6. Enya
ENYA
I can still feel where he touched me.
The spot on my wrist burns like a brand, my pulse hammering underneath. I lean against the wall just inside the door, trying to catch my breath, to make sense of what just happened out there.
He apologized. Really apologized. Not the half-arsed sorry he muttered while scrambling for his clothes three nights ago, but actual honesty. Raw and uncomfortable and real.
And I believed him.
That's the part that scares me most. I believed every word.
The clubhouse noise crashes over me, music, laughter, voices blending into one another. Too loud. Too much. I need to find Ciara, to ground myself in something normal before I do something stupid.
Like go back outside.
Like let him touch me again.
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs, willing them to stop. This is fine. I'm fine. He apologized, I accepted it, and we're done. Clean break. Both of us know where we stand.
Except we don't, do we?
Because I didn't pull away. Not at first. I let him hold my wrist, let his thumb trace circles on my skin, let myself feel the heat of him standing so close I could taste his breath.
And I wanted more.
Christ, I wanted more.
"There you are!" Ciara appears beside me, drink in hand, eyes bright. "Where'd you go? Rush was wanting me to introduce you to everyone and I lost you."
"I just needed some air." The lie comes easy. Too easy.
She studies my face, frowning slightly. "You alright? You look—"
"I'm grand." I push off the wall and force a smile. "Just warm in here."
"Right." She doesn't believe me, but she lets it drop. "Come on, Rush wants you to meet Pyro, the President of the club. He's actually pretty sound. He’s Callie’s son-in-law."
Callie’s our boss. Her daughter is Chloe, who I’ve met already, and she’s one of the sweetest people you’d ever meet.
You’d never guess that her entire family is involved in the criminal world, with her da being the head of the Irish Mafia here in Ireland and her brothers running the UK and Spain, not to mention all of her cousins being involved in the family business in the States, and Chloe’s fella is the president of this motorcycle club.
I let her pull me deeper into the room, away from the door, away from the possibility of Tank walking back in. I need distance. I need to remember why I can't do this.
Warren. I have Warren. And Warren needs me steady and whole, not falling apart over some biker with sad eyes and careful hands.
But even as I think about it, my eyes are scanning the room, looking for him.
Our eyes meet across the room.
Everything else fades. There’s only him, looking at me with an intensity that makes my stomach drop and my breath catch and every nerve ending light up like a fucking warning flare.
This is dangerous.
He's dangerous.
Not in the way Declan was, not violent or cruel or controlling. But dangerous in the way he makes me want things I've sworn off. He makes me feel things I can't afford to feel.
I look away first, turning my attention to whatever Ciara's saying—something about Rush's bike, or club runs, or... I don't know. I can't focus. My brain's too busy replaying the last ten minutes.
I wasn't thinking about her. I was thinking about you. Only you.
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
But I've been down this road before. I believed a man who said he'd changed, who promised he was different, who swore he'd never hurt me.
And look how that turned out.
An hour passes, maybe two. I lose track as Ciara introduces me to everyone. There are too many people to keep up. Everyone's friendly—surprisingly friendly for a biker club. They’re not what I expected, based on the stories I’ve heard.
But I can't settle. Can't relax into the night. Because every few minutes, I feel Tank's eyes on me. And every time I glance over, he's there. Watching. Not approaching. Just... present.
It's maddening.
Ciara leans in close, shouting over the music. "Are you sure you're alright? You've been jumpy all night."
"I'm fine."
"Is it being here? We can leave if you're uncomfortable."
"No, it's…" I stop. Take a breath. "It's not the club."
"Then what?"
I glance over at Tank. He's still at the bar, still watching. Ciara follows my gaze, and I see understanding dawn on her face.
"Oh," she says. "Oh."
"It's nothing."
"That's not nothing." She grins. "That's Tank. Rush's brother. And he's looking at you like—"
"Don't."
"Like you're the only person in the room," she finishes.
My chest tightens. "It's complicated."
"It always is." She squeezes my arm. "But for what it's worth, Tank's one of the good ones. Bit closed off, bit intense, but solid. You could do worse."
I could also do better. I could do nothing. I could go home to my son and my quiet life and forget this ever happened.
But even as I think it, I know I'm lying to myself.
Because I don't want to forget.
