“Inside,” a voice orders.It’s not the prospect.
I straighten slowly, pulse ticking up despite my best efforts.I walk through the gate alone, boots crunching on gravel, chin lifted, spine steel-straight.I don’t hesitate but I don’t rush.
Every step feels like crossing into a past that never really let me go.
He’s waiting near the clubhouse, half in shadow, half caught in harsh white light.Taller than I remember, or maybe I just forgot how much space he takes up when he decides to.Black hair threaded with silver now, tattoos crawling higher up his neck like they’re trying to choke the rage back down.His eyes are still that cold, cutting gray.
Dominic Kane.
Savage.
The President of the Sons of Sin Las Vegas chapter.
And the man who broke my heart without ever actually touching it.
His gaze locks onto mine, sharp and assessing, like I’m a weapon he hasn’t decided whether to use or dismantle.He doesn’t smile.Doesn’t move.Just watches me approach.
I stop a few feet away.
“Raven,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across steel.No warmth.No surprise.Just control.
“Savage,” I reply.“Still standing.Guess hell didn’t want you.”
A few nearby men stiffen.Someone mutters under their breath.I spot Saint off to the side, his brother, his shadow, watching us like he already knows this is going to get complicated.
Savage’s mouth twitches.Not a smile.Something more dangerous.“You’ve got some nerve coming here,” he says.
“Yeah,” I shoot back.“People keep telling me that.Usually right before they realize they underestimated me.”
His eyes flick over me—boots, jeans, leather jacket, the knife I didn’t bother hiding.He’s not leering.He’s cataloging.Filing all the details away for later.
“Are you alone?”he asks.
“Would it matter if I wasn’t?”
“It would,” he says flatly.
I step closer, just enough to test him.“Still trying to scare me, Kane?I thought we’d established that doesn’t work.”
Something dark flashes in his eyes.Anger.Heat.Something buried deeper that rattles when I poke it.
“We were never past anything,” he says.“You ran.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless.“Funny.I remember it as survival.”
The silence stretches between us, tight and electric.The men around us pretend not to listen and fail miserably.
Savage exhales slowly.When he speaks again, his voice is lower.Controlled.“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah,” I say softly.“Funny thing, I didn’t ask permission.”
For a second, I think he might grab me.Might make a point in front of his men.Instead, his hand comes up and grips my elbow, not rough, but not gentle either.Possessive.A warning wrapped in restraint.
My pulse jumps traitorously, and I hate myself for it.My body remembers his touch even though time has passed.
“Inside,” he says.“We’re not doing this out here.”
I don’t pull away.I don’t lean in.I meet his stare and hold it.
