Neon buzzes ahead like a miracle.
A bar.
Not a cute bar. A rough one. Bikes lined up out front, chrome catching the streetlights. Men smoking by the door, big silhouettes in leather cuts and patches like warnings.
The sign above the entrance flickers:
Throttle & Tomb.
I don’t hesitate.
I shove inside.
Heat and noise slam into me. Beer, smoke, leather. Music thumping low and heavy. Conversations falter. Heads turn.
I feel every stare like pressure. My curves make me too visible, my dress too out of place, my panic too obvious. I tug my cardigan closed again, trying to make myself smaller.
It doesn’t work.
So I move.
I scan the room, desperate for someone who looks like they could help.
And then I see him.
He’s at a table, alone, angled so he can see the whole room without trying. Big. Rugged. Dark hair. Beard. The kind of shoulders that fill space. He’s wearing a black leather cut. The back is turned partly away, but I catch the edge of a skull design, stark and brutal.
He looks like trouble.
He looks like the kind of trouble that makes other men behave.
His eyes lift and lock on me.
Piercing blue. Cold at first glance, but not empty. Focused. Like he’s reading my face instead of my body, clocking the fear, the shaky breath, the way my gaze keeps flicking toward the door.
And for one stupid second, something inside me steadies.
Like my body recognizes him as the strongest thing in the room.
The door behind me opens again.
Cold air sweeps in.
Footsteps hit the floor.
My heart drops straight into my stomach.
I don’t turn around. If I turn around, I’ll freeze.
I walk straight to the table.
Up close, he smells like clean soap and smoke, like leather warmed by skin. He’s bigger than I expected, rugged in a way that makes the room feel smaller.
His gaze stays on my face.
His voice is low when he speaks. “You lost, angel?”
I expect a smirk.
