Chapter 1 #2
Full patches, prospects, ol’ ladies, and kids running around underfoot.
Someone's baby is crying in the kitchen.
A couple of the younger kids are sword-fighting with breadsticks near the stairs.
Jolene is directing people to seats like she's orchestrating a symphony.
I'm seated at the main table—an enforcer's privilege—three seats down from Phantom, who sits at the head like the king he is.
Grace is directly across from me, which means I have an unobstructed view of her face for the entire meal.
Also means she has an unobstructed view of me watching her.
The table is loaded with food.
Brisket and ribs, potato salad and coleslaw, cornbread and beans, everything you'd expect from a Texas barbecue.
Phantom's pride and joy, this meal.
He spends hours on that smoker every Sunday, perfecting his craft the way some men perfect motorcycles or gunsmithing.
Grace is wearing a clean shirt now—must've changed when she got here.
A soft cotton thing the color of cream, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
Her hair is down, falling in waves over her shoulders.
She's talking to Dakota about something, animated and smiling, and I can't look away.
I never can.
She notices. Of course she does. Grace isn't stupid.
Her eyes meet mine over the brisket platter, and something flickers in those blue depths.
Awareness. Curiosity.
Maybe a hint of the same tension that's been building between us for months, simmering under the surface of every interaction.
Or maybe I'm seeing what I want to see.
"Shadow, pass the beans?" Rogue's voice pulls me back to reality.
The treasurer is next to me, plate already loaded, that perpetual half-smile on his face like he knows something everyone else doesn't.
I hand over the bowl without looking, eyes still locked on Grace.
She's the one who breaks eye contact first, turning to answer a question from Spur about treating his horse's hoof abscess.
Her professional voice kicks in—confident, knowledgeable, explaining something about thrush and antibiotics and the importance of keeping hooves dry.
Spur's hanging on every word, nodding along, asking follow-up questions about his mare.
So is Ford, who somehow ended up seated next to her.
The prospect is leaning in too close, asking questions about her work, telling some story about his family's ranch back in Oklahoma.
Grace is being polite, nodding, engaging the way she does with everyone.
Making people feel heard. Making them feel important.
It's one of the things I love about her.
It's also driving me fucking insane right now.
"Easy, brother." Banshee's voice is quiet beside me. The road captain doesn't miss much. "You're gonna break that."
I look down. I'm gripping my fork hard enough to bend the metal, knuckles white with pressure.
I set it down carefully, reach for my beer instead, and take a long pull to give my hands something to do other than reach across the table and drag Ford outside by his collar.
"Just tired," I mutter.
"Uh-huh." Banshee's tone says he doesn't believe me for a second. "That why you've been staring at the Prez's daughter like you're planning her kidnapping?"
"Drop it."
"Your funeral." He goes back to his brisket, but I catch the smirk he's hiding.
Bastard knows. They all probably know.
I've never been subtle about Grace.
Never been able to hide the way I watch her, the way I make sure I'm wherever she is, the way I've scared off every man who's looked at her twice in the past few years.
They think it's big brother protectiveness.
The enforcer watching out for the Prez's daughter.
They have no idea it's an obsession.
Possession.
"So, Grace." Jolene's voice cuts through the dinner conversation, loud enough that half the table goes quiet. "Any handsome vets at that conference you went to last month?"
Grace's cheeks flush pink. "Mom, come on."
"What? You're twenty-six. I want grandkids before I'm dead."
"You have Dakota," Grace points out, gesturing to her sister.
"Dakota's married to her horse," Jolene shoots back, making the table laugh. Dakota throws a napkin at her mother, grinning. "I need at least one of my daughters to give me grandbabies. I doubt your brother’s starting any time soon."
"I'll get right on that," Grace says dryly. "Just need to find a man who doesn't run screaming when he meets Dad."
The table erupts in laughter. Even Phantom cracks a smile, raising his beer in acknowledgment.
"Ain't that the truth," someone calls out.
"Remember that lawyer she brought around?" another voice adds. "Poor bastard looked like he was gonna shit himself when Phantom asked about his intentions."
