Chapter 10 Wren
WREN
The men have been busy, the club quiet except for the waves coming in or going on from whatever jobs they have. I wonder if they’re stretched so thin because of me.
Most of my last few days have been quiet, playing cards with Pixie at one of the tables and delivering a few drinks when someone needs something. I help Pixie clean up the bar and lounge, which only makes her laugh at me until I throw my towel at her.
“I can’t be that bad at this,” I huff.
“But you are. You’re so bad.”
I plant my hands on my hips and glare at her. “I’ve never had to clean anything myself before.”
Pixie’s dark eyes sparkle with mirth. “With those nails? I don’t doubt it.’
I pout at her, but she grins back.
“Come on. Let me show you how to do something yourself.”
We sweep, mop, and organize. Doing the laundry is probably my favorite. I like hanging and folding the hot towels, t-shirts, and jeans. The underwear I could do without, but at least they’re clean.
I’m not such a fan of scrubbing the toilets, but the rest isn’t so bad. And when I’m done inside, I feel accomplished.
I take a rake outside to smooth out the yard and reduce the chances of rocks being flung under tires. Pixie waves me off since there’s five members outside tinkering with their bikes. Smoothing out the dirt is cathartic, and I find myself rather liking this job.
Some of the men whistle and catcall me, but it’s not as intense as it was before. It’s only when I notice Doc crouching behind his bike, sweeping me up in long glances, that I take a break.
Arms tired, I set the rake aside and saunter toward him slowly.
He stands, wiping grease from his hands on a towel as I approach. His gaze travels down my legs in a slow, sensual sweep. “How are your feet?”
“Okay.” Is he really thinking about my feet?
“I should check on them.”
“Should you?” That lingering look has my heart kicking up. I step forward, drawing a fingertip across the long curve of a handlebar.
I swear his nostrils flare as he watches me. Since he’s not chiding me, I keep the light touch on his bike. It’s somehow sexual, like I’m caressing him instead. Another step has me feeling more bold than I have in a long, long time.
If ever.
“What are you working on?”
“The suspension.” His voice is a low growl.
I trace the line of stitching on the seat, back and forth. Back and forth.
“It smooths out the ride.”
Nodding, I offer a small smile. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”
“I recommend it.” Doc’s gaze darkens, and I swear it’s on the tip of his tongue to offer to take me for a ride. The double entendre of it swims in the tension between us. “Reminds me of my old life.”
My smile blooms a little bigger. I’m finding that I like this game. The flirting.
Taking another few steps forward has his focus dropping to my thighs again, lingering there. Doc’s hands twist in the towel he’s holding, jaw clenching.
“What life was that?”
A heavy beat hangs between us. So close but still so far from each other.
“You first.”
The attention makes me bold. I shake my hair out, exposing a solid slice of my body. The cold air braces my skin in a heady chill. It’s brief, but empowering.
Doc’s gaze snaps up to mine and doesn’t waver. Attraction is obvious, but he’s breathing like he’s mad. It stalls my next step. We’re so close already. A foot apart. I can practically feel his hands on me, but the heat has turned.
“What are you doing, Wren?” His voice is low and dangerous. It should scare me but doesn’t.
I want to lean in even closer.
He looks to the side, that towel tearing in his hand before he sets it down. “You are Saint’s. And I cannot do that to my brother.”
I deflate a little at those words.
“We’ve all been reminded to behave ourselves.”
That makes me frown. Why? When? My husband doesn’t seem to have any interest in me whatsoever, so why make that kind of sweeping proclamation? It certainly isn’t just because of my safety.
Doc wouldn’t hurt me. Would he?
Another scrap of space disappears between us as his voice lowers. “You’re in his jacket.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means you’re basically queen around here. You need to start acting the part.”
Frustration boils over, making me feel foolish. I should know better than to think I could tempt him. A prize I might be, but not one anyone actually wants. I’ve been put on a shelf and left to rot.
I spin on my heel and storm away.
I felt the tension there. The desire.
It’s not like Saint wants me.
Inside, the weight of his vest doubles. It’s too much. I can’t take it anymore.
