Gravel crunches under my boots, a harsh, grounding sound. Tonight, it fails to settle my nerves. The mountain air is thin, crisp enough to freeze the moisture in a man's lungs, yet I feel like I’m suffocating. The scent of pine is usually a balm, but tonight it’s just a reminder of the vast, empty wilderness I’ve used as a shield for too long.
I just left the table at the clubhouse. Church was a nightmare. Logan prowling like a caged tiger, Austin sharpening knives with his eyes, and the tension with the Eastern Cliffs—the Costa family territory—singing like a wire pulled to its breaking point. We sit on a powder keg, and the fuse is shorter than I realized. As Sergeant at Arms, my job ensures that when it blows, we aren’t the ones bleeding out. I’m the man who makes sure the walls don't crumble, yet my own foundations are shaking.
For the first time in my life, my head wasn’t fully in the room. It was here. At this cabin. Thinking about what I did to her on that rug last night.
I stop at the edge of the clearing. The wind howls through the pines, a sound that usually makes me feel like the king of the world, alone and untouchable. Now, the chill just seeps into my bones. Through the front window, a warm, golden glow spills out onto the snow-dusted porch. It cuts through the darkness like a beacon, mocking the shadows I usually call home.
I shouldn't want the light. I’m a creature of the dark, built for violence and silence. But my feet move before my brain gives the command, drawn to that glass pane like a moth to an incinerating flame. I step closer, keeping to the shadows—old habits die hard—and look inside.
Bianca is there.
Air rushes from my lungs, driven out by an invisible sledgehammer to the ribs. She sits on the rug in front of the fireplace—the same spot where I claimed her, where I felt her pussy milking my cock until I saw stars, her tight, wet walls clenching around my shaft in a frantic, desperate rhythm that almost broke my control. She’s surrounded by a chaos of crayons and paper. Maddie is curled up against her side, small head resting on Bianca’s soft thigh, fast asleep. Bianca reads a book, lips moving silently as she traces the words while one hand idly strokes my daughter’s hair.
This scene belongs to a life I don't deserve, a ghost I thought I buried years ago. My daughter looks like a wildflower growing in a graveyard, and Bianca... Bianca is the sun that’s making her bloom.
She wears one of those oversized, ridiculous sweaters she loves—bright teal, hanging off one shoulder, revealing the creamy skin of her neck. Leggings cling to the curves I’ve obsessed over for days. Every time I close my eyes, I see her drenched and begging.Every time I breathe, I smell her—that seductive wild orchid and rain scent—clinging to my house, my furniture, my mind.
I grip the railing of the porch, the wood biting into my leather gloves. I claimed her last night—branded her on that rug until she screamed my name—but I told myself it was just a physical release. A way to quiet the beast. Looking at her now, holding my daughter with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, that lie crumbles. I didn't just claim her body; I’m starting to crave her soul. And that is a far more dangerous territory for an SAA to traverse.
I push off the railing and storm toward the door. I need to be inside. I need to be in that room, breathing that air, or I’m going to snap.
The front door opens with a heavy creak I’ve been meaning to fix. The sound cracks like a gunshot in the quiet room. Bianca’s head snaps up. Her eyes, wide and dark, lock onto mine. For a second, I see that familiar spark—the recognition of the predator. But she doesn't flinch. She doesn’t pull away like a sensible woman would when a six-foot-five biker stomps in smelling like exhaust and bad intentions.
She puts a finger to her lips, signaling me to be quiet for Maddie.
No one in the club breathes without my leave, yet she silences me with a single finger and a look that saysDon't you dare wake her.
I close the door softly. I lock it, sliding the deadbolt home with a decisive thud. I toe off my boots, the heavy leather hitting the floor with a sound that makes Maddie stir. She whimpers, little face scrunching up. Before I can move, Bianca murmurssomething soft, hand smoothing down Maddie’s back in a rhythmic, soothing motion.
"Shh, baby. It's just the mountain. Go back to sleep," Bianca whispers.
Maddie settles instantly, burrowing deeper into Bianca’s warmth. Acid burns a path through my throat as I watch her touch my daughter. I want to be the one burrowed into her side. I want those soft hands on me, soothing the jagged edges of my soul. I want to feel her pussy getting soaked for me again, but right now, the domesticity of the scene is a different kind of torture.
I walk into the living room, stripping off my cut. The leather feels too heavy tonight, like armor I’m desperate to shed. I toss it onto the armchair and stand over them, my shadow consuming the rug.
"She should be in bed," I rumble, voice rougher than intended.
Bianca looks up at me, craning her neck. Firelight dances over her features, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips. Those lips I spent an hour devouring last night. "She had a nightmare," she whispers. "She didn't want to be alone. Apparently, the 'grizzly' in the house was making too much noise earlier."
"I was at the clubhouse," I grunt, ignoring the jab. "What was the nightmare about?"
"Shadows," Bianca says, eyes searching mine. "Monsters in the dark. She said they had loud bikes and heavy boots."
I look away, jaw clenching. Me. I’m the monster she’s dreaming about. Or the world I’ve built around her is. "I’ll take her up," I say.
I bend down, expecting Bianca to move, but she stays put for a second longer than necessary. My hand brushes her arm as I reach for Maddie. Her skin is electric. A jolt goes straight up my arm and hits me in the groin, hard and fast. My cock twitches, remembering the wet, tight heat of her from the night before, how she felt when I was buried hilt-deep in her soaked opening.
I scoop Maddie up. She’s getting heavy, but she still feels like nothing in my arms. A fragile bird. I carry her upstairs, floorboards creaking under my weight. I lay her in bed, tucking the quilt around her chin. She looks peaceful now. Safe. Because of the woman downstairs.
I stand there in the dark for a long time, listening to the wind batter the house. Go to bed, Shane. Leave the girl alone. You’ve already marked her; don’t destroy her. But the pull is a physical tether, dragging me back downstairs.
When I return to the living room, Bianca is cleaning up the crayons. She’s on her hands and knees, reaching for a rogue blue one under the coffee table. The teal sweater rides up, exposing a strip of skin at her lower back, just above the curve of her ass. My vision tunnels. The beast inside me, the one I keep chained up in the basement of my psyche, rattles its cage.
"Leave it," I command.
Bianca freezes, then slowly straightens up, sitting back on her heels. She turns to face me, the crayon in her hand like a small weapon. No submission softens her gaze. Only defiance remains. Fire and honey.
"I'm just tidying up, Shane. It helps me think. And God knows I have a lot to think about after last night," she says, her voice gaining that city-girl edge.
