Chapter 10
TEN
brI
Four days of pretending I’m fine. Four days of Blade pretending I’m invisible.
I sit at my desk at Iron Reapers Customs, coffee going cold beside my keyboard, the hum of the shop rolling through the walls like a heartbeat. Paperwork is spread out in front of me. Payroll. Inventory. The kind of stuff that requires brain cells I apparently left back at Perdition.
Because inside? I’m a complete dumpster fire.
It turns out flirting with a dangerous, tattooed biker like you’re auditioning for his personal fantasy and then seeing him every day afterward is… stressful. My confidence that night? Gone. Dead. Buried. In its place is a full-time internal scream.
On the outside, though? I look responsible as hell. Glasses on. Hair up. Typing actual numbers into actual spreadsheets like a legit adult.
Blade hasn’t stepped foot in this office since it became mine. I hear him out there. The low rumble of his voice. The clank of tools. His boots across the concrete. He walks past the doorway like he’s allergic to breathing the same air as me.
And the worst part? Every time he’s within ten feet, my body reacts like someone lit a match inside my chest.
Something changed between us that night. We both know it. He hasn’t looked at me the same since. And when he does look… holy chaos.
I shove my chair back and stare at the ceiling, silently begging the universe to explain why I decided to develop the world’s most inconvenient crush on a man whose entire personality is “don’t get close.”
Here’s the truth, the one I haven’t told anyone:
I want him.
Blade. Logan Calloway. Almost forty. Rough and sharp and haunted in a way that makes me want to trace every scar with my fingertips.
His voice is all smoke and grit. He smells like motor oil and heat and a night you’re definitely telling stories about later.
He walks into a room and everything shifts around him.
And when he looked at me in Perdition… like he wanted to tear the world apart just to make sure I was safe?
Yeah. Good luck forgetting that.
Every time I think I’m imagining this, I remember the way his jaw locked when that frat idiot touched me. The way he grabbed him. The way he snapped, “It’s about you,” before stalking off like his restraint was hanging by a thread.
No one says that without meaning something. Something big. Something dangerous.
A soft buzz interrupts my spiral. My phone lights up with Bella’s name.
Bella: Rev stopped by last night. Said you were causing trouble at Perdition.
I glare at the phone like it personally betrayed me.
Me: Causing is strong. I was just existing. While looking fabulous.
Bella: Did “existing” involve Blade throwing a guy around like a rag doll?
My soul exits my body.
Me: He touched me first.
Bella: So Blade reacted like someone aimed a flamethrower at you.
I freeze.
Because yeah. He did.
Bella: Bri. What is going on with you two?
If I knew, I’d bottle it and label it “Do Not Shake.”
Me: Nothing. It’s fine. Everything’s great. Totally normal.
Bella: Liar.
Yep.
I drop the phone face down. My heart is thudding way too hard. The shop’s AC decides to start blowing straight at my neck, which is rude because I’m already dealing with enough chills as-is.
Something is building. I feel it every time Blade walks by. Every time his eyes flick my way before he pretends they didn’t. Every time his voice drops low when he asks a question that could easily be yelled from the floor.
We are a match and gasoline.
Pretending we aren’t isn’t working.
I take a long sip of my sad, cold coffee and straighten the paperwork in front of me like that will restore order to my chaotic soul.
No thinking about Blade and his hands and his voice and his everything.
No replaying that night like it’s happening in slow motion. No imagining what happens when the tension finally snaps and he stops pretending he doesn’t want me too. Because if he ever bites? I’m going to let him. And I think he knows it.
The shop is way too quiet. Everyone clocked out an hour ago, engines powered down, doors rolled shut. The only sounds left are the hum of the overhead lights and the occasional clink of metal as I reorganize the inventory shelves like the overachiever Mason hired me to be.
I stretch up to reach a box on the highest shelf. I am five feet tall, which is pure comedy in a place designed for men who can bench-press a transmission. My fingers just graze the edge.
“Come on,” I mutter, rocking onto my toes.
The box tips. Straight toward my face.
