Chapter 35 #2
I start rereading the same paper I've been staring at for the last ten minutes, trying desperately to make sense of this student's convoluted analysis of Victor Frankenstein's god complex.
The words blur together into meaningless shapes, letters swimming across the page while my eyes keep betraying me—drifting back to the way Kade's shoulders flex when he leans into the engine compartment, the smudges of grease decorating his forearms like abstract art, the focused intensity carved into his features as he works.
He's completely absorbed in the mechanical puzzle before him, and watching him like this—competent, confident, in his element—does something dangerous to my already compromised defenses.
"Kade, you still haven't picked up your tux."
I look up to see Grace walking toward him from the bay entrance, sunlight streaming in behind her and casting her in silhouette.
A man waits just outside—older than her by at least a decade, handsome in a dark, dangerous kind of way that makes my instincts prickle with warning. He's watching her, and only her.
"I know, I promise I'm going to—" Kade straightens from under the hood, wiping his hands on a rag.
"I just left your house," Grace cuts him off smoothly, efficiently. "I dropped it off with Jr."
I keep forgetting that detail, keep having to mentally translate Jr to Ash when I hear the nickname.
"You didn't have to do that," Kade says, something like guilt crossing his face. "I promise I was going to pick it up."
"No worries." She looks past him at my car, her head tilting slightly in that curious way I've noticed before. "Since when do y'all fix cars?"
"We don't."
She studies my car again, obviously skeptical. "This looks like a car."
"I'm just fixing this one for someone." His tone stays carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
"Oh, okay." She accepts his explanation easily, no further questions, then her gaze sweeps across the garage in a slow arc until it lands on me tucked away at my makeshift desk. Recognition flashes across her features, eyes widening slightly. "Fallon?"
Oh no. This is someone who knows my husband—or at least has met him at political functions, seen us together at the gala.
Even if she did cover for me at that fundraiser weeks ago, that doesn't mean she won't say anything.
Doesn't mean she won't mention seeing me here, in a motorcycle garage with her brother while Daniel's conveniently out of town.
"Hey," she says, walking over with an easy smile that seems genuine, open.
"Hey." The word comes out awkward, tight with tension I can't quite hide no matter how hard I try to sound normal.
Kade walks over and presses a kiss to the top of my head like he doesn't have a care in the world while I'm actively freaking out beside him, cataloging all the ways this could go wrong.
His lips linger there just long enough to make the gesture unmistakable—this isn't casual friendship.
This is claim and comfort wrapped together, a public statement of something private.
"This is Fallon's car," he says simply, like that explains everything.
Grace nods slowly, processing this new information, her eyes moving between us with obvious intelligence. "I see." She glances back toward the man waiting outside, still watching her with intensity. "Damián didn't want to get dirty?" Kade asks, something protective entering his voice.
"You know he doesn't mind getting dirty," she replies with a small smile that suggests layers of meaning I probably don't want to understand. "I told him to wait there. I just wanted to tell you I dropped your tux off." Her attention shifts back to me briefly, then to Kade again. "Is Dad here?"
"No, not right now. I think he's at the compound."
"Oh, okay. Well, I guess I'll see him Sunday." She pauses, looking between us with obvious curiosity that she's trying—and failing—to hide. "So, did you change your mind about bringing a plus one?"
"I wish," Kade says at the exact same time I say, "Oh no, I can't."
I look up at him, something warm and dangerous spreading through my chest because he said he wished I could be his date.
Wished I could stand beside him at his sister's wedding like we're something real, something normal, something that exists in daylight instead of stolen hours and locked doors and the three days remaining before my husband comes home.
He smiles back at me, and the world narrows to just that—his smile, meant only for me.
"Well, I need to go." Grace's voice breaks through the moment gently. "It was really nice seeing you again, Fallon. And Kade, I'll see you this weekend."
"Nice to see you too, and congratulations on the wedding," I manage to say, forcing normalcy into my voice despite the chaos in my chest.
She smiles so bright at me, genuine happiness radiating from her. "Thank you."
"Later, sis," Kade says, something soft in his tone.
She waves and walks back toward the man waiting outside—Damián.
The name fits him somehow, dark and elegant and dangerous all at once.
He watches her approach with the kind of focus that makes my stomach clench in recognition, like she's the only thing in existence worth noticing.
The same way I've noticed Kade looking at me.
"I just need to get cleaned up and we can go," Kade says, turning back to me.
I stand up from the desk, papers forgotten in a messy stack. "Maybe don't."
He smirks at me, something wicked and knowing flashing in his dark eyes as he steps closer, backing me against the desk.
His hands plant on either side of me, palms flat against the scarred wood surface, caging me in with his body.
All that heat and muscle and greasy sweat surrounds me, overwhelms my senses until I can't think about anything except how badly I want him.
"Why?" His voice drops lower. "You like me dirty and sweaty?"
"Maybe," I breathe, and then he's leaning in, kissing me like he wants to fuck me right here in front of God and everyone who might walk past those open bay doors.
His mouth is demanding and possessive, claiming me with teeth and tongue until I'm dizzy with want.
God, I'm so desperate for him I would almost let him.
Almost. But then I remember I'm on my period, remember the blood and the cramping and the timing that's terrible and I pull back gasping for air.
"Let me get my papers together and I'm ready."
"Alright." He steps away slowly, reluctantly, that knowing smirk still playing at his lips like he can read every thought crossing my face.
He walks back over to my car, cleans up his tools with efficiency, puts away wrenches and rags in their proper places.
Then he's moving my car to a parking spot against the far wall while I gather my things with hands that won't quite stop shaking.
Papers shuffle together in no particular order—I'll have to reorganize them later, sort them by class and assignment, but right now I can't seem to care about anything except the man walking back toward me.
Then I'm climbing on the back of his bike again, settling against him like it's the most natural thing in the world, like I belong here.
My arms wrap around his waist, fingers linking together over his stomach, and I realize with sudden, crushing certainty that I won't be able to ride on his bike many more times.
Daniel comes home Sunday. Three days from now, this all ends.
Two days until I go back to that house, that marriage, that life where I measure my words and movements and exist in the spaces between his moods.
The engine roars to life beneath us, vibration thrumming through my entire body, and I hold on tighter than necessary as we pull out into afternoon sunlight that feels temporary, borrowed, stolen.