Chapter 1 #3
"Retired," Ash confirms. He's still watching Knox with that same measuring stare he gave the parking lot. Reading the room. Exits. Potential weapons. "Heard my little brother was spending time at some biker bar. Figured I'd check it out. Make sure it was safe."
"It's safe." Knox's arm tightens around Toby. "Robin and Toby are under my protection."
"Good to know." Ash's gaze sweeps the room, landing on Vaughn at the bar, on Silas in his corner, on Ezra who's emerged from the back. On me.
On me, for just a second longer than anyone else.
"And who are they?"
"My pride," Knox says. "Vaughn, my second. Silas. Ezra. And Jason."
Ash's eyes flick back to me at my name, that cool gaze sharpening into something more focused. "Jason. The one with the cute bike."
"It's not cute," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended, defensive in a way I didn't mean to be. "It's a custom build with a bored-out engine—"
"I know what it is." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile but not quite.
"I looked it over while you were staring at mine.
The 1250 conversion, the upgraded suspension, the aftermarket exhaust. Good work.
Clean welds on the exhaust manifold. The seat leather's a nice touch—hand-tooled, right? Flame pattern?"
He noticed. He noticed all of it in the thirty seconds he spent walking past, and he remembered it, and he can describe it back to me like he's been studying my bike for months.
"Then why'd you call it cute?" I demand.
"Because you're cute when you're flustered."
My face goes hot. My lion makes an embarrassing sound, something between a purr and a whimper that I really hope no one else heard.
Robin cackles, delighted. "Oh my god, Ash. Five minutes and you're already hitting on the wildlife."
"Stating facts." Ash's gaze hasn't left mine, pinning me in place like a butterfly on a board. "Nice bike. Nicer owner."
I should say something. Something clever, something cutting, something that proves I'm not just standing here with my mouth open like an idiot while Robin's stupidly hot brother stares at me. But my brain has completely shut down, all my blood apparently rushing somewhere other than my head.
"Anyone need a drink?" I blurt out, because I need to move, need to do something with my hands, need to stop standing here feeling like Ash can see right through me. "I'm getting drinks."
Orders come in. Water for Robin and Toby, beer for Vaughn who's abandoned his crossword with visible relief.
Knox shakes his head, already steering Toby toward the big armchair so he can pull him into his lap and keep touching him.
Silas requests nothing, just goes back to his book.
Ezra mutters something about inventory and disappears again.
"What about you?" I ask Ash. "Beer? Whiskey? We've got bourbon, vodka, some tequila that Ezra swears is good but I'm pretty sure is lighter fluid—"
"Water's fine."
Of course. The guy probably doesn't put anything in his body that might dull his reflexes or slow his reaction time.
I retreat to the bar to pour drinks, grateful for the excuse to turn my back and get my shit together. My hands are shaking slightly as I fill glasses. Vaughn catches my eye and smirks but doesn't say anything, which is probably the nicest thing he's ever done for me.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, pretending to go back to his crossword.
"Fine."
"You look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin."
"I said I'm fine."
"Uh huh." He fills in a word—seven letters, something about nautical terms.
I flip him off and grab the drinks.
When I bring them over, I have to lean past Robin to hand Ash his water. Our fingers brush against the glass—just a second of contact, his skin warm and rough against mine.
He catches my wrist.
Firm but not painful, his hand wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet, like he has every right to touch me.
His grip is warm and calloused, calluses in patterns I don't recognize—not mechanic calluses like mine, something else.
Something that comes from holding weapons, maybe. From doing violence with his hands.
I can feel my pulse pounding against his palm. He has to be able to feel it too, the jackrabbit race of my heart, the way my blood is rushing hot and fast through my veins.
"Your heart's racing," he says, low enough that only I can hear. Intimate. Like we're sharing a secret.
"Maybe I don't like strangers grabbing me."
"Maybe." His thumb presses against my pulse point, feeling the flutter of my heartbeat. "Or maybe you like it too much."
He lets go.
I retreat to the other side of the room, dropping into a chair and trying to remember how to breathe. My wrist feels branded where he touched it, warm and tingling, like he left a mark.
Robin and Ash settle onto the couch, Robin tucked against his brother's side with the easy comfort of family. Knox has Toby in his lap in the armchair, one hand running absently through Toby's hair while Toby practically purrs. Domestic Sunday afternoon, plus one terrifying new addition.
