I turn around, pulling her into a firm hug. “The minute you can stay up until midnight. I am getting you plastered.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she whispers, hugging me harder for a second before stepping back. “Now go rock those boys’ worlds.”
I laugh as I turn toward the hallway, only for her to smack my ass. I yelp, she cackles, and then I’m alone.
The music thumps beneath me. Voices rise into a restless, drunken roar. The closer I get to the stairs, the more the air thickens with smoke, tension, and something like electricity.
And I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve handled worse than a room full of Raiders. I once had an entire cartel hunting me before I even knew Cast was my brother. But my stomach still twists. Because Asher is going to see me like this. And Isaiah. Both of them wired into my nerves in completely different ways. Both of them too easy to read and too impossible to look away from.
And the truth sits heavy and bright in my chest: I want to see them break for me. I want them to openly want me. The way Xavier did without hesitation. The way Isaiah does every time I breathe in his direction. I want Asher to crack—just once—because of me.
Is that so bad?
I reach the top of the staircase.
Asher and Isaiah stand at the bottom, heads bowed close, mid-argument—until they look up.
Asher’s gaze sweeps over me slowly, starting at the boots, tracing the line of my thighs, lingering at the leather hugging my hips, drifting up the sliver of exposed waist, the neckline of my shirt sliding off one shoulder, and finally landing on my face with a shock of heat behind his eyes. His breath leaves him in a quiet, involuntary exhale I shouldn’t hear but do.
Isaiah, on the other hand, doesn’t bother with subtlety. His jaw goes slack, then clamps shut in a way that screams control, the kind that fails after half a second. His eyes rake my body with reverence and hunger tangled so tightly I feel it like hands on my skin.
Isaiah leans in, voice near my ear as he says, “Fuck, Angel. Are you trying to kill us?”
His hand slides from my wrist to the small of my back, fingers splaying over exposed skin with a reverence that feels sinful.
If Xavier saw this—saw me in this outfit, saw Isaiah touching me like I was something he could claim, saw the way Asher is looking at me like he wants to drag me out of the room and into the dark. He would want me to change. He would want me to stay dressed like that just for him. Maybe he’d pull me close and snarl in my ear the way he always used to before saying something cutting, or maybe he’d haul Isaiah off me so fast the walls would shake.
The thought leaves my pulse thudding in my throat.
Isaiah’s hand steadies at my back. “Come on, Angel,” he murmurs, stepping closer until the heat of his body surrounds mine. “Let me take you in.”
He leads me forward with a gentle but possessive pressure at my spine, and I let him, though I can feel Asher’s gaze burning between my shoulder blades as we walk.
The moment we enter the main room, the air changes. The music is thick—bass rolling like thunder under the floorboards. Lights are low and warm, casting everything in gold and shadow. Raiders line the walls, crowd the pool table, lean over the bars, talk in low voices; they turn when they see me, expressionsshifting through surprise, interest, hesitation, and in more than a few cases, something like… approval.
Isaiah’s hand stays on my lower back, guiding me deeper into the party. Every time his thumb brushes my skin, heat spirals up my spine. His touch is gentle but proprietary, a warning to the room, a promise to me. Losing Xavier for two weeks has turned him into something raw—more protective, more dangerous, more easily undone. I can feel it in every small movement he makes around me.
People approach. I meet each of them with calm confidence, feeling every glance Asher and Isaiah exchange behind me. I speak to a few older members, listen to complaints about routes and storage issues, laugh softly at jokes that take the edge off the tension. I compliment a patched member’s wife on her hair, ask about someone’s new bike modifications, make small but sincere connections.
It surprises them. It surprises me.
Every interaction smooths the atmosphere a bit, earning nods and murmured approvals. Jackie was right—I don’t need people to fall in love with me. I just need them to stop rooting for my downfall.
Asher appears beside me with a drink, holding it out like an offering. His fingers brush mine when I take it, a soft glide of skin on skin that leaves a trail of awareness racing up my arm.
“Pace yourself,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath grazes my cheek. “I need you sharp.”
“You always need me sharp,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies, eyes dropping unconsciously to the leather hugging my thighs. “Tonight more than ever.”
Isaiah hears us and steps closer, brushing the back of his hand along my hip like he’s calming a wild animal—or claiming one. “You want water instead?” he asks, voice surprisingly gentle. “I can get you water.”
“I’m fine,” I say softly, and he relaxes, but not fully. Neither of them relaxes around me. They orbit me like I’ve become gravity.
The music shifts, deepening, slowing, the beat turning thick and rolling. Asher takes my glass from me and sets it on a nearby table, his fingers sliding along the side of my wrist as he frees my hand. His eyes lift to mine with intention sharpened into something dark.
“Dance with me,” he says, not quite a command but not a question either.
