Chapter Twenty-Five
brIANNA’S PERFUME STILL clung to the night air long after she stormed off—floral, too-sweet, the kind of trouble a man didn’t brag about, but my eyes weren’t anywhere near her.
They were on Lark.
She didn’t look shaken. And she damn sure didn’t look impressed. She just walked toward my bike with that unshakable, chin-up posture that told the world I don’t break for anybody. Somehow that hit worse than any jealous scene could’ve.
“Lark—” I started.
“I’m fine,” she said—crisp, controlled, blade-sharp.
Fine. The kind of fine you heard right before somethin’ was thrown at your head.
She swung her leg over the bike without waitin’ for me and sat behind me with her hands on the seat instead of touchin’ me like she’d been doing. That small shift cut sharper than Brianna’s whole damn performance.
I held out the helmet. Our fingers brushed.
She pulled back like that little contact burned her.
I started the engine, the rumble swallowin’ the quiet between us.
Normally, once we hit the road, she’d lean in, hands at my waist, cheek warm against my back.
I was startin’ to be addicted to those moments.
Tonight she stayed straight. Distant. Barely touchin’ me at all.
It felt wrong. Wrong in a way that settled low in my gut.
Halfway down the highway, the tension behind me got too damn loud.
I slowed, pulled onto the shoulder by the marsh, and killed the engine.
The sudden quiet pressed thick around us.
Behind me, she stiffened. “Why are we stopping?” she asked, her voice cool enough to sting.
“’Cause somethin’s off,” I said. “You’re quiet in a way I don’t like.”
“I don’t see how that’s your concern.”
I turned enough to see her over my shoulder. Moonlight slid across her face, catchin’ the anger she was tryin’ to bury deep.
“When you start treatin’ me like a damn leper?” I murmured. “It’s my concern.”
She blew out a breath—slow, shaken—the kind you used when you were tryin’ damn hard to stitch yourself together. “You don’t have to fix me, Chain.”
“I’m not tryin’ to fix you,” I said quietly. “Just wanna know what’s goin’ on.”
Her jaw tightened. She looked toward the marsh like the dark water might swallow the truth she didn’t wanna say. “I just…” Her voice thinned. “I had a strange night.”
“That’s not all.”
I felt it. Hell, it sat in the air between us—dark, heavy, unspoken. Her hands twisted in her lap. A small tell, but loud enough for me. Then she finally looked at me. Eyes calm, but bruised around the edges.
“Chain,” she whispered, “I’m not jealous of that woman.”
“Didn’t figure you were.”
“I’m scared of what she represents.”
My frown cut deep. “Say more than that.”
“It means I know what men like you have,” she said, lookin’ sad. “And what they want.”
“Men like me?” I echoed.
“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Men who have options. A lot of them. Men who take their pick, have their fun, and move on without looking back.”
The words hit dead-center. Not harsh. Just honest.
“You think that’s what I want from you?” I asked.
“That’s what I saw.” She didn’t even try to hide the ache in her voice. “A woman throwing herself at you like it was routine. Like she’s done it before. Like you’ve… let her. Like you’ll do again.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Hell of a thing, to want a woman so much it aches in your gut and hear her think she’s just another night you’ll forget. But then I was the man she described and I couldn’t deny it.
She looked away then, her eyes going back to the marsh. “I can’t be that for anyone,” she whispered. “Not after where I came from. Not after what men took from me. I can’t be someone’s ‘good time.’ I won’t.”
Somethin’ snapped in me then—quiet but deep. A sound only I felt.
“Lark,” I said, turnin’ fully toward her, my voice rougher than I intended, “I’m not lookin’ for just a good time with you.”
She shut her eyes. Not dismissin’ me, but afraid that believin’ me might cost her too much.
“I just… can’t risk being wrong,” she said softly.
And that—that truth, that fear, that raw, broken honesty, hit me in a place I didn’t even know existed.
I didn’t touch her. Didn’t reach. Didn’t crowd her space.
