Page 9 of Contracted to the Bikers

She meets my eyes. She refuses to back down. “Then we’ll renegotiate.”

Sloane Mercer is bold, calculated, and very, very stubborn.

I tap the folder against the table. “Protection like this isn’t free.”

“I know, hence my offer.”

“And it isn’t temporary,” I add, relishing the look of confusion on her face. This is an eventuality she hadn’t prepared for.

She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

I glance at Boone and Cruz. They smirk, they both know exactly where this is going. I look back at Sloane. “If you stay under Iron Vale protection, you stay as my old lady.”

The words land heavily in the room, and the sounds of others chatting and laughing fall abruptly silent as they overhear. It’s a serious proposal, one we don’t take lightly.

Sloane blinks once. Then twice. She glances around, noticing the curious glances we’ve attracted and jealous glares from the club girls. “Your… what?”

“My woman.” Cruz coughs to hide a laugh. I keep my eyes on her. “In this club,” I say, “the president’s old lady has the highest protection we offer, and that protection extends to family. It’s the only way we can give you what you’re asking.”

She considers that. I can practically see the cogs turning. Her lawyer’s brain is working overtime. “So legally speaking,” she says slowly, “I’d be under the club’s official protection structure.”

“Exactly.” I smile and stroke my chin.

She pushes a loose strand of hair back from her face, gulping before choosing her words carefully. “And the relationship would exist… publicly.”

“Yes.”

Sloane fixes me in her gaze once more. “But privately?”

I lean forward slightly. “That depends,” I purr, my eyes trailing the contours of her face down her throat and beyond.

Her eyes narrow. “This is a power play.”

I shrug and lean back, spreading my hands wide. “Everything is.” I don’t need to add that this is the deal, she can take it or leave it.

Silence stretches between us. It looks like she’s deep in thought, considering her options. Which, if she’s come to us for help, must be very limited. After a few moments she speaks. “Okay.” She sits back, her eyes meeting mine in challenge.

“All right.” I study her for a moment. “Do you realize what you just agreed to?”

“Yes.” But there’s a flicker of hesitation now, hidden under her stubborn façade.

“You’re the president’s old lady now. My woman.”

“In name,” she says curtly, her smooth forehead furrowing for just a second in confusion as to why this is such a big deal.

Something about the way she says it makes me smile, just slightly, because she thinks this is an arrangement, a technicality. She has no idea what that title actually means inside a motorcycle club. I’m not in any hurry to explain it. She’s a smart cookie, she can figure it out.

“You’re stubborn,” I say instead, there’s no judgment in my tone, I rather admire it.

“So are you.”

I surveil her, acknowledging another fact. “You don’t scare easily.”

“No.” Her eyes hold mine, bright, sharp, and challenging.

I smile for real now; this is going to be interesting. Outside, I hear the faint creak of her car door opening. A small voice drifts toward the clubhouse. “Mommy?” I hear one of my men gently telling her that Mom’s inside.

Sloane turns toward the sound immediately, a flower moving toward the sun. “I should get her.”