I start to stand, but his hand on my wrist stops me. “Kayla.” My name on his lips is soft, almost apologetic.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, though we both know it’s not entirely true.
He tugs me down until I’m sitting in his lap, my legs draped over his thighs. His arms circle my waist, pulling me against his chest. “The garden beds look good,” he says against my hair. “What are you planning to plant?”
It’s a peace offering, this return to safer topics. I accept it, resting my head on his shoulder as I talk about heirloom tomatoes and different varieties of peppers, the herb garden I want to expand, the pollinator-friendly flowers I plan to intersperse among the vegetables.
As I talk, I feel the tension gradually leave his body. His hands resume their earlier exploration, slipping beneath my shirt, tracing idle patterns on my skin. His touch grounds me, reminding me of what we do have, even with the parts of his life he keeps walled off.
“Now,” he murmurs when I pause for breath, his voice rumbling against my ear, “where were we before we got interrupted?”
I turn in his lap until I’m straddling him, my hands framing his face. His blue eyes have darkened, the pupils dilated with desire. “I think,” I say, leaning in until our lips are nearly touching, “I was about to properly thank you for the garden beds.”
His answering smile is slow and wicked, making my breath catch. “That’s right,” he says, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair. “And I’m thinking that kind of gratitude might be better expressed somewhere more private.”
“Is that so?” I tease, though heat blooms low in my belly at his words.
“Definitely.” His other hand cups my ass, pulling me more firmly against him so I can feel exactly how interested he is in my gratitude.
I smile against his lips, letting the lingering questions about the phone call fade into the background. There will always be parts of Roman I can’t reach, secrets he keeps even from me. But this — his touch, his desire, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in his world that matters — this is real. This is ours.
“Lead the way,” I whisper, and lean into his answering kiss.
1
Chapter 1
Kayla
The clubhouse practically vibrates with thumping bass as we pull into the crowded parking lot. Roman’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk toward the entrance, his touch both reassuring and possessive. The familiar knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach — I’m not usually a coward, but coming here always makes me feel like prey walking into a den of wolves. Maybe if Roman brought me to the clubhouse more often, the feeling would fade. But maybe not. Maybe I am just prey walking into a den of wolves.
“You okay, Sunshine?” Roman’s voice is close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin as he pulls open the door.
The sound hits me first — music cranked so loud I can feel it reverberating in my chest, layered with shouted conversations, laughter, the crack of pool balls colliding. The smell comes next:beer, cigarette smoke, leather, sweat, and somewhere beneath it all, the greasy scent of grilled meat. The clubhouse is packed, bodies pressed together in the main room, spilling out into the adjoining spaces.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing a smile as I scan the crowded room.
Roman’s blue eyes study my face for a moment too long, and I know he sees right through me. But instead of calling me out on my discomfort, he just nods toward the bar. “Let’s get a drink.”
Roman’s arm slides around my waist as he guides me through the crowd. Several men nod at him or clap him on the shoulder as we pass. I receive glances too, some curious, some dismissive, a few openly hostile from women who mark me as an outsider despite the ring on my finger and the “property of Viper” patch on my cut.
We make our way to the bar, which is being manned by a heavily tattooed prospect. Roman catches his attention with nothing more than a look.
“Viper,” he acknowledges respectfully. “What can I get you?”
“What’ll you have, Sunshine?” Roman asks, his mouth close to my ear to be heard over the music.
“Just a beer.”
He nods, turning back to the prospect. “Two beers.”
The prospect delivers them with impressive speed, practically tripping over himself to please the club’s VP. Roman slides one bottle toward me, his eyes already drifting across the room to where Atlas stands holding court beside a pool table, surrounded by a cluster of men. I follow his gaze, watching Atlas laugh at something one of the brothers said, his large hand coming down to slap the man’s back.
“Go ahead,” I tell him, touching his arm. “I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates, his gaze returning to me. “You sure, Sunshine? I can stay with you.”
The offer is genuine; I can tell. I can also tell he’s really hoping I won’t take him up on it.