Page 8 of Tempted By Shadow

“King asked me to keep an eye on you,” he says. “I was doing my job.”

“Your job.” I let the word hang there, sharp-edged. “Right. Because babysitting the President’s reckless little sister is definitely what you signed up for when you started prospecting.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me with those dark eyes, steady and unreadable.

The coffee maker beeps. I pour two cups, carry them to the table, and sit down across from him. He wraps his hands around the mug but doesn’t drink. Neither do I.

“How long have you been prospecting?”

“Two years.”

“That’s a long time.” Most guys either patch in or wash out within a year. Two years of prospect work is either impressive dedication or something else entirely. “King’s really making you earn it, huh?”

“Something like that.”

I take a sip of my coffee. It’s burned, bitter, exactly as bad as I expected. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

“Not really.”

“Is that a prospect thing, or you thing?”

He almost smiles. Almost. It’s like he caught himself before he could slip. “Both, I guess.”

I’ve seen plenty of club guys. Grew up surrounded by them — the loud ones, the charming ones, the dangerous ones who smile too easy and lie even easier. I know the type. I know how they work, how they talk, how they look at women like we’re prizes to be won or problems to be managed.

Shadow doesn’t fit the mold.

He’s young — younger than most prospects I remember — but there’s nothing cocky about him. No swagger, no false confidence, no attempt to fill the silence with bullshit just to hear himself talk. He takes everything seriously in a way that’s almost painful to watch. The coffee. The conversation. The way he’s holding himself, like one wrong move will bring the whole house down.

And the way he watches me. He thinks he’s being subtle about it, but I can feel his eyes tracking me whenever I move. Not in a creepy way — not like the guys Tyler used to bring around, who looked at me like I was something to be passed around. More like he can’t help himself. Like I’m a problem he doesn’t know how to solve, and he’s trying to figure out the answer.

“How’d you end up with the Sons?” I ask.

The question lands differently than the others. I watch something shift behind his eyes — walls going up, or maybe coming down. Hard to tell.

“I was hanging around the clubhouse before I started prospecting,” he says, looking at his hands. “Odd jobs. Washing bikes, running errands. I didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

“And King noticed you.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I fucked up. Got into some trouble. King got me out of it. Gave me a shot at something better.”

It’s the most he’s said all night. And it’s the most real thing either of us has said since he walked through my door.

“So you owe him,” I say.

“Everything.” No hesitation. No qualification. Just that single word, heavy with meaning.

I should leave it there. Should let him have his walls and his loyalty and his uncomplicated devotion to my brother. But I’ve never been good at leaving things alone.

“Is that why you’re here? Because you owe him?”

His eyes came up to meet mine. “I’m here because you invited me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

We stare at each other across the table. The coffee sits between us, cooling, forgotten. Something in the air has shifted — charged in a way I can’t ignore, no matter how hard I try.