"So," Robin says, curling his feet up under him, "tell me everything. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you really retired?"
"Classified, classified, and yes." Ash's arm is draped along the back of the couch behind Robin, casual and protective at the same time. "Finally done. Planning to lay low for a while."
"That's not everything. That's literally nothing."
"That's all I can tell you."
Robin makes a frustrated sound. "Fine. Where are you staying? Do you need a place? You could crash with me and Toby—we've got a couch, it's not great but it's a couch—"
"I've got a place. Don't worry about it."
"What place? Since when do you have a place?"
"Since I bought one." Ash shrugs, like buying real estate is something everyone does between classified military operations. "Before I deployed. Figured I'd need somewhere to come back to eventually."
Robin looks like he wants to push—his face is doing that thing where he's obviously biting back a million questions—but something in Ash's expression stops him. A wall coming down. A door closing.
"Fine," Robin says, not fine at all. "But we're catching up properly.
Tuesday," he announces, in the tone that means he's made a decision and no one's going to talk him out of it.
"We're doing lunch on Tuesday. Ash, you're coming.
You can meet everyone properly without the whole threatening-to-burn-things-down energy.
It was very scary and I'm sure Knox appreciated it.
" Robin pats Ash's knee like he's soothing a large, dangerous dog.
"Tuesday. Toby will be here after the library closes, I'll bring something, and Jason can show off his cooking. "
I sit up straighter. "I didn't agree to cook—"
"You're always cooking. It's your thing. Recently it was those amazing grilled cheese sandwiches with the fancy bread. And the tomato soup that wasn't from a can."
"Fine," I hear myself say. "I'll cook. Tuesday."
Ash is watching me again, that sharp focus back in full force. "What are you making?"
"Depends. You have any preferences?"
"I don't do sweet." He says it simply, without apology, like it's just a fact about himself. "Never have. Can't stand it. But I like spicy."
"How spicy?"
"Ghost pepper's a good starting point."
A challenge. I can work with a challenge.
"I can do spicy."
"Good." His eyes hold mine for a second too long, charged with heat. "Looking forward to it."
Robin's grinning like he's won something. Toby's watching us with knowing eyes from Knox's lap, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Even Silas has looked up from his book to observe, which means this is probably obvious to literally everyone in the room.
I'm so fucked.
Ash leaves an hour later, after more catching up with Robin and Toby, after a tense but civil conversation with Knox about territory and protection and what exactly "under my protection" means.
Knox had spelled it out in simple terms—Robin and Toby were pack-adjacent, which meant anyone who hurt them answered to him—and Ash had listened with that measuring stare before nodding once.
"Good," was all he said. "Keep it that way."
He'd looked at me one more time before he left, that lingering gaze that made my skin feel too tight for my body, like I was going to split out of it if he kept looking at me like that.
Then he was gone, the roar of his bike fading into the distance.
The bar is quiet after he goes. Robin's sprawled on the couch, looking happier than I've seen him in weeks—months, maybe. He's practically glowing, the tension he always carries in his shoulders completely gone.
"So," Vaughn says from behind the bar, tossing his crossword aside. "That's your brother."
"That's my brother." Robin's smiling at the ceiling, dopey and content. "He's really back. I can't believe he's really back."
"He's protective," Knox observes.
"He's always been protective." Robin sits up, tucking his feet under him. "Our parents were... not great. Mom was checked out, Dad was gone more than he was home. Ash basically raised me."
"How much older is he?" I ask.
"Six years. He was twelve when I started kindergarten, and he walked me to school every day. Made my lunches. Helped me with homework." Robin's smile goes soft, distant. "Beat up my bullies."
Toby shifts in Knox's lap. "He's always been great to me too. Ever since Robin and I met freshman year, Ash has treated me like family."
"And when he joined the military?" Knox asks, his voice a little less hard than before.
"He didn't want to go. He was eighteen, I was twelve, and he almost didn't enlist because he didn't want to leave me." Robin's voice goes rough. "I told him to go. Told him I'd be fine. And he did, but he never stopped checking in. Called when he could. Wrote when he couldn't call."
"He tracked your phone," Knox says, but it's less of an accusation now. More like he's trying to understand.
