Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Shadow
I wake up harder than steel and aching for her.
The sun's barely cresting the horizon, painting my bedroom in shades of gray and gold, and all I can think about is Grace.
The way she looked at me in the moonlight.
The way she felt wrapped around me. The sounds she made when I filled her.
Mine.
The word echoes through my head like a brand, hot and permanent.
I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the cold water beat down on me.
It doesn't help.
Nothing's going to help except getting inside her again, and that's not happening until tonight.
I've got club business to handle first.
Been the Shotgun Saints' enforcer for years, and that means when Phantom calls church, I show up.
Even when every instinct I have is screaming at me to go to Grace's cabin and make sure she's safe.
Make sure she's still wearing my marks.
Make sure she remembers who she belongs to.
I force myself to get dressed—jeans, boots, t-shirt, cut.
The leather settles on my shoulders, the enforcer patch a reminder of what I am. What I do.
I eliminate threats.
And right now, the biggest threat to my sanity is staying away from Grace for an entire morning.
The clubhouse is busy as ever when I pull up on my bike.
Prospects are cleaning up from last night's party, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes hanging in the air.
A few of the guys are already gathered on the porch, nursing coffee and talking shit.
Banshee nods at me as I head inside. "Morning, brother. You look like hell."
"Didn't sleep much."
"Yeah?" His grin is knowing. "What kept you up?"
I give him a look that shuts him up, but not before I catch the smirk.
Bastard suspects something. He always does.
Inside, the chapel is already filling up.
The long table is scarred and stained from years of use, patches and photographs covering the walls.
This is where we handle club business.
Where decisions get made.
Where loyalty is tested.
I take my usual seat and wait.
Phantom walks in a few minutes later, shuts the door, and the room goes quiet.
Officers and full patches line the table, but all of our focus is on Phantom.
At fifty-something, he's still built like a brick shithouse and still commands respect with just his presence.
He's also Grace's father.
And I'm fucking his daughter.
The irony isn't lost on me.
"All right, let's get started." Phantom drops into his chair at the head of the table. "Rogue, finances."
The treasurer runs through the numbers—ranch operations, club accounts, and legitimate business fronts. Everything's solid. We're making money, staying under the radar, keeping our operations clean enough that the feds don't come sniffing.
"Security report," Phantom says, looking at me.
I straighten. "Perimeter's good. No incidents this week. Cameras are functioning. I want to add a few more along the main road, though. Near the clinic and the entrance."
Phantom's eyes narrow slightly. "Why?"
"Just being thorough. We get a lot of traffic on that road. Truck stop brings in people we don't know. Rather have eyes on it."
It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth either.
Phantom considers, then nods. "Do it. Anything else?"
"Not yet."
The meeting continues—supply runs, upcoming events, member issues.
Routine shit that usually holds my attention but today feels like pulling teeth.
All I can think about is Grace.
Is she awake yet? Is she sore from last night? Is she thinking about me the way I'm thinking about her?
"Shadow."
I snap back to attention.
Phantom's watching me, his expression unreadable. "You with us, brother?"
"Yeah, Prez. Just thinking about the camera placement. I want to make sure we cover all the angles."
He holds my gaze for a moment too long, and I wonder if he sees right through me.
If he knows that his enforcer—the man he trusts to protect the club—is the same man who fucked his daughter against a fence last night.
Finally, he looks away. "Good. Make it happen."
Church ends twenty minutes later, and I'm on my bike before anyone can pull me into conversation.
I need to see Grace.
The clinic sits on Sharp Shooter Ranch property, about a quarter mile from the main house.
It's prime real estate—right along the main road with easy access for clients but still technically part of the ranch.
Grace's truck is already in the parking lot when I pull up.
The clinic itself is impressive—a main office building with exam rooms, large barns for working with horses and cattle, and covered areas with stocks and chutes.
The parking lot is massive, big enough for multiple trucks with trailers.
Across the road, the truck stop and diner are already doing steady business.
Early morning crowd of ranchers and truckers, getting fuel and breakfast before heading out for the day.
It's a good location.
Visible. Public. Safe.
Or it should be.
I park my bike and head toward the office, but movement in one of the barns catches my attention.
Grace.
She's working with a horse—a big bay gelding that's favoring his front left leg.