Just turned the key, lettin’ the engine rise beneath us, somethin’ to break up the conversation. On the ride back, she still didn’t lean in. Didn’t rest her cheek against my back.
But halfway home… I felt her hands.
Light. Unsteady. Curlin’ around my waist—not ’cause she wanted closeness. But because she was tired of holdin’ herself so damn far away.
When we reached the clubhouse, she slid off before I’d even stopped, whisperin’ a soft, strained, “Goodnight.”
“Lark—”
She didn’t look back.
Just walked inside with her shoulders tight, like she needed the door between us to breathe again. And I sat there on my bike long after she vanished, feelin’ the ghost of her hands at my waist, and realizin’ I’d never wanted someone to trust me so damn bad in my life.
***
THE CLUBHOUSE HAD gone quiet hours ago, the kind of quiet that only settled in after the whiskey ran out and the laughter burned itself to ash. I should’ve been asleep, but the walls felt too damn close tonight.
So even though I’d already taken a walk I headed out again.
The air was thick with the promise of rain, sky heavy enough to crush the horizon. My boots crunched over gravel as I made a slow lap around the grounds. Same path. Same steps. Same ghosts shadowin’ my heels.
But tonight, it wasn’t ghosts keepin’ me company.
It was her.
Lark’s voice kept echoing in my head—I can’t risk bein’ wrong. She’d looked at me like she meant it to the bone. Like lettin’ me in would cost her somethin’ she wasn’t sure she could survive losin’.
I understood that more than she knew.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered, exhaling into the damp night.
“Talkin’ to the dead again?” Bolt’s voice drifted out of the dark, easy and amused. He sat on the steps, a cigarette glowing between his fingers.
“Just keepin’ the livin’ straight,” I said, walkin’ over to him.
He held the pack out without a word. I took one, lit it, breathed deep, the smoke curlin’ warm in my lungs.
“So,” he said after a beat. “You and the new woman.”
I gave him a look. “Ain’t no me and the new woman.”
He grinned around the cigarette. “Could’ve fooled me there, too. You’re wound tighter than a gun spring tonight.”
I didn’t answer. The smoke rose between us, mixin’ with the mist comin’ off the marsh. Bolt nudged a pebble with his boot.
“Fiona said she saw Lark come in,” he added. “Said she looked upset.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said too fast.
His brow lifted. “That a correction or a confession?”
“Neither.”
“Mm-hm.” He leaned back on his elbows. “You like her.”
“Don’t start.”
“I ain’t startin’. Just observin’. You look at her different. Talk about her different. Hell, you don’t talk about much else lately.”
I dragged on the cigarette, watchin’ the ember burn low. “How’d you get Fiona to trust you? After bein’ such an asshole?”
“Pestered her to death,” he said easily. “Eventually she figured out I wasn’t goin’ anywhere.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “That tracks.”
Bolt’s voice dropped into somethin’ quieter. “Listen, man. If this woman’s makin’ you feel things you ain’t felt before? She’s the one. Trust me on that.”
“I’m not the problem,” I replied, flickin’ the cigarette to the dirt and lightin’ another.
“Women can be puzzlin’ creatures,” Bolt said with a smirk. “But once you figure out where the pieces go for the one that’s yours? Everything slides into place.”
We fell quiet again, not comfortable, but familiar. The night buzzed with frogs and far-off engines hummin’ along the highway. That’s when I saw it.
Movement. Near the treeline. Just a shadow. A flicker. Gone quick enough I might’ve imagined it. Still, the hairs on my arms stood up.
Bolt flicked his cigarette away. “You comin’ in?”
“In a minute.”
He nodded and headed inside, leavin’ me alone with the wind movin’ through the grass and the faint smell of smoke hangin’ where it shouldn’t. I finished my cigarette, ground the butt under my heel, and looked up at the clubhouse.
She was inside. Safe. For now. But that strange, crawlin’ feeling near the treeline hadn’t left me. Like somethin’ out there wasn’t done watchin’.