"He worries. And when he can't be there to protect someone in person, he finds other ways to make sure they're safe." Robin shrugs. "The phone thing isn't about control. Knowing where I am helps him sleep at night. I don't mind."
Toby shifts in Knox's lap, tucking himself closer. "He's a good guy, Knox. Scary, but good. He's not going to be a problem."
"He threatened to burn down my bar."
"To protect me and Robin. You'd do the same thing."
Knox can't argue with that. He just grumbles something that might be agreement and pulls Toby closer, pressing his face into Toby's hair.
I'm not really listening anymore. I'm thinking about Ash's hand on my wrist. His thumb against my pulse. The way he said cute like it meant something else entirely. The way he looked at me like he was seeing something worth looking at.
"Jason." Robin's looking at me with a knowing expression, a smirk threatening at the corners of his mouth. "You okay over there?"
"Fine."
"You've been staring at the door since he left."
"I have not."
"You absolutely have." Robin sits up straighter, his smirk blooming into a full grin. "It's okay. He's hot. I'm his brother and even I can admit he's objectively hot. Like, stupidly hot. Unfairly hot."
"Robin—"
"And he was definitely flirting with you."
"He was not—"
"He called you cute. Twice. And he did that thing where he grabs your wrist and feels your pulse. He only does that when he's interested."
My face heats despite my best efforts. "He does that a lot?"
"Enough that I recognize it." Robin's grin widens, delighted by my obvious embarrassment. "He's very tactile. Very physical. Likes to touch things he wants."
"Robin," Toby warns from Knox's lap.
"What? I'm just saying. Jason's clearly into him—"
"I'm not—"
"—and Ash is clearly into Jason, so Tuesday should be interesting. I'm just trying to prepare everyone."
"Nothing is going to happen Tuesday."
"Sure." Robin doesn't sound convinced. Not even a little bit. "Whatever you say."
He settles back on the couch, still smiling, and I give up on arguing. My pack already knows I'm attracted to Ash. There's no point pretending otherwise when my heart rate probably gave me away to every shifter in the room.
The question is what I'm going to do about it.
Later that night, I'm in my room above the bar, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. The room is small—just big enough for a bed, a dresser, and a tiny closet—but it's mine. My space. The only space in this building that's completely my own.
Through the thin walls, I can hear the muffled sounds of Knox and Toby, which means they're at it again. Knox's low rumble, Toby's higher gasps, the rhythmic creak of the bed frame that we've all learned to tune out. Day four of the feral honeymoon, apparently.
I should be annoyed. Should be thinking about noise-canceling headphones or maybe sleeping in the garage like Ezra. Instead, I'm thinking about hands and hazel eyes and a voice like gravel and whiskey.
What would it feel like to have Ash's hands on me?
Not just my wrist—everywhere. Those calloused palms sliding over my skin, gripping my hips, pressing me down into the mattress.
Would he be rough, all that controlled violence finally let loose?
Or would he take his time, methodical and precise, taking me apart piece by piece?
My hand slides down before I consciously decide to move it. I'm already hard—have been on and off since he left—and I stop fighting it.
I think about him finding me in the garage tomorrow.
Think about him crowding me against the workbench, those massive hands pinning my wrists to the metal surface.
Think about that gravel voice in my ear, low and rough: Pretty bike.
Prettier owner. Think about him pressing his hips against my ass so I can feel exactly how much he likes what he sees.
Cute, he'd say, but it wouldn't sound like a dismissal. It would sound like a promise.
I come embarrassingly fast, biting my lip to keep quiet, his name caught between my teeth.
And then I lie there in the dark, heart pounding, knowing I'm in trouble.
He's been here one day. I've talked to him for maybe an hour, total. And I'm already jerking off to fantasies of him like a desperate teenager, already imagining scenarios that will probably never happen, already wanting things I have no right to want.
Robin warned me once about this. Said I fall too fast, want too much, let my lion pick people before my brain catches up. Said I dive headfirst into infatuation like it's a swimming pool and never check if there's water in it first.
He's right. He's always right.
But Ash looked at me like I was worth looking at. Noticed my bike, noticed my work, noticed me in a way that felt real and heavy and significant. And I want to know what happens if I let him catch me.
Tuesday. I can make it until Tuesday.
Probably.