More laughter. Grace is shaking her head, smiling despite her embarrassment.
But I'm not laughing.
Because Ford—stupid, eager Ford—leans over and says, loud enough for half the table to hear: "Can't be that hard. You're gorgeous and smart. Any guy would be lucky."
The table goes quiet.
Not completely silent.
People are still eating, still talking.
But the energy shifts.
Everyone who matters—every patched member, every ol’ lady who knows how this club works—goes still.
Because prospects don't flirt with the Prez's daughter.
Not unless they have a death wish.
Grace's flush deepens, spreading down her throat. "That's sweet, Ford. Thank you."
Sweet.
She called him sweet.
My vision tunnels.
Everything goes quiet except the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, a steady war drum that drowns out everything else.
Phantom clears his throat. The sound cuts through the tension like a blade. "Ford. Kitchen. Dishes. Now."
The prospect scrambles up, nearly knocking over his beer, mumbling apologies. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn't mean—"
"Now."
Ford disappears into the kitchen so fast he nearly trips over a kid's toy truck.
Crisis averted.
Except it's not averted at all.
Because Grace is looking at me again, and this time there's something different in her expression.
Something that looks almost like… curiosity.
Like she's trying to figure out why my jaw is clenched so tight I might crack a molar.
Why my hands are fists on the table.
Why I look like I want to murder someone over a simple compliment.
I hold her gaze.
Let her see exactly what I'm thinking.
Let her see the possessive rage, the jealousy, the barely controlled need to drag her away from this table and make sure every man here knows she's not available.
Not for Ford. Not for anyone.
Because she's mine.
Her breath catches.
I see it.
The way her lips part slightly, the way her pupils dilate, the way her pulse jumps visibly in her throat.
She feels it too.
This thing between us.
This inevitability.
Then Dakota says something about her upcoming rodeo, asking Grace if she'll be the on-call vet like last year, and the conversation shifts.
The tension breaks.
People go back to eating, talking, and laughing.
But I don't look away.
And neither does Grace.
After dinner, I volunteer for barn duty.
It's a bullshit excuse.
The prospects handle evening chores.
Ford's probably out there right now, mucking stalls and trying to figure out what he did wrong, why the Prez sent him away from the table.
He'll figure it out eventually.
Or he won't.
Either way, he's done talking to Grace.
But I need to move, need to do something with the rage simmering under my skin, need to be anywhere except that porch where people are having coffee and dessert and I have to watch Grace smile and be polite to men who don't deserve to breathe her air.
The barn is quiet except for the soft sounds of horses shifting in their stalls.
Most of them are out in the pasture enjoying the cool evening, but a few are inside—the older ones, the ones recovering from injuries, the pregnant mare Spur's been watching like a hawk.
The smell is familiar: hay and leather and horse, mixed with the faint scent of the saddle soap someone used recently.
I grab a pitchfork from the wall and start mucking stalls just to have something to do with my hands.
Physical work. Something concrete.
Something that isn't fantasizing about Grace or planning Ford's untimely accident.
The rhythmic scrape of metal on concrete is soothing.
Almost meditative.
I'm halfway through the third stall when I hear footsteps.
Soft. Hesitant.
I know those footsteps.
"You don't have to do that."
Grace.
I don't turn around.
Don't trust myself to look at her right now, not with the adrenaline still pumping through my system from dinner, not with every instinct screaming at me to close the distance between us and finish what's been building for months.
"Needed the air," I say, driving the pitchfork into the dirty hay.
"It's ninety degrees."
"Still better than in there."
I hear her move closer.
Smell her perfume—something light and floral that's been driving me insane for months.
Something that doesn't quite cover the scent of her, the soap she uses, the shampoo, the unique combination that is purely Grace.
She leans against the stall door, and I can feel her watching me.
That weight of her attention, heavy and warm.
"Shadow."
"Yeah, darlin'?"
The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
I've been careful not to use it around her, careful to keep my distance, my tone professional, my hands to myself.
But my control is shot.
Has been since Ford smiled at her in the driveway.
"Why did you look at Ford like you wanted to kill him?"
