Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
I shouldn’t be here.
That’s the first thought when the rumble of Harley engines rattles my bones, even before the hood’s gates creak open like the jaws of something I can’t outrun.
Saints’ territory smells like smoke and danger wrapped in leather. Not perfume-counter danger—real danger, the kind that stains your skin and never washes off. And yet … here I am.
Because my stalker’s gone. When he called me saying my nightmare was over for good, I felt like someone had dragged me from underwater.
Because Rook made him dead. Because I can still feel Rook’s hands on me, the weight of him inside me, the taste of him when I close my eyes.
And because every damn time I breathe, the air feels too thin without him.
Pathetic, Julie. Really.
I adjust my coat tighter, heels clicking too sharp on the cracked pavement as I walk across the lot. I’ve never been here. The Grindhouse sits back in the corner like a beast that doesn’t need to roar to prove itself. Bikes line the row, chrome flashing in the yellow wash of the overhead lamps.
I know before I see him that he knows I’m here.
The double doors swing and there he is—lean, broad shoulders under his cut, eyes dark like the storm he named me after. Rook. My mistake. My addiction. My ruin.
He leans against the doorframe, bottle dangling from his fingers, grin playing lazy like he hasn’t been haunting me every night. Like he didn’t ruin me in my own bed.
“Another boyfriend request?” His voice rolls out low, teasing, sharp enough to cut skin. “My fees went up, princess.”
My pulse spikes, but I match his smirk. That’s the only way to survive him—don’t flinch. “What’s your fee this week?”
His grin sharpens. Then he crooks two fingers, pulls me close until my chest brushes leather and smoke. His mouth drops to my ear, breath hot enough to melt me where I stand.
“Permanent. Having you forever.”
Fuck.
The word shivers down my spine before I can choke it back.
I lean back just enough to look at him, eyes wide, because I don’t know if he’s joking or dead serious—and both are equally terrifying.
He sees it. He loves it.
“Forever’s a long time,” I shoot back, brattiness snapping over my panic. “You sure you can put up with me?”
His hand clamps my hip, hard enough to bruise, pulling me flush against him. His cock twitches against my stomach. His grin is all sin. “Storm, I’m counting on it.”
Inside the Grindhouse, everything slows down.
Heads turn. Voices hush. The bar lights drip amber down leather cuts, and I feel a hundred eyes strip me bare.
Storm. That’s what he calls me. A storm doesn’t belong in a cage. A storm doesn’t ask permission. Yet the silence here feels like a judgment, like they’re waiting to see if I deserve to stand next to him.
Rook doesn’t care. He drags me with him like it’s already decided, like I’m branded under his skin.
Frost lifts his chin from behind the bar, smirking. Soul mutters something to Colt, who snorts. Tornado whistles low.
“Guess she came back for more,” Colt drawls. “Our joker must be packing magic.”
“Shut your mouth,” Rook snaps, but there’s no real bite. Just warning.
I roll my eyes, because if I don’t, I’ll scream. “Relax, raccoon. Not everything’s about you.”
The laughter that follows is sharp, but not cruel. They’re testing me. Measuring me. Rook looks at me like he’s ready to fuck me on the damn bar if I keep mouthing off and the best part is that I wouldn’t mind at all.
Later, after the tour of this clubhouse, when it’s just us in the back hallway, his hand pressed flat on the wall above my head, he cages me in.
“You walk in here like you belong.” His eyes burn into mine. “But do you?”
The air sticks in my throat. “I don’t know.”
“You do now,” he growls, leaning closer until his mouth brushes mine. “Because I said so.”
My laugh breaks sharp, bratty, because otherwise I’ll drown. “That’s your big speech? ‘Because I said so?’”
He smirks, low and slow. “Baby, you’re still standing. Which means you already chose.”
And he kisses me.
Not the soft kind. Not the maybe-kind. It’s ruination. It’s ownership. Tongue hot and demanding, his hand sliding to my ass, dragging me up his thigh until I moan into his mouth.
He pulls back only enough to murmur against my lips. “You’re mine, Storm. Say it.”
“No,” I pant, shaking, aching.
His hand grips my jaw, forcing my gaze up. His eyes are fire. “Say it.”
I want to resist. I should resist. But my body betrays me. The heat between my thighs betrays me. The part of me that’s tired of being scared, tired of being alone, betrays me.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
His grin is wicked. “Good girl.”
Back in the bar area, when we sit in the booth and he pulls me against him like I’m furniture he refuses to share, I realize something.
The fear hasn’t gone away. It’s here, coiled in my ribs, reminding me that I don’t belong in this world. That girls like me get eaten alive.
But next to him, with his arm draped heavily around me and his eyes daring anyone to look twice at me, the fear feels smaller. Manageable. Almost … safe.
And that’s the sickest, darkest part of it all.
“What do they call you? I mean, your pocket name. Your real one.”
He studies me. Long enough that I think he won’t answer. Long enough that I feel the weight of his silence pressing my chest flat. Then he leans close, lips brushing mine with a smirk. “Rook’s for the world. But for you? Elias.”
The name hits like lightning, sharp and raw.
And then he claims my mouth again, harder this time, sealing it.
Forever.