Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Dalla
Three days.
Three days of living in the same basement, sharing the same bathroom, existing in the same space—and RJ is still treating me like I'm made of glass and explosives.
He watches me constantly.
I feel his eyes on me when I'm sketching, when I'm making coffee, when I'm walking up the stairs to the main clubhouse.
He's always there, always present, always maintaining that careful professional distance that makes me want to scream.
Or kiss him.
Possibly both.
I'm bent over my worktable, lost in a sketch that's been fighting me all morning, when I catch him staring again.
He's on the basement couch, pretending to read something on his phone, but his eyes aren't on the screen.
They're on me.
"You know," I say without looking up, "if you're going to stare, you could at least be subtle about it."
"I'm not staring. I'm observing. It's my job."
"Observing." I set down my pencil and turn to face him. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Something flickers in those gray eyes.
Heat. Hunger.
Gone before I can be sure I saw it.
"You should get back to work," he says. "Greer's deadline is coming up soon.."
"I know when my deadline is. I don't need you to manage my schedule."
"I'm not managing. I'm—"
"Observing. Right." I turn back to my sketch, but the lines blur in front of me.
I can't focus.
Not with him sitting there, radiating tension like a coiled spring.
Not with the memory of his almost-kiss in the safe room playing on repeat in my head.
When this is over, we're going to finish this conversation.
We haven't finished anything.
He's barely touched me since Dublin.
Barely spoken to me beyond the essentials.
It's driving me insane.
And I'm not the only one suffering.
I've watched him these past three days.
Watched him move stiffly in the mornings, rolling his shoulders like he's trying to work out knots that won't release.
Watched him wince when he thinks I'm not looking.
Watched him get up in the middle of the night—every night—because he can't sleep on that god awful mattress.
The walls down here are thin.
I hear everything.
I hear him shifting on those broken springs, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt.
I hear him finally give up around 3am and start doing push-ups on the concrete floor.
I hear the low grunt of pain he doesn't quite manage to suppress.
It's killing him, and he won't say a word about it.
Stubborn, infuriating, impossible man.
And tonight, I'm going to do something about it.
The clubhouse kitchen is my sanctuary.
Growing up, this was where I learned to cook—standing on a step stool beside my mother, stirring pots and mixing batter while the chaos of MC life swirled around us.
The kitchen was always calm, always safe.
A pocket of domesticity in a world built on blood and loyalty.
It’s a little late for cooking, so I have the space to myself.
I pull out ingredients, set up my station, and let myself fall into the rhythm of creation.
Cooking is like design.
You start with raw materials.
You combine them in ways that shouldn't work but do.
You make something beautiful out of chaos.
I'm making shepherd's pie—comfort food, hearty and warm.
The kind of meal that sticks to your ribs and makes you feel cared for.
It's my grandmother's recipe, passed down through generations of women who knew that sometimes the best way to say "I love you" is with a home-cooked meal.
Not that I love RJ.
I don't even like him right now.
But I want to feed him.
Want to take care of him the way he refuses to take care of himself.
Want to show him that someone sees him—not the soldier, not the Brotherhood weapon, but the man underneath.
The man who shields people with his own body.
The man who sleeps on a broken mattress without complaint because he doesn't think he deserves better.
The mince browns in the pan, fat sizzling and popping.
The onions caramelize, turning golden and sweet.
The potatoes boil and soften, ready to be mashed into fluffy clouds.
I add butter—too much butter, the way my grandmother taught me—and a splash of cream.
The smells wrap around me like a blanket.
Home. Safety. Love.
I lose myself in the process, humming under my breath—some song I don't remember the name of, just a melody that lives in my bones.
My mother used to hum while she cooked too.
Maybe it's genetic.
Maybe it's just what happens when you're doing something that makes your soul quiet.
An hour later, the shepherd's pie is golden and bubbling, fresh out of the oven.
The crust of mashed potato is perfectly browned, crispy at the edges.
The filling is rich and savory, steam rising through the fork marks I pressed into the top.
I portion out two servings onto plates, grab forks and napkins, and head for the basement stairs.
Time to feed the beast.
When I get down the stairs I notice his door is slightly ajar.