I drive the pitchfork into the hay harder than necessary. "Don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." Her voice is soft but insistent. "You've been weird all night. Actually, you've been weird for months. Every time a guy talks to me, you get this look on your face like—"
"Like what?" I finally turn to face her.
Mistake.
She's backlit by the setting sun streaming through the barn doors, and she looks like every fantasy I've ever had.
Soft and sweet and completely unaware of what she does to me.
Her hair catches the light, turning it a goldish mix of pink.
Her skin glows.
She's an angel in a place built for animals and hard work.
And I'm the devil who wants to corrupt her.
"Like you're jealous," she finishes quietly.
I should deny it. Should laugh it off. Should do anything except what I'm about to do.
Instead, I set down the pitchfork carefully—because if I don't, I might break something—and take a step toward her.
She doesn't back up.
Smart girl.
Running would just make me chase her.
"What if I am?" My voice comes out rough, raw. "What if I have been for years? What then, Grace?"
Her eyes go wide, those brown depths reflecting surprise and something else.
Something that looks like hope. "Shadow, you can't—we can't—my dad would—"
"I don't give a fuck what your dad would do."
The words hang between us, heavy and dangerous.
Because they're true.
I don't care that she's Phantom's daughter.
Don't care about the twenty-year age gap that should make this impossible.
Don't care that I'm supposed to be the responsible one, the loyal soldier, the man who keeps his hands to himself and his obsession hidden.
I'm done caring.
I'm done waiting.
"You've been watching me too," I say quietly, taking another step. "Don't pretend you haven't."
Her throat works as she swallows hard. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." Another step. I'm close enough now to see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat, to smell her perfume mixed with the scent of her skin.
"I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention.
The way your pulse races when I get too close.
The way you squeeze those pretty thighs together when I work out here without my shirt. "
Her face flushes deep red, spreading down her neck. "That's—I don't—"
"Don't lie to me, darlin'." I'm close enough now to touch her, close enough that the heat of my body should be reaching hers.
Close enough to smell her shampoo, to see the tiny freckles scattered across her nose.
"For years I've kept my distance, I've played it safe, I've watched you and wanted you and kept my goddamn hands to myself. "
"Shadow—" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"I'm done waiting."
The words come out like a vow.
Like a threat.
Like a promise.
She stares up at me, eyes wide, chest rising and falling rapidly.
I can see her pulse hammering in her throat, can practically hear her heart racing. "My father will kill you."
"He can try."
"The club—"
"Can get in line."
"I'm twenty-six. You're—"
"Forty-six. I know. Don't care." I let my eyes drop to her lips, then back up to meet her gaze. "Twenty years between us, and it doesn't matter. None of it matters."
"This is insane," she whispers.
"Probably."
But I don't move away, and neither does she.
We stand there in the barn, the evening sun painting everything gold, the smell of hay and horses and possibility thick in the air.
The distant sound of laughter from the house, someone calling for dessert, the ordinary sounds of family.
And we're here, balanced on the edge of something that will change everything.
Grace looks up at me with those big blue eyes, and I watch her make the decision.
Watch the moment she stops fighting what's between us.
Watch her surrender to the inevitable.
"So what are you going to do about it?"
Everything.
I'm going to do everything.
But not here. Not now. Not in her father's barn with the whole club fifty yards away, where anyone could walk in and see us.
I lean in close, let my lips brush the shell of her ear, and whisper: "Meet me tonight. Midnight. The north pasture gate."
Then I step back before I do something stupid.
Before I kiss her right here where anyone could see.
Before I give in to the years of want and need and barely controlled obsession that's threatening to consume us both.
Grace is trembling, staring at me like I've lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
"Midnight," I repeat, my voice low and rough. "If you don't show, I'll know you're not ready. But Grace?" I hold her gaze and let her see everything I've been hiding. "If you do show up, there's no going back. You're mine after that. Completely. Do you understand?"
She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.
Then she turns and walks out of the barn, back toward the house, leaving me standing there with a pitchfork in my hands and a decision made.
Tonight, everything changes.
I claim what's been mine for far too long.
Grace Dalton becomes mine, and God help anyone who tries to stop me.