Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Livie
I wake slowly, awareness returning in stages, first the warmth surrounding me, then the weight across my body, and finally the steady sound of breathing near my ear.
Sunlight streams through the windows, painting the room in golden light.
I blink, momentarily disoriented until memories of the previous night flood back.
Greyson is sprawled half on top of me, one muscular thigh thrown over mine, his arm a heavy band across my waist, his face buried in my neck. His breath tickles my skin with each exhale, and I can feel the solid wall of his chest pressed against my side.
I lie still, savoring the moment and the delicious weight of him. In sleep, his face has lost the hard edges of the MC president, revealing the younger, more vulnerable man beneath. His dark lashes rest against his cheeks, his mouth slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep.
As if sensing my scrutiny, his eyes flutter open, blue and disoriented for a moment before focusing on my face. A slow smile spreads across his lips.
"Morning," he rumbles, voice rough with sleep. He makes no move to disentangle himself from me.
"Morning," I reply, hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect. "You're kind of crushing me."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. "You saying I'm heavy?"
"I'm saying you're practically on top of me."
"You complaining?" His eyes dance with mischief as he shifts, deliberately pressing more of his weight against me.
I laugh, pushing ineffectually at his shoulder. "Maybe I would be if I could breathe properly."
With obvious reluctance, he rolls away, though his arm remains draped across my waist. "Better?"
"Marginally." I stretch, enjoying the play of emotions across his face as he watches the movement. "What time is it?"
He glances at the clock on the nightstand. "Just after eight. How'd you sleep?"
"Better than I have in weeks," I admit. "No nightmares."
"Good." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering on my cheek. "Hungry?"
My stomach answers with a growl that makes us both laugh. "Apparently."
"Stay here," he presses a quick kiss to my forehead before sliding out of bed. I try not to stare at his bare chest and the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips, but I'm only human.
"Where are you going?" I ask, already missing his warmth.
He pauses at the door, looking back with a smile that makes my heart skip a beat. "To make you breakfast. Don't move."
Before I can protest, he's gone, his footsteps receding down the hallway. I sink back against the pillows, a smile spreading across my face. Who would have thought Greyson Reed, president of the Devil Souls MC, would be the type to make breakfast in bed?
I use his absence to slip into the master bathroom, marveling at the luxury of the space, with its glass-enclosed shower enclosure big enough for two, a deep soaking tub, and double sinks set in dark granite.
I find an unused toothbrush in a drawer and take a quick shower, washing away the lingering anxiety of the previous day.
When I emerge wrapped in one of his plush towels, I find a t-shirt laid out on the bed that's clearly his, soft from wear and smelling faintly of his cologne. I slip it on, the hem falling to mid-thigh, before padding barefoot downstairs.
The scent of coffee and bacon guides me to the kitchen, where I pause in the doorway, taking in the sight before me.
Greyson stands at the stove, still shirtless, flipping pancakes with practiced ease.
Morning sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the intricate tattoos that cover his back and shoulders.
The Devil Souls insignia is prominent between his shoulder blades, surrounded by other symbols whose meanings I can only guess at.
"I thought I told you to stay in bed," he says without turning around, somehow sensing my presence.
"I got lonely," I reply, moving into the kitchen. "And curious. The fearsome MC president makes pancakes?"
He glances over his shoulder, his eyes darkening as they take in my appearance in his shirt. "The fearsome MC president makes excellent pancakes, thank you very much. Family recipe."
I perch on a stool at the island, watching him work. There's something intensely intimate about this moment more so, somehow, than sharing a bed. This is domestic, ordinary in a way that makes my chest ache with longing.
"Coffee's ready." He nods toward the pot. "Mugs in the cabinet above."
I help myself, savoring the rich aroma before taking a sip. "Perfect," I murmur, earning a pleased smile from him.
"Hope you like blueberry pancakes." He slides a golden stack onto a plate. "And extra crispy bacon."
"How did you know that's exactly how I like it?"
He sets the plate in front of me with a wink. "I pay attention."
For the next few minutes, we eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds the clinking of silverware and the occasional appreciative hum from me. The pancakes are indeed excellent—fluffy inside, crispy at the edges, studded with plump blueberries.