It slams into my forehead and then crashes to the floor, taking half a dozen smaller parts with it. Pain explodes above my temple. I curse under my breath, clutching my head as I sink to a crouch.
Yep. I’m definitely bleeding. I blink spots out of my vision, trying to steady myself, when heavy boots thunder across the concrete.
Then he’s there. Blade.
He must’ve still been here. In the back. Avoiding me like usual. Except now he looks like he just sprinted through war to get to me.
“What happened?” His voice is low and sharp, his eyes scanning the mess like he’s ready to kill whatever hurt me.
“A box?” I offer weakly. “It jumped me.”
Not my best joke. I’m dizzy.
His jaw works, muscle ticking like he’s restraining three emotions at once. He crouches in front of me, gloved hands gentle but firm as he checks my face. “You’re bleeding,” he mutters.
“No kidding.”
He shoots me a look. Not amused. Before I can argue, Blade scoops me up. One arm under my legs, the other around my back. I gasp and cling to his shoulders, because holy shit he is strong.
“Blade, I can walk,” I protest, cheeks on fire.
“Don’t care.” He holds me tighter. “You’re hurt.”
He carries me over to one of the workbenches and sits me on the edge like I’m breakable. Then he strides to the first aid cabinet, grabs a kit, and returns with that intense focus he usually reserves for engines and bloodshed.
He stands between my knees as he opens the kit, fingers brushing my skin as he tilts my chin to get a better look. I swear the air thickens. My pulse goes stupid.
“This is gonna sting,” he says quietly.
“It already stings.”
His eyes flick to mine. Heat. Concern. Something deeper he keeps locked up tight.
He dabs at the cut with antiseptic. I hiss.
He murmurs something low and soothing I can’t fully hear.
His thumb rests lightly against my jaw, holding me steady.
His closeness is overwhelming. He smells like smoke and soap and the kind of trouble I want to run headfirst into.
When he reaches up to brush a loose curl from my face, his fingers linger.
“You shouldn’t be climbing shelves alone,” he says, voice gruff.
“You shouldn’t be sneaking around in the dark,” I shoot back.
“I was making sure the doors were locked.” He tapes the bandage gently into place. “Good thing I did.”
I look up at him. Bad idea.
His eyes are fierce and soft at the same time, locked on me like he’s seeing too much. Like he’s memorizing something he shouldn’t.
“Blade,” I whisper. “I’m okay.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You got hurt. And I wasn’t here.”
My breath catches. “You can’t watch me every second,” I say.
His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second that changes everything. “The hell I can’t,” he murmurs.
I swallow. Something is going to break soon. Crack open. Ignite. And when that happens? Nothing between us is staying the same.
Blade’s thumb brushes along my jaw and his gaze locks onto my mouth like he’s choosing violence against self-control.
He leans in slow at first, like he’s giving me one final second to back out.
As if I ever would. His hand slides to the back of my neck and he pulls me in, eliminating the last inch between us.
His mouth crashes against mine, rough and hungry, a growl rumbling low in his chest like he’s finally letting himself touch what he’s been denying.
I gasp into the kiss and his grip tightens, hauling me closer by the hips until my thighs press against him and the whole workbench shifts under us. His fingers dig in like he’s staking a claim he has no intention of surrendering. He kisses me like he owns every breath I take.
When he finally breaks away, it’s only far enough that I can feel his lips move against mine.
“You scared the fuck out of me,” he rasps.
“I dropped a box,” I whisper, dazed.
“You got hurt,” he fires back, eyes blazing. “On my watch.”
His hand slides up my spine, dragging me forward again like he needs me even closer. “I don’t like seeing anyone lay a hand on you,” he growls, voice low. “Even a fucking box.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My pulse kicks. “That’s… very protective of you,” I breathe.
“That’s me being barely in control,” he corrects, tightening his hold.
“And I’m real close to losing every reason I had to keep my distance.
” He brushes my bottom lip with his thumb.
Possessive. Certain. Like he’s already made up his mind.
“You’re mine to look after,” Blade whispers, chest pressed hard against mine.
I feel it. The shift. The line we just crossed and can never uncross.
He leans in again, voice rough and promising trouble.