Shrugging it off, I settle it on the stool beside the bar.
Pixie’s eyes go wide. “Sweetheart. You can’t do that.”
“Looks like I just did.”
“No. It’s what’s keeping you safe.” Her usual jest is absent from her voice.
“It’s heavy. I just can’t right now.” Without it, the air hits my skin differently. I’m more exposed, but I can’t care about that. I need the freedom to breathe. To be myself for a moment. It’s not something I’ve ever been granted.
It’s only two minutes before Sin is in my space, hovering over me. Shoulders broad and tense with menace as he looks down at me. “Put that back on.”
“I don’t want to.” I cross my arms and look up at him, trying not to show how he affects me. I’m not scared. His attention makes me feel like a livewire has hit me in the chest.
“Princess, put it back on. Don’t cause trouble.”
But I want to cause trouble. I’m so sick of being a good girl, doing what I’m told, what’s expected of me.
Sin stays in my face for another minute, silently trying to intimidate me, and I bet it would work on most. The menace in his eyes isn’t even close to matching the way Grant looked at me as he assaulted me in my dressing room hours before our wedding.
This doesn’t even compare.
He shifts, revealing Saint behind him.
Those hazel eyes narrow at me. Unhappy. That power pose of his again, like it’s going to make me crumple and fall in line. Fuck that.
Saint picks up his vest and places it over my shoulders. Still heavy.
We stare at each other. My arms still crossed. And neither of us budge for a long time.
Or at least, it feels like a long time.
He’s waiting me out. I hate how it makes me feel like a petulant child. The longer I wait, the worse it feels. Without any words, he reminds me how much trouble I’ve already brought to him. And I’m being an asshole by throwing it back in his face.
Dropping my arms, it takes me a beat before I push my arms through the arm holes.
“Let’s go.”
My feet are moving before I can catch up, but Saint doesn’t let me stumble. He steers me downstairs to his room—the one I’ve been sleeping in without him—and he stays in the doorway, standing with his arms crossed.
It only confirms my feeling like a prisoner. That might not be a fair assessment, but it’s hard to argue with my emotions.
I shove the vest off onto the bed, not disrespectful enough to toss it on the floor. I turn, hands on hips and stare at him across the room.
“Wow, I think this is the first time you’ve stepped in this room in three days. It’s yours, isn’t it? Has all of your stuff in it.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where he’s been sleeping, but I’m afraid the answer will be another woman’s bed.
Saint’s jaw flexes, shoulders, hands. “I’m trying to be respectful.”
“And that means ignoring me completely. Your vest is supposed to suffice? Aren’t people going to question if this marriage is real if you don’t spend any time with me?”
He stalks a few steps closer, and the room shrinks. But I’m not afraid. I’m excited.
“People are already talking.”
“You took my vest off.”
Exasperated, I drop my hands, ready to stomp my foot. “It’s not enough if you’re not there to back up what it represents. Say what you want to your men, but they don’t believe you. You’re giving them no reason to. And if you don’t want to be the one to claim me, there are other men here who do.”
A few more steps, the space between us shrinking, tightening my skin with anticipation.
“You want them to?” Saint’s voice is soft, low, and it sends a new wave of desire through me. It’s stupid to want him this much.
Even if he is my husband.
“What I want is not to be floating adrift without an anchor.” We stare at each other for another extended moment.
It’s full of expectation, and if I’m not wrong—which I’m typically not, I’ve spent my whole life learning to read people, a life skill I had to learn early to survive—he’s attracted to me, too.
He’s just trying to be a good man, and he knows how intimidating he is.
I want him more because of it.
“Do you want me to sleep in this bed with you?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
I shake my head. It’s amazing that he can’t see it. “You make me feel safe.”
Desire ratchets up, sending heat through my middle.
Saint’s arms fall to the side, hands clenching like he’s trying not to touch me. God, I want him to.
Why is he holding back?
“Don’t start something you don’t understand, Wren.”
He stays, lingering as intimacy coils in the space between us. When I change into one of his oversized shirts, his pupils are fully blown. But he doesn’t touch me as we crawl into bed together.