"Sure thing, Prez," he says, and there's a thin edge of mockery in his voice. "Whatever you say."
He walks past me, heading for the clubhouse.
I don't turn to watch him go.
I stay in the parking lot, smoking my cigarette down to the filter, staring at the spot where he had her pinned.
Where her feet barely touched the ground.
Where the terror in her eyes told me everything I needed to know.
I should let it go.
Should file it away as someone else's problem.
Should focus on the dozen other fires I've got burning that need my attention.
I can't.
Her eyes.
Brown and empty and full of fear.
They're burned into my brain, branded there, impossible to forget.
I don't understand what I'm feeling.
This tightness in my chest.
This cold rage simmering beneath my skin.
I've spent years learning to control my emotions, to lock them down, to be the cold and calculated leader this club needs.
One look from a broken woman, and all of that control is cracking.
I crush the cigarette under my boot and head back inside.
I don't look for her. Don't seek her out.
But I'm aware of her—where she's standing, how she's holding herself, the way she flinches every time Cain gets too close.
I watch her for the rest of the night, telling myself it's nothing.
Just observation. Just information.
But when they leave—Cain's arm around her shoulders, her body stiff with tension—I make a decision.
I'm going to find out what's happening behind closed doors. And if it's what I think it is...
Cain's going to learn that there are some lines even an Enforcer doesn't cross.
Not in my club, and damn sure not on my watch.
CHAPTER 3
Ripley
I can still feel his hand on my throat.
