Chapter Eleven #3
Rags stiffened against her, muscles going rigid beneath her hands.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her mouth, his hand still under her top.
The barn door creaked open, a sliver of bright light slicing in.
“Rags? Prez needs you—”
He spun her behind him so fast she gasped. “Back off,” he snarled. “Give me a fuckin’ minute.”
The shadow in the doorway hesitated, then muttered, “Hurry your ass up,” as his footsteps retreated across the dirt.
Silence settled again, thick and charged.
Her breath was uneven, her lips swollen from the taste of him, her body still pulsing with heat.
Rags turned, jaw tight, and raked a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ timing.”
“Maybe it’s better we stopped,” she whispered, tugging her top back down.
He stepped closer, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip. The touch made her breath hitch.
“Don’t lie, Casey. Not after the way you were moanin’ for me.”
“Rags…” Her voice trembled.
He leaned his forehead against hers for a long, charged moment, his breath mingling with hers. “Gotta go.” He kissed her—quick, hot, unfinished. “Later, darlin’.” Then he stepped back, and the space between them felt painfully cold.
Rags pulled open the barn door, sunlight spilling across his shoulders as he stepped out first. Everything in him changed. His posture straightened. His face hardened. His voice carried none of the heat from moments before. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked.
Casey followed him out. Throttle, Diesel, Smokey, and two other Insurgents were waiting. Their conversation died instantly.
“Banger needs you,” Throttle said. “Devil’s Reign showed up.”
“Fuckin’ assholes,” Diesel said, contempt lacing his voice.
Rags’s stance shifted, every line of him sharpening. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t acknowledge what had just happened between them. It was like a steel door had slammed shut behind his eyes.
“Watch this area,” he said. “Nobody comes near the barn unless they’re family.”
“Got it.”
Diesel flicked a glance at Casey, then looked away. Smokey gave her the same brief look before dropping his gaze to the ground. She suddenly felt like an intrusion in a world she’d once escaped.
Finally, Rags looked at her, but it wasn’t the man from inside the barn. It was the outlaw. “You good?”
It was a simple question, but the icy tone twisted something deep in her chest. “I’m fine,” she said.
He gave a short nod—no smile, no teasing, no lingering heat—then said, “Get back to the festival, find your friend, and head back to town.”
“Okay,” she muttered.
He turned away. “Let’s go,” he said to his brothers.
They fell in behind him without hesitation.
He didn’t look back. Not once.
Casey walked away from the barn, lungs tight and unsteady. The festival buzzed around her, but none of it felt real. She still tasted him. Still felt his hands on her. Still saw the way he’d gone cold and distant the second his brothers called. She needed out. Now.
She fished her phone from her pocket. She didn’t bother trying to find Zoe in the crowd; she wasn’t up to explaining anything at that moment. She needed time to digest what had happened, to spend some time with her thoughts.
Casey: Hey, not feeling great. Headache. I’m going to head out. Text u when I’m home.
She hit send and forced herself to start walking, keeping her head down, weaving through families and bikers and booth lines before Zoe could ping her back with questions.
The warm October air felt suddenly suffocating.
Every step carried the ghost of his touch on her arm, her waist, her throat.
She slipped past a row of leather vendors and kept moving until the noise thinned, the crowds faded, and the ranch’s open field stretched in front of her.
The faint hum of engines at the perimeter drifted on the breeze.
Her phone buzzed.
Zoe: What?? Where r u you? Want me to come with u?
She swallowed and typed.
Casey: No. Really. Just need to lie down. I’m ok.
A lie. But Zoe would let it go for now. She shoved her phone back into her pocket, turned away from the festival lights, and headed toward the parking area.
Her steps faltered only once, when she glanced back over her shoulder.
Rags wasn’t looking her way. He was across the grounds with his brothers, shoulders tense, expression hard, already deep in whatever club business had yanked him away.
Standing near the perimeter, his gaze fixed on whatever threat had arrived.
He looked like a stranger.
And somehow, that hurt worse than anything else.
Casey drew in a breath, squared her shoulders, and kept walking away from the noise, away from the heat of him, and away from the danger she already knew too well.
She didn’t stop until she slid into her car and shut the door, sealing herself into the quiet.
In her rearview mirror, she saw the first flash of club cuts moving toward the perimeter.
That low, nervous hum of engines tightened something deep inside her.
She knew, with a sinking, familiar certainty, that his sudden coldness had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the club.
A sliver of fear threaded through her. Rags had to be safe. She shook her head, exhaling. Here I go again. Been there. Done that.
Yet here she was, sliding back into the world she’d left behind—and toward the man chipping at the ice around her heart.