He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “If I wanted to screw you over, sweetheart, I wouldn’t be fixing your car.”
Her pulse jumped at the term of endearment, though she hated herself for it. She shifted her weight, her tone flat. “Don’t call me that.”
Butcher finally glanced up, eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, she thought she saw something flicker there—something heavy, something haunted. Then it was gone, buried beneath the same stoic mask he seemed to wear like armor.
Princess looked away, but not before noticing the scar that cut across his jaw. It wasn’t the kind of scar you got from an accident. It was the kind you earned in a fight, the kind that told her that he’d survived something brutal. She hated that part of her wanted to know the story behind his scar.
The sound of his tools filled the silence, metal clinking against metal. He worked with precision, but there was a weight in his movements, like every turn of the wrench carried more than just the burden of fixing her car.
“You don’t trust bikers,” he said finally, voice steady, eyes still on the engine. She hated that he seemed to have her all figured out already.
“I don’t trust men who think the world owes them something,” she shot back.
Butcher chuckled, though it wasn’t warm. “Then you’ve got me all wrong. The world doesn’t owe me a damn thing. I owe it.” The words hung between them, and Princess frowned, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. She wanted to dismiss him, to keep her walls high, but something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.
She watched him again, this time not just the scars but the shadows—the way his shoulders carried a weight she couldn’t name, the way his silence spoke louder than his words. For the first time, she wondered if Butcher wasn’t just some biker.
Maybe he was something else entirely. Something broken and dangerous. Something she should stay far away from.
Princess cleared her throat, garnering his attention away from her car. “Um, I’ll need to know where the closest hotel is if I’m going to be in town for a while,” she said.
He chuckled again, and this time, she thought back over what she had said that might have been remotely funny. “You’re not going to find any place to stay around here. The closest motel is three towns over. It will take you about four and a half hours to drive there, but without a car, you’re out of luck.” Yeah, her luck seemed to have run out about five states ago.
“Okay, then, where do out-of-towners stay around here?” she asked.
“We don’t get many out-of-town guests here,” he breathed.
“Well, I can’t sleep in my car,” she hissed, looking it over as though it offended her more than the man currently staring her down again.
He shrugged, “You can stay with me,” he offered. “I’ve got a spare room and spare bathroom, so you won’t have to share. It’s yours if you want it.”
Her gasp filled the space between them. “I couldn’t stay with you,” she insisted. “I don’t even know you.”
“Well, I don’t know you either, but the offer stands. It’s either my spare room or the office back there.” He nodded to the back room where he had come out of when she first arrived. “I’m betting that my desk would be pretty uncomfortable to sleep on, though.” He looked back under the hood, effectively ignoring her as she stood there trying to figure out what the hell she did to piss the universe off so much that she’d be put into this horrible position. Her own bathroom did sound nice. She hadn’t had a shower in almost three days, and the thought of sleeping on the hard desk in his office really didn’t appeal to her already aching back.
“Fine,” she spat. He didn’t bother to turn around to look at her. “I’ll take your spare room.”
“All right,” he said, his head still under the hood of her car. “We’ll leave in a few. I was about to call it a day when you rolled in here.” She didn’t say anything, just made a humming noise in the back of her throat. She was pretty sure it was a sound of disgust and not agreement, but he could take it anyway that he wanted.
She walked over to her car, popped the trunk, and got her suitcase and overnight bag out. Butcher shut the hood of her car and finally looked over at her, his smirk back in place. “Oh, and honey,” he drawled. “You’re welcome.”
She wanted to tell him to shove his “You’re welcome” up his ass, but she was pretty sure that the expression on her facealready did that for her. Butcher chuckled, shook his head at her, and walked back to his office, leaving her standing in the middle of his shop with her things. Princess wasn’t sure what she had just agreed to, but she was pretty sure that nothing good was going to come from staying with the biker who seemed to find her amusing. He’d figure out, sooner or later, that she was anything but amusing, and that would teach him.
BUTCHER
He knew the second she agreed that he’d just made a mistake—a big one. Butcher leaned against the workbench for a second longer than necessary after disappearing into the back office, dragging a hand down his face as her voice replayed in his head—sharp, controlled, pissed off at the world.
Her name was Princess. Christ—even her name sounded like trouble. He should’ve told her no. Should’ve pointed her toward the office couch and left it at that. It would’ve been smarter, safer, and cleaner. Instead, he’d offered her his spare room. He was taking her to his personal space—the place he went to when he needed peace and quiet. “I’m a fucking idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
He wasn’t a man who invited chaos into his life, usually. Not anymore. Not after everything that went down in Huntsville. Losing Savage had taken its toll, and he had learned the hard way what happened when you let people get too close. And that girl wasn’t just chaos, she was the kind of trouble that came wrapped in silk and secrets with a knife hidden behind her back.
He could feel it. Ten years of living alone had sharpened his instincts, not dulled them. And everything about her screamed wrong place, wrong time, wrong kind of woman for a town likethis. She was too polished, and too damn used to giving orders. And yet he’d seen the flicker in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. The crack in that perfect, bitchy armor she wore like a crown. He saw her fear, exhaustion, and even something deeper—something familiar, and that was the problem.
Butcher pushed off the workbench and grabbed his keys, stepping back out into the shop. She was still standing there, suitcase at her feet like she wasn’t sure whether to stay or bolt. She had her chin lifted and shoulders squared—like she was daring the world to take a shot at her. Yeah. He knew that stance because he’d worn it himself once.
“Ready?” he asked, voice rough, like none of this mattered. She looked at him like she was reconsidering every decision she’d made in the last twenty-four hours.
“Not really,” she shot back. “But I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” He smirked, grabbing her suitcase before she could protest.
