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He was tired of doing that. “Sometimes,” Riot said.

Delaney frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means we’ve spent years making something simple unnecessarily complicated,” Riot grumbled.

Mayhem finally looked at him. “Riot.”

“Well, she asked,” Riot said.

“And she doesn’t need our problems dropped on her,” Mayhem said.

“I’m not dropping anything on her. I’m answering honestly,” Riot countered. Riot returned his attention to Delaney. “We’ve been lovers,” he said. “We’ve also spent long stretches pretending we’re only friends because Mayhem is emotionally constipated.” Delaney blinked at them, and Mayhem looked ready to strangle him. “You said honesty was important,” Riot reminded him.

“I didn’t say you needed to diagnose me,” Mayhem griped. Delaney’s mouth curved into something resembling a smile, and Riot felt an answering warmth spread through his chest.

“Do the other club members know?” she asked.

“Most of them,” Riot said.

“I don’t hide who I am,” Mayhem added quietly. Riot met his gaze. That was true. Mayhem had never been ashamed of being bisexual. His fear had nothing to do with the club’s opinion and everything to do with allowing someone to matter enough to hurt him.

Delaney pulled the blanket tighter. “Why aren’t you together now?”

Mayhem stood. “You need breakfast.” He walked out of the room before either of them could stop him. Delaney watched him leave. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Riot said.

“He looked angry,” Delaney whispered.

“He’s angry with himself.” Riot pushed himself to his feet. When he extended his hand, Delaney eyed it warily. He started to withdraw when her fingers closed around his, and Riot froze. Her hand was small and cool, her grip uncertain.

“Can you help me up?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He moved slowly, bracing her weight without pulling. Once she was upright, he kept one hand near her waist in case her ankle gave out. It did, and Delaney fell forward. Riot caught her against his chest. Her breath brushed his throat. One hand pressed over his heart, and her dark hair tickled his jaw. Every muscle in Riot’s body tightened—not with simple desire. This felt deeper and so much more dangerous. Delaney lifted her face to him, and for one suspended moment, neither of them moved.

Riot was suddenly aware of everything—the warmth of her palm against his chest, the clean scent of the soap Blitz had given her, and the vulnerability in her eyes. He wanted to touch her cheek, but he kept his hands exactly where they were.

“You’re safe,” he said.

Delaney searched his face as though she was trying to decide whether to believe him. “I’m not sure I remember what that feels like.”

“We’ll remind you,” he assured.

“We?” she asked.

“Mayhem and me.” Her gaze softened. Riot helped her sit on the edge of the bed before stepping away. This wasn’t the time for whatever was beginning between them. Delaney was injured, frightened, and dependent on the club for protection. She needed his patience, and Riot could give her that—even if patience had never been one of his virtues.

“I’m going to find you some breakfast,” he said. “Anything you don’t eat?”

“Mushrooms,” she said, scrunching up her nose.

“Finally, a serious character flaw,” he teased.

“They’re disgusting,” she insisted.

“They’re delicious,” he said.

“They’re fungus,” she countered.