He doesn’t block the door.
For a second, I see the fight in him. Every possessive, biker, brutal instinct clawing to grab, keep, claim. His hands curl at his sides. His jaw locks. His body goes still with the effort of not becoming the man I just accused him of being.
Then he steps back.
One step.
It is the first thing he gives me that doesn’t hurt.
Darling moves with me toward the back hall. Disco screams behind us.
“¡Pretty Lady! ¡No roses!”
I almost break.
Almost.
At the door, I stop and look back.
Shady stands in the middle of Vice Ink, bleeding through his shirt, surrounded by brothers, smoke, and every truth heshould have told me before another woman turned them into weapons.
His eyes are on me.
Only me.
“Lady,” he says.
I should keep walking.
I don’t.
“What?”
His mouth twists, not a smile, not even close. “I’m still coming.”
My pulse jumps.
“Don’t.”
“I heard you. I’m not following tonight. I’m not dragging you back. I’m not putting guards on you and calling it romance.” His voice drops, dark and certain. “But I’m still coming. When you’re ready to make me bleed for it, I’ll be there.”
My body lights up in all the wrong places. I hate that even hurt, bleeding, and furious, I still know what his voice would feel like against my skin in the dark.
Damn him.
Damn me.
Damn Miami for making every bad decision look good under neon.
I lift my chin.
“Bring better answers next time, gringo.”
His eyes burn.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I walk out with Darling before I can run back. Before grief turns into want. Before want turns into forgiveness neither of us has earned.