"So," I say between bites, "is this how you treat all the women you bring home? Breakfast in bed, or almost in bed?"
Something flashes in his eyes, possessiveness, maybe, or jealousy. "There haven't been women here, Livie.”
The admission hangs between us, weighted with meaning. I set down my fork, meeting his gaze. "Why me, then? Why now?"
He considers the question, taking a sip of his coffee before answering. "Because you're the only one I've ever wanted to wake up next to. The only one worth waiting for."
My heart flutters at the simple honesty in his voice. "Even after all this time?"
"Especially after all this time." He reaches across the island, taking my hand in his. "Two years gave me plenty of opportunity to move on, if that's what I wanted. It wasn't."
I turn my hand in his, our fingers intertwining. "What happens when this is over? When you find him?"
Greyson's eyes hold mine, steady and sure. "The plan is that I take you to dinner, like I promised. We figure out what this is, what we want it to be. No pressure, no expectations beyond what feels right to both of us."
"And my father?"
A wry smile crosses his face. "Your father will probably hate the idea for a while. Then he'll come around, because he loves you and wants you to be happy."
"That simple, huh?"
"Nothing about us is going to be simple, Livie." His expression turns serious. "I'm the president of an MC. That comes with complications, dangers, responsibilities that won't go away. And you've built a life, a career that matters to you. We'll have to figure out how those pieces fit together."
I appreciate his honesty, the lack of sugarcoating. "I'm not afraid of complicated."
"Good." He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "Because I'm not letting you go again."
The declaration sends warmth spreading through me, a sense of rightness settling in my bones. Whatever challenges lie ahead—the stalker, my father's disapproval, the complexities of our different lives—facing them together feels not just possible, but inevitable.
A sharp knock at the front door shatters the moment. Greyson is on his feet instantly, his relaxed demeanor replaced by alert vigilance. He moves to a drawer, withdrawing a handgun I hadn't noticed was there.
"Stay here," he orders, already moving toward the entrance.
"Greyson…"
"It's okay," he says, his voice lowering at the fear in mine. "Probably just one of my guys checking in. But stay back, just in case."
I nod, clutching my coffee mug as if it might offer protection. Through the kitchen doorway, I watch as Greyson approaches the front door cautiously, checking the security panel beside it. His shoulders relax slightly.
"It's your brother," he calls back to me, holstering the weapon at the small of his back before opening the door.
Mason's voice carries into the kitchen. "Morning, Reed. My sister decent?"
"Depends on your definition," Greyson replies dryly.
I roll my eyes, setting down my mug and moving into the hallway. "I'm right here, Mase. What's going on?"
My brother's eyes narrow slightly as he takes in my appearance. Greyson's shirt, my bare legs, and wet hair. But he mercifully refrains from commenting. "Dad sent me. We found the car."
My pulse quickens. "Where?"
"Abandoned at a rest stop about twenty miles north. Stolen, like we figured." Mason's expression is grim. "But we found something inside. Something you need to see."
"Pictures?" I guess, my voice catching. "What kind of pictures?"
Mason's jaw tightens as he glances at Greyson, some unspoken communication passing between them.
"Maybe you should sit down," Greyson suggests, his hand finding the small of my back.
I shake my head. "Just tell me."
Mason pulls out his phone, tapping the screen a few times before handing it to me. "We found these in the car. Dozens of them, some printed, some pinned to a board in the trunk."
I take the phone with trembling fingers, my breath catching as I scroll through the images. Me leaving the salon in LA. Me shopping at the grocery store. Me sitting at an outdoor café.
But the majority of the photos aren't just of me.
"Diane," I whisper, my knees weakening as I recognize my friend from LA in most of the pictures. "She's in almost all of these."
Greyson steadies me with a strong arm around my waist. "Who's Diane?"
"My roommate in LA," I explain, still scrolling through the disturbing collection of images. "We worked at the same salon. She's my best friend there."
In photo after photo, Diane and I are together, laughing outside the salon, having drinks at our favorite bar, walking through the farmers market we visited every Sunday.
Some shots are from a distance, clearly taken without our knowledge.
Others are more intimate, as if the photographer was just a few feet away.