The handwriting scrapes at my mind, unearthing a weird, nagging sense of déjà vu. It’s just ink from some obsessed stranger, nothing more. But I’ve been staring at this same pretty script for months, and it’s starting to feel like it knows me back.
That logic does nothing to stop the slow, cold awareness creeping up my spine.
It isn’t exactly fear or annoyance twisting inside me. It’s something far more volatile and consuming. It's a feeling that makes my pulse race.
Interest. Raw and real. Dangerous, too.
So I force my face blank, unimpressed. No way in hell am I letting these assholes see my pulse spike over a damn plush toy and a vaguely suggestive note from my stalker.
I don’t have to glance around the room to know all eyes are on me. Their thick, predatory curiosity saturates the air. Of course they are. Why the hell wouldn’t they be? A fucking outlaw biker getting a plushie from a stalker?
I fold the note once, then again, slow and deliberate, pretending I’m not torn between burning it to ash or hiding it away for safekeeping.
Cypher is the first one to break.
“Cute handwriting,” he says, leaning back against the bar next to his partners with a shit-eating grin. “Real romantic serial killer vibes.”
A few chuckles ripple through the room, but I don’t move my eyes away from the plushie I’m holding by the ear. It dangles loosely from my hand like it bores the hell out of me instead of feeling weirdly, disturbingly personal. “It’s pathetic.”
The dismissive words slide out easily, as if my brain isn’t still replaying the phrase "keep you warm at night"on a very inappropriate loop.
Pope snorts. “Your stalker sounds real concerned about your sleeping arrangements, Tomcat.”
Laughter erupts, voices overlapping, as my brothers continue to rib me.
They’re loving this shit.
Ducky leans in, eyes locked on the plushie with open curiosity. Instinctively, I draw it closer with a small, possessive gesture I barely register.
“You gonna cuddle it, brother?” he asks, grin wicked.
I look down at the ridiculously soft cat, fighting a smirk because damn, it’s cute. The fur glides under my thumb,absurdly gentle, and something dark and amused stirs in my chest. A wild warmth spreads as I stare at the damn thing.
Because this woman, this unseen, obsessive little shadow, has balls. Balls bigger than some men I know.
“Yeah,” I deadpan, lifting my gaze. “That’s exactly what I’mnotgoing to do. There are more fun ways to keep me warm at night.”
My brothers explode into laughter right on cue, just like I expect them to. It’s a textbook Tomcat line. Polished, cocky, and dripping with that carefully curated playboy bullshit I’ve spent years perfecting.
But the truth is, I probably damn well would cuddle this fucking thing.
All damn night.
Underneath the noise, a subtle shift creeps in. Their eyes flick to the plushie, amusement sharpening into something tense. The air tightens, laughter fading into watchful silence.
Pope’s laughter fades first. “Gate camera catch anything?”
Grins fade as silence settles after Pope’s question. Laughter is one thing, but a security breach is a whole different beast.
Cypher is already moving, fingers flying across his laptop. The blue glow of the screen reflects along his skin. Camera angles flood the display—gates, perimeter, drive—every inch of club surveillance cycles in rapid succession.
He glances at Pope, then me, and shakes his head slowly. “Nothing.”
My spine goes rigid before I can stop it. Something sharp and electric snaps awake inside me. No footage. No vehicle. No sign of approach. Nothing to track, nothing to hunt.
Instead of fear or anger, a dark, unsettling thrill curls through my chest. This means whoever my stalker is got past club surveillance. She, and I’m definitely leaning more toward my stalker being a woman, got close. She got close enough totouch our fucking gate. Without anyone seeing, without anyone hearing, without a single goddamn trace of her existence except the gift now sitting in my hand.
Jesus Christ. Who the hell are you, little shadow?
