Chapter 6
Sage
“Are you serious?” I squint at him from across the kitchen, arms folded. “You really want to bake a cake?”
Havoc leans against the counter like a man who does not knead dough for a living.
“Yeah,” he says, completely unbothered. “I promised Ghost I’d bake the damn cake for his wedding. A man keeps his word.”
“A biker and a wedding cake. This I have to see.”
He grins like I just challenged him to a fight. “You saying I can’t do it?”
“You don’t exactly scream ‘measuring cups and frosting tips.’”
That earns me a low laugh. “You gonna help me or not, sweetheart?”
I pretend to consider it. Then I sigh, dramatic. “Fine. But I’m in charge.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes.
God help us.
We’re in the kitchen of his cabin. It’s small, but we’ll make it work.
The cast iron pan from breakfast still sits on the stove.
The sink’s spotless, a towel draped neatly over the edge.
Now the counter’s crowded with mixing bowls, a dozen ingredients, and one ex-Marine cracking his knuckles like he’s about to go to war with a bag of flour.
“Wait, wait,” I say, swatting his hand. “You don’t just dump it in.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re baking, not starting a fire.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Thought fire was the end goal.”
“Not yet.”
I talk him through the ingredients step by step. He tries to play it cool, but I see how his brows furrow when he measures. He double-checks everything like the recipe is a classified briefing. All intensity. All control. Like one wrong move and the cake will self-destruct.
He cracks an egg a little too hard. It splatters everywhere.
“Smooth,” I say, grinning.
He gives me a look. “That egg had an attitude.”
When I hand him the whisk, he holds it like a weapon.
“No,” I laugh, adjusting his grip. “You're not interrogating the batter. Gentle. Circular.”
“Gentle’s not usually my thing.”
My face heats. “Well... consider this practice.”
His grin is unfair. Smug and slow and entirely too effective.
We get through the batter without disaster. By the time it’s in the oven, I’m covered in flour. So is he. And somehow, I’m standing between his legs, perched on a stool, while he wipes a smudge from my cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“You’ve got…” His hand lingers. “Right here.”
“Flour?”
He nods, gaze lingering. “And a look like you’re trying not to kiss me.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
I don’t get the chance to answer, because he leans in and kisses me—soft, lazy, tasting like vanilla and something warmer. I kiss him back, just for a second. Just enough for his fingers to rest against my waist.
Then the oven dings.
“Saved by the cake,” I breathe, pulling away.
“The damn cake,” he mutters.
We cool the layers while he sneaks glances like they might misbehave. I show him how to level the tops and whip buttercream. He’s awful at piping. Truly awful.
“Looks like a five-year-old iced this,” I say, staring at his attempt.
He shrugs. “Five-year-old has good taste.”
“I’m fixing it.”
I elbow him aside and take over. He watches me work, arms folded, brow raised.
“You like bossing me around.”
“You like being bossed.”
He leans in close, murmuring near my ear, “Only when it’s you.”
I almost drop the piping bag.
By the time we finish, the cake is imperfect, a little lopsided, but beautiful. A little messy, but made with more care than most people ever bother with.
“You did good,” I tell him, stepping back.
His arm slides around my waist. “We did good.”
He pulls me in and kisses me, slow and sweet. And for a moment, it’s not about the past or danger or what’s waiting for us down the road.
It’s just a kitchen. A cake. A man I’m starting to fall for.
And the smell of something warm and sweet wraps around us, thick with vanilla and just a little too much powdered sugar.
“You know,” I say, brushing flour off my shirt, “you should come to my class at the community center. You’d definitely tip the age balance… but I think the ladies could survive.”
He arches a brow. “Only if you promise not to get jealous when they start flirting with me.”
I scoff. “Please. Dorothy would eat you alive.”
His grin is smug. “You’d still be the only one I’d flirt back with.”
My stomach flips, but I cover it with a smirk. “Smooth.”
“I try.” His voice dips, warm and serious beneath the teasing. “Tell me you’ll be okay here. I’ve got some things to handle, but I’ll send Ghost to bring you to the clubhouse later tonight.”
I arch a brow. “You’re assigning me a babysitter now?”
“No.” He steps closer, crowding into my space just enough. “I’m sending someone so I don’t lose my mind wondering if you’re okay.”
My breath stutters. Heat blooms low in my belly at the quiet intensity in his voice. Still, I manage, “You’re awfully dramatic for someone who just learned what a rubber spatula is.”
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, trailing a finger down my flour-dusted arm, “you think that was dramatic? Wait ‘til I have you back in my bed.”
A full-body shiver rolls through me.
“Fine,” I say, my voice a little too breathy.