I want… What? Him? This? Something I can't even name?
"I need another drink," I say.
"I'll come with—"
"No. Stay with Rush. I'll be right back."
I weave through the crowd toward the bar before she can argue. It's a mistake. I know it's a mistake. But my feet carry me there anyway.
Tank sees me coming. Straightens. Sets down his beer.
I stop in front of him, heart pounding so hard I'm surprised he can't hear it.
"Hi," I say softly, unsure what else to say.
"Hi." His voice is rough, careful, like he's trying not to spook me.
We stand there, the noise swirling around us, not speaking. Just looking.
"I should go," I say finally. "This was…I shouldn't be here."
"Why did you come over here?" he asks.
"I don't know."
"Enya—"
“Don’t,” I whisper softly. “Don’t apologize again. I’ve accepted that you made a mistake. We’ve all been there.”
He closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. “I could apologize a million times, Enya, and it would never be enough for hurting you. I never meant to. What I did was fucked up, and if I could, I’d go back and change it.”
My chest is rising and falling rapidly. I try to get my breathing under control, but it’s impossible. My pulse is racing as my mind runs wild. “What do you want from me, Tank?”
“Everything,” he answers immediately without missing a beat. “Anything.”
My resolve is crumbling. I can feel it. The walls I've spent three years building are starting to crack under the weight of want.
"Your room," I say before I can stop myself. "Is it here?"
His eyes widen slightly. "Yeah. Down that corridor. Private quarters for patched members."
"Show me."
"Enya—"
"Show me," I repeat, my voice steadier than I feel. "Before I change my mind."
He searches my face, looking for certainty. He must see it because he nods once and steps back, gesturing toward a hallway off the main room.
I follow.
Every step feels like I'm walking toward something I can't take back.
Good.
Maybe I don't want to take it back.
The corridor is quieter, dimmer. Doors line both sides, private rooms for club members. Tank stops at one near the end and pulls out a key.
"Last chance to walk away," he says, hand on the door handle.
"I won’t."
He opens the door.
The room is small. A bed against one wall, dresser opposite, window with the blinds pulled down. It smells like leather and smoke.
I step inside. Hear the door close behind me. The click of the lock.
We're alone.
Really alone.
My heart's racing, breath coming too fast. Part of me wants to run. Part of me wants to launch myself at him and not think about consequences or morning or anything beyond right now.
"Enya." My name in his mouth is soft and careful. "We don't have to—"
I turn to face him. He's standing by the door, hands at his sides, giving me space. Waiting for me to decide.
Always waiting. Always careful.
I cross the room, closing the distance between us, and reach up to touch his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble under my palm.
His eyes close. His breath shudders out.
"Say my name," I whisper.
"Enya."
"Again."
"Enya." Rough now. Raw.
I rise up on my toes and kiss him.
He goes still for a heartbeat, surprised maybe, or giving me one last chance to back out—then his hands come up to frame my face and he kisses me back.
Slow. Gentle. Nothing like that first night when everything was hunger and heat and hurry.
This is different.
This is careful.
His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head just so, and he kisses me like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth. Like he's got all the time in the world and nowhere else he'd rather be.
I make a sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, and press closer. My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him down, needing more from him.
"Enya," he breathes against my mouth. "Christ, Enya."
My name. He keeps saying my name.
Proving something. Showing me.
His hands move to my waist, steadying me, and he walks me backward toward the bed. Slow steps. Giving me time to change my mind.
I don't change my mind.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I sit, looking up at him. He's backlit by the single lamp, all shadows and sharp edges, and for a moment I just stare.
He's beautiful. Rough and scarred and real, but beautiful.
"Take off your shirt," I say.
He does. He pulls it over his head in one smooth motion and drops it on the floor. Ink covers his chest and arms, tribal patterns and a prayer on his ribs. Scars too. Old ones. I can’t help but wonder what happened to him; how he got each and every single one of them.
I reach out and trace a line across his collarbone. He shivers under my touch.
"Your turn," he says quietly.
I hesitate. Not because I don't want this, but because letting him see me—really see me—feels more intimate than anything we did that first night.
But I pull my top over my head anyway. Let it fall.
His eyes track over me, taking in the ink on my arms, the scars I try to hide. His expression doesn't change. No judgment. No pity. Just want.