I balance the plates in one hand and push it open with my shoulder, already practicing the casual tone I'm going to use.
Thought you might be hungry. Don't read into it. Just being a decent human.
The words die in my throat.
RJ is standing with his back to me, shirtless, one hand braced against the wall.
He's stretching—or trying to.
His spine curves as he reaches, and I can see every muscle in his back flex and strain.
God, his back.
It's a landscape of power and pain.
Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist.
Muscles carved from years of training, of fighting, of surviving things that would kill lesser men. His skin is tan, smooth except for—
The scars.
Four of them, scattered across his shoulder blades and lower back.
Bullet wounds, he told me in the safe room.
The ones that didn't go through.
In the dim light of Dublin, they'd looked silvered and old.
Healed.
They don't look healed now.
They're red.
Angry.
Inflamed from pressure, from nights spent on a mattress that should have been thrown out years ago.
The skin around them is swollen, irritated, probably painful as hell.
I can see him favoring one side, trying to stretch in a way that doesn't pull at the worst of the damage.
My heart clenches.
He's been hiding this.
For three days, he's been walking around like everything is fine, like his body isn't screaming at him with every movement.
Stubborn, self-sacrificing idiot.
And there's the mattress itself.
I knew it was bad.
I'd seen it briefly when we first arrived.
But seeing it now—really seeing it—makes my stomach turn.
The center sags so deeply it practically touches the floor. Springs poke through the fabric in multiple places, some of them rusty and sharp-looking.
The frame beneath is metal, bent, held together by stubbornness and prayers.
There's even a spring that's completely broken through the top, coiled and exposed like a trap waiting to snap.
He's been sleeping on this. For three nights. With those scars.
No wonder he can't sleep.
No wonder he's up at 3am doing push-ups.
It's not insomnia—it's survival.
His body is trying to escape the torture device he refuses to complain about.
"What the hell, RJ?"
He spins, surprise flashing across his face before he shuts it down.
His hands drop to his sides, and I watch him physically rebuild his walls—straightening his spine, squaring his shoulders, becoming the soldier instead of the man.
"Dalla. I didn't hear you—"
"What the hell." I set the plates down on his dresser, not caring that I'm probably ruining the finish. "Your back. That mattress. Why didn't you say something?"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine!" I gesture at the disaster zone he's been calling a bed. "That thing belongs in a landfill. And your scars—they're inflamed. They're probably infected. When's the last time you slept more than an hour?"
His jaw tightens. "I said it's fine."
"And I said stop lying to me." I step closer, and I'm so angry I'm shaking.
Not at him—never at him—but at the situation.
At his stubborn refusal to admit he's hurting.
At the way he keeps sacrificing himself like his comfort doesn't matter. "You're supposed to protect me, right? That's the job?"
"Yes."
"Then how exactly are you going to do that when you're running on no sleep and your back is so fucked up you can barely move?"
Something cracks in his expression. A flash of vulnerability quickly smothered. "I've operated on less."
"I don't care what you've operated on. I care about now. I care about you."
The words hang between us.
I didn't mean to say them—not like that, not so raw and honest—but they're out now and I can't take them back.
RJ goes very still.
"Dalla..."
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "Don't give me the 'boundaries' speech again.
Don't tell me you're fine. Don't shut me out like you've been doing for three days.
" I take another step, and now I'm close enough to see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.
"I'm not asking for anything except for you to stop punishing yourself. Just... let me help. Please."
He's silent for a long moment.
His eyes search my face, looking for something—I don't know what.
An angle. A catch. Some reason not to trust what I'm offering.
"What exactly are you proposing?" he asks finally.
"Trade mattresses with me."
"No."
"RJ—"
"I'm not taking your bed, Dalla. That's not happening."
"Fine." The word comes out sharp. "Then we share."
His whole body goes rigid. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. My bed is big enough for two. We're adults. We can handle sleeping next to each other without—" I wave my hand vaguely. "Whatever you're worried about happening."
"That's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He stops. Swallows. His hands curl into fists at his sides. "Because I don't trust myself around you."
My breath catches and my pulse spikes.
"What does that mean?" I ask, even though I know. Even though I can see it written all over his face—the want, the need, the desperate restraint.