surprise and from surprise to heat. A slow smile stretches his lips.
He’s about to say something when Diesel appears. One look at his expression puts Wrath on high alert.
“Prez wants you. Now."
The ease vanishes from Wrath's frame. Tension snaps back like a rubber band. "Five minutes."
Diesel nods and leaves, shooting me a sympathetic glance.
"I have to handle this." Wrath's hand comes up, cups my jaw. His thumb strokes my cheekbone, callused and warm. “Stay inside." His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling it hammer. "Please."
That please convinces me he's worried. I nod.
He leans in. The kiss is bruising, possessive—claiming me in front of anyone watching. His other hand fists in my hair, angling my head back. When his teeth catch my bottom lip, I gasp. He takes the opening. Tongue sliding against mine, tasting like pure sin.
My fingers dig into his cut, pulling him closer.
He breaks away, breathing hard. Presses his forehead to mine. "Stay inside, baby. I mean it."
Then he's gone, striding toward whatever crisis demands his attention.
I spend the next hour helping Lizzie prepare dinner for an expanded group. Word went out for all available members to return. The kitchen bustles with organized chaos.
The dining room fills. I keep a watch out for Wrath, but haven’t seen him yet. Conversations are muted. Serious. None of the usual banter about bikes and women. Men check weapons with casual efficiency. Phones buzz constantly. The atmosphere hums with controlled aggression.
Something’s going on. I don’t know what, but it can’t be good.
I'm carrying a serving dish of Lizzie's famous cornbread to the long table when I glance out the front window and my entire world tilts sideways.
There, standing on the sidewalk across the street, staring directly at the clubhouse, is my father.
The serving dish slips from my fingers, shattering against the floor with a crash that draws every eye. But I barely register the concerned voices or moving figures as tunnel vision locks my gaze on the man who haunted my childhood and shaped my understanding of what true monsters look like.
