“You have. It's cleared with your boss. Come on, my ride is right out front.”
I rarely ride my bike to work, since the employee parking lot is notorious for break-ins, but no one seems to mind that Pitt’s Road King is parked right at the curb. “This area is for EMTs, you know,” I tell him as he takes a second helmet off his bike and hands it to me. “As annoying as this all is, a bunch of butterflies in my bed doesn’t constitute an emergency.”
Pitt swings onto his bike, his face grim under his visor. “Anyone who gets that close to you when you’re vulnerable is a threat. Agreed?”
I can still feel the echo of the panic in my belly when I saw the macabre display spread over me, but it’s hard to accept that it translates to a dangerous situation. If they wanted to hurt me, wouldn’t it have been easier to just stab me in my sleep? Like I told Pitt before, there are plenty of scalpels lying around if you know where to look. And the person on the CCTV seemed to know their way around, not even hesitating before they turned into the staff room. Could it be a colleague, a patient? Or was it someone who just walked in off the street with a bunch of dead butterflies in their backpack?
I slide on behind Pitt, his hand instantly pressing mine to his taut belly. I shiver at the warmth of his fingers compared to mine and he makes a low sound in his throat as he starts his bike. He’s warm all the way through, and I can’t help relaxing a little against his back, soothed by the familiar push and pull of wrangling a seven-hundred-pound machine through late evening traffic.
As I dismount the bike outside my apartment, I try not to notice the corded muscle in his arms or the matching vein in his strong neck. Everything about Pitt screams protection, even though I know his first loyalty will always be to his brotherhood. “Want me to come up?”
I shake my head, running my fingers through my helmet hair. “I’m okay. But can we just keep this between us? I don’t want Wings to worry over nothing.”
His mouth sets in a hard line. “You can’t keep shouldering everything yourself. I want to help, Abbie.”
“You did,” I say softly, glancing up towards my apartment window. “You brought him to me, remember?”
He leans back, folding his arms over his chest. “Is that it? Nothing else you want from me, sweetheart?”
It’s a good pose. A damn sexy one, in fact. The Road King is a striking bike, a stripped-back retro version of other Harleys. Pitt sits on it like it’s a chrome and steel throne, his muscular thighs hugging the bike in ways that tangle in my mind. The longer I study him, the stronger his scent grows, his mountain forest fragrance now edged with a musk that makes my mouth water. And then there’s the look in his pale green eyes. Challenging, because I have that effect on most alphas, but also sympathetic, like he knows that what I want and what I allow myself are two different things. “Wings is all the Iron Flyers I can take,” I tell him in a husky voice I haven’t heard in a long while.
To my surprise, the sympathy deepens in his gaze as he reaches out and snares one of my frazzled curls. “Because of the nightmares? I heard you a few nights back. Is it from being thrown out of the club when you were a kid?”
It’s actually refreshing hearing him put my trauma so bluntly. Maybe Janice’s therapist is on to something, because most people who know the bare bones of my story assume I was sent away for my own good. What early presenting omega would want to live with a clubhouse full of grown alphas, after all? “The nightmares came after. But it’s why I don’t owe the club anything.”
“I agree.” He rubs the strand of hair between his fingers, like he’s testing the quality of my shampoo. But there’s a dark gleam in his eyes, and I can taste his anger in the air. “They owe you more than they can ever repay, Abbie.”
“They?” I tap my fingers on the patch on his cut. “Aren't you part of the they?”
“I’m not who the club was when you knew it. And if I’d been there when you were a kid, they would've had to go through me to kick you out.”
My throat tightens at the sincerity in his voice. Everything about this man reminds me of what the club once meant to me. A father who was respected by all, a big brother who always had my back, and even my first alpha crush, who just might have grown into the man I wanted to make a life with. It’s a dangerous combination, and I feel my eyes burn as I lean forward, resting my head on his shoulder. He was talking about vulnerable moments, and this is about as raw as I get. “I’m not the kid I once was, either. I can take care of myself, Pitt.”
“I know.” His voice is a soothing rumble, but it’s the hand that presses lightly to the back of my head that makes my knees tremble. “I’ve been watching you, sweetheart, learning the way you move. You train?”
“Karate. Brown belt, but training for my Dan level at the end of the year.”
He nods, and I feel his energy change, his interest sharpening. “Damn. I'd love to spar with you, butterfly.”
I draw back from him, amused to find a competitive gleam in his eyes. “Maybe. Just as long as you don't pull your punches. I hate it when a guy sees an omega on the mat and backs off.”
“I respect you too much for that.” His lips quirk into a smile bordering on arrogance. “But you'll have to let me make it up to you after I put you on your ass, okay?”
I screw my hand into a fist and bounce it lightly off his chest. “Dream on, Alpha.”
He gives a semi-tragic sigh. “That’s all I've got, butterfly.”
Wings is waiting up for me, but when he tries to ask me about my shift, I kiss him into silence. Pretty soon, we’re both moaning, and as much as I want to wash off the night, I don’t want to give myself a chance to stew. Instead, I drop to my knees right there in the kitchen, clawing down his sweatpants and swallowing his dick like it’s a lifeline. He shouts as he grips the counter behind him, and I wonder if Pitt can hear him on the street. I imagine him staring up at our apartment window, jealous because Wings is getting so much more than just the fantasy to keep him warm at night.
More fool me, because as happy and sated as I feel in Wings’ arms, the nightmares still slither into my dreams. This time there are no faces, just a perfect monarch butterfly pinned down and burning alive.
I jerk awake, my hand reaching for the lattice of scar tissue on my back before I’ve even pushed myself upright. I groan and roll to the edge of my bed, the twisted sheets doing their best to hamper my efforts. I’ve just managed to kick them free whenI hear voices coming from the kitchen. Wings and Pitt, their words a low rumble that dies off altogether as I yawn my way over to the coffee machine. “You’re here late,” I tell Pitt. “Or early. You sure you’re not sleeping in the hall?”
He’s leaning against the counter, his boots crossed at the ankles and a piece of toast in his hand. He looks as good as he did last night, although I’m pretty sure his face hasn’t seen a razor this morning. “Sleeping is overrated.”
“Even when you have such nice dreams?” I shoot Wings a wink, but when I catch a glance between them, I huff in annoyance. “What? If you’re going to start talking about the club, can you wait until I’m in the shower?”
“Ark is asking to meet.”
