Page 44 of Contracted to the Bikers

Chapter 18

Rook

I hear her before she knocks, the familiar sound of her confident strides, nervous, hesitant. She shifts in the hallway, hovering outside the door. I can imagine her hand paused before striking, knowing that once she’s knocked, there’s no going back, no claiming ignorance.

I’m at my desk, the office dim except for the low light over the paperwork I’m not reading. I’ve been expecting this day to come since the moment Sloane started digging deeper. From the moment she stopped asking questions out loud and started answering them on her own, I knew that sooner or later, she’d find out the truth. Sloane Mercer doesn’t miss things. There’s no keeping secrets from her, and I’ve been sitting on a big one.

The knock comes, soft and controlled, no hesitation once she’s made up her mind. I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. “Come in.”

The door opens, and there she is. My heart stutters every time I see her. I don’t think that part’s ever going to change. Every day, I find new things to admire, new hidden depths. She’s not dressed for court anymore. Gone are the sharp suits and armor she walked in here wearing the first day. She’s softer now, still put together, still precise, but real, comfortable, dare I say it, at home. The thought of this being her home makes me warm. Her hair’s loose, falling over her shoulders, conjuring images of her straddling me, hair flung back as she moans.

There’s a crease between her brows, faint but there, like she’s been thinking too hard for too long. Her eyes lock on mine immediately, direct and unflinching. Sloane isn’t afraid to have difficult conversations.

She closes the door behind her, the door clicking shut with ominous finality. “You knew,” she says without build-up or preamble. Sloane doesn’t mince her words or dance around the truth. I appreciate it. Her directness is one of the many things I admire about her.

I nod once. “Yeah.” There’s no point lying. Not to her. Not now. Not ever.

She steps further into the room, slow, deliberate, like she’s in play, the conversation already mapped out in her head. She fizzes with tension, no doubt expecting one of the explosive arguments that plagued us when we first met. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that guy to her.

Her shoulders shift, her eyes flick just slightly, not away, but inward as she processes the implications. She moves to the desk and sets a folder down in front of me. “I found this buried in the acquisition records,” she says. “Briggs’ company made a formal offer to buy the clubhouse land eight months ago.”

“I know.” I don’t soften it or make excuses, there’s no hiding the truth.

Her fingers rest on the edge of the desk. “And this,” she adds, tapping the second document, “is an internal memo. Preliminary consideration.”

Silence settles between us. She isn’t angry like I would have expected. Somehow, her disappointment stings worse than her rage would have. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she asks. There’s no heat behind her words, no accusation. That almost makes it worse.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. “Because I didn’t want it to become a discussion,” I say. “They elected me as their prez to make the hard decisions. It was my burden, my responsibility, my choice, no one else’s.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “That’s not how a democracy works.”

“I know.” I hang my head, shoulders slumped.

“Then why—” The words come out in a sharp exhale, frustration seeping in.

“Because the money was enough to make it a real conversation,” I cut in. The words sit between us, ugly and true. “The club was in debt,” I continue. “Not crippling, but enough. Briggs’ offer—” I shake my head once and sigh. “It would’ve cleared all of it. And then some.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes sharpen. “You considered accepting, even though you knew none of the guys would ever want to sell the clubhouse, that it wouldn’t even be a last resort to them, it would be a death.”

“Yes.” The word is quiet. Heavy with all the shame and guilt I’ve been carrying. “I didn’t bring it to a vote,” I admit. “Didn’t tell the club. Didn’t even tell Boone.”

“And Cruz?”

“He found out after the fact.” I don’t bother telling her how he punched me for hiding it, and again for considering it, that if it weren’t for Cruz, none of us would be here today.

She absorbs the betrayal, understanding that it means Cruz was complicit in hiding the truth from Boone, from the club, from her. “But then you said no to Briggs, and you buried the offer as if it never existed,” she says.

“Yes.” I meet her eyes, praying I won’t see something I don’t want to see.

There’s no malice in her expression, only understanding. “Why?”

“Because it didn’t feel right.” I shrug, unable to formulate the words to explain the gut feeling I had, how I distrusted Briggs from the start. “I sat on it longer than I should have,” I admit. “Ran it through every angle. What it would mean for the club. What we’d lose. What we’d gain. We could have purchased somewhere new with the money left over after paying off our debt, but this place is more than just bricks and mortar; we’d lose more than just the land. This place is Iron Vale MC.” She nods, knowing exactly what I mean. “Most of all, I didn’t trust the offer,” I say. “I didn’t trust Briggs. I didn’t trust what he wanted that land for. The offer was too good; no successful businessman pays more than something is worth.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver, her mind already five steps ahead. “So you said no.”

“Yes.”

I remember how Briggs’ polite, professional smile slipped when I told him. He was so confident, so self-assured that there was no way I would refuse such a generous offer. He told me I was a fool, his voice dripping with resentment. I knew then that he would have paid more if I’d asked. I also knew there was no way I would ever sell to Briggs.