Chapter Seven
Riley
Riley woke to the smell of coffee and the low rumble of male voices downstairs.
For a second, she forgot where she was, then the night crashed back in glorious, aching detail.
Dan’s mouth on hers, scarred hands gentle as they peeled away her defenses, the way he’d groaned her name like a prayer when she traced every ridge of damaged skin with her tongue.
As for the rest of their shared night, well, the man had stamina that should’ve been illegal.
She stretched, deliciously tender in places she hadn’t been sore in years, and grinned at the ceiling like an idiot.
The door cracked open. Dan slipped inside carrying two steaming mugs.
He’d pulled on jeans and his mask, but nothing else.
Morning light slanted through the barred window, painting gold across the scars on his chest and shoulders.
Those twisted burns, surgical lines, and some damned stubborn tattoo ink trying to claim territory over the damage.
He looked like a warrior who’d walked out of fire and decided to stay.
“Coffee,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough from sleep and everything else.
“You trying to bribe me into good behavior?”
“Trying to bribe you into staying in bed five more minutes.” He handed her a mug, then sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle her too much. He hooked a finger in the bandana, bringing it below his chin. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I got mauled by a very thorough, very well-endowed bear.” She sipped. Perfect—two sugars, splash of cream. He’d paid attention last night when I grumbled about their clubhouse coffee being too bitter. “I’m not complaining.”
His ears went pink. Actually pink. Riley decided it was her new favorite color.
“Church in twenty,” he said. He leaned over and grabbed a T-shirt off the foot of the bed, tugging it over his head. “Tinder wants to talk about the HHMC stragglers. Your presence has been requested.”
Riley arched a brow. “Civilians don’t get invited to church.”
“You’re not civilian anymore.” His gaze held hers, steady and serious. “You’re well and truly under my protection. That makes what happened to you club business.” He paused, gaze softening. “Unless you’d rather I tell them to fuck off and we stay in bed all day.”
Tempting. Very tempting. But three assholes had put hands on her, and Riley wasn’t the hide-in-bed type.
“I’ll shower. Give me ten.”
Dan’s eyes heated. “Need help?”
“Out, Sharp. Some of us have to look halfway respectable in front of your scary-ass president.”
“He ain’t scary.” Dan stole one hard kiss that tasted like pleasure and joy, then grabbed his vest and left. Riley listened to his boots retreat down the hallway and felt something warm settle clear down to her toes.
This was dangerous.
She was starting to like dangerous.
***
Dan
The common room was already chaos by the time Dan made it down.
Prospects darted around with trays of bacon, eggs, and biscuits.
Chicken Nugget, who’d become the club’s unofficial mascot, was underfoot, looking for dropped goodies.
And there was Mosha, a fat orange tabby who’d wandered in three years ago and had never left.
Mosha had claimed the back of the couch this morning and was currently batting at a strip of bacon someone had foolishly left within paw range.
Brothers banged on his shoulders in waves. “Yo, Dan! Church!” “Tell your girl to hurry up. We’re starving!” “Dan, buddy, you’re alive!” Crude laughter followed each round.
Dan ignored them, grabbed a plate, and loaded it with extra bacon. He was halfway back to the hallway when Mosha launched himself off the couch, landed on Dan’s shoulder like a furry missile, and snatched a bacon strip right out of his hand.
“Little bastard,” Dan muttered, but he was grinning under the scars as he scratched behind the cat’s ears. Mosha purred like a diesel engine and rubbed his face against Dan’s jaw.
The door opened upstairs. Riley came down the staircase quickly, hair damp from the shower, wearing yesterday’s black tank and jeans, with her combat boots laced tight.
She had also found Dan’s flannel shirt, leaving it unbuttoned so it flared around her hips.
She looked fresh, dangerous, and entirely too good in the morning light.
She stopped short at the sight of him with a cat on his shoulder. “You’re equipped with accessories now?”
“He comes with bacon theft,” Dan said dryly. “Meet Mosha. Club property. Then there’s the dog, Chicken Nugget, but don’t feed him under the table or he’ll never leave you alone.”
Riley reached up, let the cat sniff her fingers, then scratched under his chin. Mosha immediately started kneading Dan’s cut like dough. “We’re gonna be best friends,” she told the cat. Then, to Dan, “You gonna share that plate, or do I have to fight a cat for breakfast?”
He handed it over without argument.