Her vet tech assistant, Kyle, is holding the lead rope while Grace examines the hoof.
I stop in the doorway and just watch.
She's wearing jeans and boots, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
A tank top that shows off her curves and tanned arms tanned from ranch work.
And around her neck, despite the heat, a thin scarf.
Hiding my marks.
The possessive satisfaction that rolls through me is almost painful.
"Easy, boy," Grace murmurs to the horse, running her hands down his leg. "Let me see what's going on here."
Kyle says something I can't hear, and Grace laughs.
The sound punches through me, sweet and genuine, and I want to hear it again.
Want to be the one making her laugh.
Want to remind her who made her scream last night.
I step into the barn, my boots loud on the concrete.
Grace looks up, and I watch her eyes widen slightly.
Her cheeks flush. She remembers.
Good.
"Shadow," she says, her voice just a little breathless. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on things." I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Got a minute?"
Kyle glances between us, clearly picking up on something but smart enough not to comment.
Grace straightens, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Kyle, can you finish up here? Just wrap the hoof and put him in the recovery stall."
"Sure thing, Dr. Dalton."
She walks toward me, and I track every step.
The way she moves, the subtle stiffness that says she's sore.
The way she won't quite meet my eyes.
"My office," she says quietly as she passes me.
I follow, my eyes dropping to the sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in those jeans.
Tonight can't come fast enough.
Grace's office is small but organized—desk covered in paperwork, shelves lined with veterinary textbooks and supplies, a few framed photos of her with horses and cattle, and of course a photo right on her desk of her and Charlie.
She closes the door behind me, and I immediately reach for her.
"Shadow—" she starts, but I'm already pulling her close, my hand going to the scarf around her neck.
"This why you're wearing this?" I tug it down, revealing the marks I left.
Bite marks on her shoulder. Hickeys on her throat. Bruises where I gripped her.
Evidence of my claim.
"Yes," she breathes, her hands coming up to grip my cut. "People will see."
"Let them." I lean down, press my mouth to one of the marks. She shivers. "How you feeling this morning, darlin'?"
"Sore."
"Good." I kiss my way up her neck to her ear. "Means you'll remember who you belong to every time you move."
Her breath hitches. "Shadow, we can't. Kyle's right outside, and I have a client coming—"
"I know." I pull back just enough to look at her. "Tonight. My place. I'm not asking."
She looks up at me, those brown eyes conflicted. "My father's going to find out eventually."
"Let me worry about Phantom. That's my job."
"Your job is being the enforcer," she says. "Not... this."
"My job is eliminating threats." I cup her face, thumb brushing her bottom lip. "And anyone who tries to come between us is a threat. Including your father."
Her eyes widen. "You can't mean that."
"I've never meant anything more in my life." I kiss her, hard and claiming, and she melts into me. "You're mine, Grace. That's not changing. So, let me handle the fallout."
A knock on the door interrupts us.
"Dr. Dalton?" Kyle's voice. "Your eleven o'clock is here."
Grace pulls back, fixing her scarf, her cheeks flushed. "I'll be right there."
I step away from her, giving her space to collect herself.
"Tonight," I repeat.
She nods, still looking dazed. "Tonight."
I leave through the office door, passing Kyle in the hallway.
He gives me a curious look, but I ignore it.
Not his business what happens between me and Grace.
Not anyone's business but ours.
I head back outside, already planning tonight.
Where I'm going to take her.
How I'm going to make her scream my name.
How many times I can make her come before she's too boneless to move.
I'm halfway to my bike when something catches my attention.
A truck.
Dark blue Chevy Silverado, parked on the side of the main road.
Not in the truck stop parking lot where it should be.
Not in the clinic lot.
Just... sitting there on the shoulder, engine running.
Someone's in the driver's seat.
My instincts kick in immediately.
I stop, studying the truck from a distance.
Newer vehicle. Aftermarket chrome. Tinted windows. Out of state plates, though I can't make out which state from here.
And it's positioned with a direct line of sight to the clinic entrance.
Why park on the side of the road when there's a truck stop right there?
Parking, bathrooms, coffee, food.
No reason to sit on the shoulder unless...
Unless you're watching something.
I change direction, walking toward the truck instead of my bike.
Casual, like I'm just crossing the road to the diner.
But I'm watching.
Noting details.