“And I’m not done kissing you.” Blade grips my hips and drags me right into him, my knees instinctively parting so he fits closer.
His mouth crashes into mine like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, a sharp little nip that shoots fire straight down my spine.
I gasp and he uses it, deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against mine in a way that steals the air right out of my lungs. His hand threads into my hair, tugging just enough to force my head back, opening me up for him like he’s been dying for the taste.
“Fuck,” he breathes against my mouth, like he’s been starving and I’m the first real thing he’s had in years.
My fingers fist into the front of his shirt, pulling him even closer. I don’t care that we’re in the middle of the shop. I don’t care that the door isn’t locked. All I care about is how his body feels pressed against mine and how his kiss feels like a promise he has every intention of keeping.
He kisses me again, slower this time, deeper. His thumb strokes across my cheek, a contrast to the possessive way he’s holding me, like he’s trying to memorize every second of this.
Then he breaks away just long enough to look at me. Really look.
His eyes are dark with want, jaw clenched like he’s barely holding himself together. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, voice wrecked and reverent.
I slide my hand up the back of his neck, pulling him back down to me. “Show me.”
He groans like those two words hit somewhere deep, and he kisses me again, rougher, hungrier. He lifts me fully onto the workbench so I’m eye-level with him, his hands gripping my thighs as he steps between them, closing every remaining bit of space.
My legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
His breath hitches. Mine does too. He kisses me like he’s claiming something that was always his.
Like letting go isn’t an option anymore.
And I kiss him back like I finally stopped pretending.
Because whatever is happening here? It’s real. It’s dangerous. And I am all in.
Blade’s lips are still brushing mine when he finally pulls back, breathing hard.
His hand stays firm on my thigh like he’s not willing to let go yet.
“We need some air,” he mutters, though the way he says it sounds more like we need space before this escalates past the point of no return. Not that I’d mind.
He helps me off the bench, his hands steadying me when my knees wobble. He grabs his keys from the hook by the office door, jaw set with that determined look he gets when he’s already committed to something.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “Ride with me.”
My heart stutters. “To where?” I ask, even though the destination isn’t the point.
He looks back at me, eyes catching mine and holding. “Anywhere you want. Just… come with me.”
I swallow. Hard. I know what this means. Every woman who’s ever lived near a clubhouse knows what this means. You get on the back of a biker’s bike, you’re claiming a spot. You’re saying something without saying it.
He sees the hesitation flicker across my face and steps closer, brushing his knuckles along my cheek. “You sure?” he asks, voice lower, rougher. “Once you get on, I don’t want you pretending it doesn’t mean something.”
That pulse in my throat goes wild. “I could say the same to you.”
His mouth curves into the faintest smirk, pride and hunger tangled together. “I don’t pretend with you.”
The night air outside is cooler than I expect when he leads me out, but my skin is still burning from where he touched me. He hands me a helmet, his fingers grazing mine and sending another spark through me. “Hold on tight,” he says.
He holds the bike steady as I walk up, his gaze glued to me like he’s already picturing every bad decision we’re about to make.
“C’mere,” he says, low and warm.
His hands find my hips, guiding me closer. The engine purrs under us, sending a shiver right up my spine. He helps me swing my leg over the seat, like I’m something he handles with care even when he’s pretending he doesn’t.
I settle behind him, fitting into the shape of his back like I was carved for it. My arms slide around his waist and he grabs my hands, pressing them tight against him for a beat that feels like forever.
“That’s where you stay,” he murmurs, voice rough with satisfaction. He looks back over his shoulder, eyes dark and way too proud of himself. He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. “Hold on, Bri,” he says, all confidence and speed.
The bike roars to life and we take off into the night, wind whipping through my hair, my chest pressed to his back.
The town blurs. Streetlights streak past us.
I breathe in the scent of him, leather, smoke, something wild and untamed, and there’s no room left for doubt.
Because wrapped around his body, trusting him with every curve of the road…
I know exactly what I’ve just agreed to.
This is him staking his claim. This is me choosing him right back.
And no matter what comes next? We’re not going back to pretending.