Rounds complete. Front door: locked. Deadbolt engaged. Windows: secured. Back door: locked. The security system panel glows a reassuring green. The house is a fortress. Nothing gets in.
The problem isn’t what’s outside. The danger stands right here in the kitchen, staring at the empty coffee pot.
I freeze in the archway.
She’s not in her room. She’s here.
Bianca stands by the kitchen island, illuminated only by the small light above the stove and the occasional flash of lightning from the window. Her back is to me. She wears one of those oversized t-shirts that hangs off her shoulder, the fabric thin and worn, reaching down to her mid-thighs. Below that, she’s bare. Legs that go on for miles, pale and creamy in the dim light, ending in socks with little cartoon bears on them.
Ridiculous. Innocent. It hits me in the gut like a sledgehammer.
She hums a low, soft melody that drifts through the heavy air, weaving around my defenses. She reaches up to a high cabinet, stretching onto her tiptoes. The movement pulls the hem of her shirt up an inch, revealing the curve of her backside, the soft indentation of her waist.
My vision tunnels. That familiar red haze washes over me, not with aggression, but hunger. Pure, unadulterated, predatory hunger.
Common decency dictates I clear my throat or announce my presence.
I stalk forward instead.
I move into the kitchen, the predator in me taking over. I pull out the gun and quietly place it on top of the fridge. She doesn’t notice me until I’m three feet away, until my shadow eclipses her light.
She spins around, a small gasp escaping her lips, clutching a mug to her chest. Her eyes go wide, pupils dilating instantly as they lock onto mine.
"Jesus, Shane!" she breathes. I can hear her heart rate spiking. I can almost taste the adrenaline flooding her blood. "You really need to stop doing that".
"You shouldn't be down here," I grate out. My voice sounds rough, scraped over gravel, deeper than usual because of the hour and the tension.
She blinks, recovering quickly. That’s the thing about Bianca—she’s resilient. Most people cower when I loom over them. She straightens her spine.
"I couldn't sleep," she says, her grip on the mug relaxing. "The storm. I came down for some tea". She glances at my chest, gaze lingering on the scars, the ink, the heavy muscle, before darting back up to my face. A flush rises on her cheeks. "Why are you stalking around in the dark?".
"I don't stalk," I lie. "I patrol. It's my house".
"Right. Your territory," she mocks, turning back to the kettle. She tries to play it cool, but I see the tremor in her hand as she reaches for the tea bag.
She wrecks my fucking control. And the little brat knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I step closer. I should get out of here, go to the garage, or hit something—anything but this. But I want her too much to stay away. I can't look at her without wanting to take her right here.
"I told you to lock your door," I say, my voice dropping an octave.
She stiffens but doesn't turn around. "I did. I unlocked it to come down here".
"You shouldn't be wandering around at night, Bianca".
"Why?" She spins around again, leaning back against the counter, trapping herself. "Are you afraid I'm going to paint the walls yellow? Or maybe uncover some dark MC secret in the cookie jar?".
Her sarcasm is a shield. I want to smash it.
I plant my hands on the granite countertop on either side of her hips, boxing her in. The air in the kitchen instantly becomes too thin, too hot. The space between us evaporates. I’m massive compared to her—my shoulders block out the rest of the room, my height forcing her to crane her neck to look me in the eye.
"I'm not worried about the walls," I growl, leaning down until my face is inches from hers.
Her scent hits me full force now. Exotic wild orchid, rain, and a primal warmth. It bypasses my rational brain and goes straight to the primitive stem that only knows want.
"Then what?" she challenges, though her voice is barely a whisper.
Her chest heaves, the thin shirt straining over her tits. Her nipples are hard, poking against the fabric, and I can smell that she is already slick and pulsing for me, her pussy leaking through the thin cotton of that shirt.
