Chapter 3 #2
"Always." His voice was surprisingly gentle. "But some choices are smarter than others."
I thought about Slash's threats. The shattered vase. The gun in Jenkins' trembling hand. Then I looked at Axel—the worry he was trying to hide, the way his body curved toward mine like gravity. "I'm good with it."
Hawk nodded once. "Blade. Show Kai the prospect room."
A man looked up from the pool table—Hispanic, handsome in that effortless way some men managed. His eyes swept over me, taking in the violet highlights, the jade pendant, the way Axel's hand pressed possessive against my lower back. A knowing smile crossed his face.
"This way, hermano."
The prospect room was small but clean. Single bed, battered dresser, tiny bathroom. After my destroyed apartment, it felt like a fortress.
"Axel's room is three doors down," Blade mentioned, leaning against the doorframe. "In case you were wondering."
"I wasn't."
"Sure." His grin widened. "Word of advice? Axel's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"You know." He made a vague gesture. "Feelings. Attraction. Things that don't fit in neat boxes." His expression softened. "He's still figuring himself out. But the way he looks at you? Haven't heard of him looking at someone like that since Daniels, and that was more than three years ago."
I studied him closer. There was something in his eyes—a recognition, a kinship.
"You're..."
"Bi? Yeah." He said it easily, without shame. "Not a secret. Most of the club's cool with it." A shrug. "The ones who weren't learned to keep their mouths shut."
"And Axel?"
"Axel's working through some things. Old programming, old wounds." Blade pushed off the doorframe. "Just... be patient with him. He's worth it."
Speaking from experience?" I asked. Something wistful crossed his face. "Nah. Still waiting for my person. Had plenty of wrong ones—men, women, everything in between." He shrugged, but there was an old ache underneath the casual gesture. "Someday, maybe. Right now, the club's enough."
I recognized that loneliness. I'd worn it myself for years. "Someday," I agreed.
After he left, I sat on the narrow bed and tried to process.
Four days ago, my biggest worry was being late for my shift.
Now I was hiding from a rival MC in a biker clubhouse, under the protection of a man who kissed like I was oxygen and looked at me like I was something terrifying. A knock interrupted my spiraling.
"It's me," Axel called.
"Come in."
He entered carrying whiskey and two glasses, filling the small room with his presence. He'd changed into a fresh henley that stretched across his shoulders, his chest, every ridge of muscle. Dark circles under his eyes spoke to sleepless nights.
"Thought you might need this."
"Desperately."
He poured, handed me a glass. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us pulled away.
We drank in silence. The whiskey burned a path down my throat, loosening something tight in my chest.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "About your apartment. Your grandmother's vase."
"Tank saved the pieces."
"He mentioned. Irish actually is good at puzzles." A ghost of a smile. "He'll fix it."
"You have good people."
"The best." He sat beside me on the bed—careful to leave space, like he wasn't sure what was allowed. "They're your people too now. If you want them."
I turned to look at him fully. In the dim light, he looked younger. More vulnerable. Less like Reaper and more like Axel, the man existing underneath. "Who's Daniels?"
He went still. "What?"
"Blade said you're figuring yourself out. That there's old wounds." I held his gaze. "I'm not asking for your whole history. But if we're doing this—whatever this is—I need to know what I'm walking into."
For a long moment, he didn't answer. "Someone I knew. In Afghanistan." His voice had gone distant. "Someone I lost."
"Lost as in...?"
"An ambush. They took down the whole unit." He stared at the whiskey in his hands. "Daniels was... we were close. Closer than we should have been."
Understanding clicked into place. "You loved him."
"I don't know what I felt." The admission came out rough, like it cost him something. "We never had time to figure it out. And after..." He shook his head. "I buried it. Buried all of it. Told myself it was just the war, just proximity, just—"
"Just a fluke."
"Yeah." He finally looked at me, and the vulnerability in his grey eyes made my chest ache. "Then you walked into that parking lot with your purple hair and your steady hands."
I set down my glass. Reached out. Let my fingers trace his jaw, feel the muscle tighten under my touch. "I'm not him."
"I know." His hand came up to cover mine, pressing my palm against his cheek. "This world I live in—"
"I'm already deep in it." I shifted closer until our knees touched.
He exhaled—shaky, uneven—and something loosened in his expression. His forehead dropped to mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted. "With you. With any of this."
"Neither do I."
"I might screw this up."
"Probably." I smiled against his lips. "But I'm told you're worth it."
He kissed me then—softer than before, slower.
Like he had time now. Like we both did. His hands found my waist, pulled me closer until I was practically in his lap.
I let myself sink into it, into him, into the impossible reality of this moment.
When we finally broke apart, he held my face in his hands like I was something precious.
"Get some sleep." His thumb traced my cheekbone. "Tomorrow we figure out how to keep you safe."
"Stay?"
The word was out before I could stop it. His eyes darkened.
"If I stay, I'm not going to want to stop at sleeping."
"I know."
"Kai..."
"Just sleeping." I pulled back the thin blanket, made room for him. "I don't want to be alone tonight."
He hesitated. I watched the war play out across his features—want and caution at arms, need and control in battle.
Then he kicked off his boots and lay down beside me.
The bed was too small for two grown men, especially when one of them was built like a tank. We ended up tangled together by necessity—his arm under my head, my leg thrown over his, his other hand spread warm and possessive across my chest. "This is a terrible idea," he murmured into my hair.
"Probably."
"You're going to ruin me."
I smiled against his chest, breathing in leather and whiskey and him.
"Probably that too."
His laugh was soft, surprised. His arms tightened around me. Outside, the clubhouse settled into silence. Inside, wrapped in what I didn't know I was missing, I let myself drift toward sleep.
I let myself believe in tomorrow. I should have known better.