He leans in, lips brushing mine just enough to make me melt.
The clubhouse looks different than I imagined. Still rough: brick walls, exposed beams, scuffed floors. But the light is softer, golden from a string of bulbs strung over the bar. The air smells like grilled meat, leather, and old wood. Cozy. The last thing I expected a biker clubhouse to be.
Ghost walked me in, giving a nod to the prospects on door duty.
“She’s with Havoc,” he said simply. And that was that.
People nodded, offered quiet smiles, then went back to whatever they were doing. No lingering stares. No side comments.
Now I sit on a stool at the edge of the bar, fingers twisting in my lap. Roy, who goes by Mercenary in the club, is a mountain of a man with a calm presence and quiet weight. He introduced himself and handed me a glass.
“Beer’s in the fridge if you want,” he said. “But if you want to keep your wits about you around these idiots, lemonade’s the safer bet.”
I took the lemonade.
“He’s coming,” Roy murmurs now, eyes on the hallway.
Sure enough, Havoc strides in, shedding his cut and slinging it over a chair. His black T-shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, and when his gaze lands on me, something shifts in his expression. Like he’s just spotted a campfire after walking through a storm.
“You came,” he says, voice low and rough, part relief, part possession.
“You told me to,” I reply, aiming for sass but sounding breathless.
He stops in front of me, one hand braced on the bar beside my hip. He leans in until his beard brushes my cheek. I shiver.
“You keep giving me that look,” he murmurs, “and I’ll take it as permission to ruin your whole night.”
A sound escapes me, half laugh, half plea. “Maybe I want my night ruined.”
He growls softly. “Sweetheart, if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll take you in the back and make you forget your name.”
It doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a promise. And God help me, I want it.
“Show me around?” I ask, my voice thinner than I’d like. “I don’t know anything about this.” I gesture at the open space around us.
His expression softens. “You don’t need to. You only need to know about me. But yeah. I’ll show you.”
He extends his hand. I slip mine into it, and he laces our fingers like it’s the easiest thing in the world. As if we’ve done it a hundred times. His callused palm is rough against mine. It makes something inside me flutter.
He walks me through the clubhouse, pointing things out as we go. The bar. The kitchen. The long wooden table where club meetings happen. Each stop comes with a story.
“Viper cheats at pool. Don’t bet against him.”
“Roy’s got the driest sense of humor in three counties.”
“If you tell Ghost a secret, he’ll take it to the grave.”
At the back, he opens a steel door that leads into a courtyard. Strings of lights hang overhead. There’s a firepit, picnic tables, and rows of bikes parked on gravel. The air smells faintly of exhaust and cooling engines. It’s gritty, but it’s beautiful.
“This is where we hold cookouts,” he says. “Plan rides. Handle club business. Or just sit around and talk shit.”
I take it all in. The warmth of the lights. The laughter spilling from inside. The quiet hum of something that feels like family.
“I didn’t expect this,” I say.
“What did you expect?” he asks, not offended, just curious.
“Bars and strippers,” I admit, then slap a hand over my mouth.
He barks out a laugh. “We’ve got a bar. No strippers. This is home. This is where we keep the things we care about safe.”
He steps in closer, until his chest almost brushes mine.
“You are something I care about.”
My breath stutters. “You don’t know me,” I whisper.
He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger at the curve of my jaw. “I know you smell like home. And taste like heaven.”
The back door swings open. Ghost stands in the doorway, as unreadable as before. “Havoc. Need you for a minute.”
Havoc sighs, something sharp flickering through his eyes. He brushes his thumb over my lower lip. Barely there, but enough to leave a mark on my pulse.
“Stay here. Roy’s got you. If anyone so much as breathes wrong, tell him.”
Then he strides off, all tense lines and purpose. I lean against a picnic table, still trying to slow my heart.
Roy wanders over and drops onto the bench across from me.
“You okay?” he asks in that steady drawl.
“Do you guys ask each other that all the time?”
“Pretty much,” he says. “We’ve all seen some shit. No shame in checking in.”
I nod, fingers picking at the edge of my sweater. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “I’ve been on my own for a long time.”
He watches me for a beat. Then he says, “We don’t do anything halfway here. Havoc’s claimed you? That means you’re one of us. We’ll be in your business. You’ll be in ours. Might as well get used to it.”
A surprised laugh slips out of me. “And if I decide I’m not interested?”
Roy shrugs. “Then we’ll leave you be. But the way he watches you? Like you hung the damn moon. Don’t think that’s going away.”
I think of the way Havoc growled against my skin. The heat in his eyes. The way his voice turned low and dangerous when he told me I was his.
Yeah. I’m already around. And falling deeper every minute.