Chapter 2
Ash
The evening air hits me as I walk out of the bar, and I take my first real breath since I arrived.
What the fuck just happened in there?
I came to check on Robin. That's all. Make sure he was safe, make sure this biker bar situation wasn't some kind of disaster waiting to happen.
He'd been vague in his letters—"made some friends," "hanging out at this place," "don't worry about me"—which in Robin-speak usually means "I'm definitely doing something you'd worry about. "
So I tracked his phone, found him at a bar, and rode over expecting the worst. Drugs, maybe. A bad relationship. Some asshole taking advantage of my little brother's desperate need to be liked.
Instead I found him thriving. Happy in a way I haven't seen since we were kids, before our parents' bullshit beat the joy out of him.
I found Toby mated to an alpha lion—mated, actually mated, with claiming marks I could see from across the room—and looking content in a way I'd never thought possible for someone with his history.
And I found a golden-eyed shifter who looked at me like I was something he wanted to devour.
Jason.
I stop at my bike and grip the handlebars, not ready to leave yet. Need a minute to process. Need to get my head on straight before I ride, because riding distracted is how you end up as a smear on the pavement.
Jason. I turn his name over in my mind, testing the shape of it.
He's pretty in that way that makes you want to wreck him—not mean-pretty, not calculated-pretty, but genuine.
Bright eyes that show every emotion. Easy smile that faltered into something nervous when I got close.
Lean muscle from working on bikes, the kind of body that's functional rather than decorative.
Smells like motor oil and something sweet. Vanilla, maybe, or brown sugar. Young—early twenties probably, though shifters age weird so who knows. Could be forty for all I can tell. Could be older than me. Doesn't look it, though. Looks like someone who still believes in things.
And the way he offered to cook for me—not flirting, not trying to impress, just genuine instinct to provide.
I knew guys overseas who were the same way.
Shifters, mostly. Had to feed everyone, take care of the unit.
Got twitchy and anxious when they couldn't provide, when supply lines were cut and we were eating MREs for weeks.
It's a shifter thing, apparently. A caretaker thing.
Some shifters show love by protecting. Some show it by providing.
Jason's got the provider instinct bad. I could see it in the way he perked up at the challenge of making something spicy enough for me. The way his whole demeanor shifted when he had a task, a way to be useful.
I swing onto my bike and sit there for a minute, not starting the engine. Just breathing. Trying to get my head on straight.
Thirty-six hours without sleep. Five years of missions bleeding into each other until time stopped meaning anything.
I should be focused on decompressing, on figuring out civilian life, on unpacking the single duffel bag that contains everything I own.
On finding a therapist, like the Army's exit counselor suggested.
On reconnecting with Robin. On learning how to be a person again instead of a weapon.
Not on pretty boys with nervous hands and racing pulses.
But I can still feel him. The rabbit-quick beat of his heart under my thumb when I grabbed his wrist. The way his scent spiked when I touched him—arousal and nerves tangled together so tight I could barely tell them apart, even without shifter senses.
The way he said "maybe I don't like strangers grabbing me" while his whole body screamed the opposite.
Pupils blown. Lips parted. Leaning in even as his words pushed back.
He wanted me to keep touching him. Wanted it so badly he probably scared himself.
My phone buzzes before I even get the engine started.
Robin: Jason wants to climb you like a tree
I snort, tension bleeding out of my shoulders. Same old Robin. No filter, no boundaries, no sense that some thoughts should stay inside your head.
Robin.
What? It's true! He's been pacing since you left. Literally pacing. Vaughn says he's never seen him this worked up
Leave it alone.
No way. You need to get laid and he's perfect for you
I don't need you matchmaking.
You absolutely do. When's the last time you got any?
I don't answer that. Six months, maybe. Some guy in a bar in Germany who spoke barely any English and didn't want to talk anyway.
Quick and efficient and forgettable, which was the point.
I didn't learn his name. He didn't learn mine.
We fucked in a bathroom stall and I was on a transport out of the country four hours later.
Before that—honestly, I can't remember. Another anonymous hookup in another country. Maybe Poland. Maybe Spain. They blur together after a while, all those bodies I used to feel something other than the constant low-level hum of hypervigilance.
Tuesday, Robin texts. Come for lunch. Jason's cooking.
Robin.
Indian food. Spicy. Homemade. He's already planning the menu, I can tell by the way he's staring into the pantry
I can picture it. Jason standing in front of open cabinets, taking inventory, building a meal in his head. Trying to figure out what would impress me. What would make me want to come back.
Fuck.
What time?
Noon. Don't pretend you're not interested. I saw how you looked at him. I saw how you grabbed his wrist. You don't do that unless you want someone.
He's right. I don't touch people casually.
Never have. Even before the military made me paranoid about everyone and everything, I was careful about physical contact.
Touch is intentional, deliberate—a choice made with full awareness of what it means.
Every handshake, every pat on the shoulder, every brush of fingers.
And I chose to wrap my hand around Jason's wrist, feel his pulse racing, watch his pupils blow wide. I chose to lean in close enough to smell him. Chose to say things that would make him blush.
I chose that. I chose him, in that moment, even knowing I shouldn't.
And I want more. Want to see what sounds he'd make if I pinned him against a wall. Want to know if he'd still try to feed me after I fucked him speechless. Want to know if he's as soft as he looks, or if there's steel underneath all that golden warmth.
I'll be there, I text back.
YES. Okay. Noon. Wear something nice. Don't be scary.
I'm always scary.
Try to be LESS scary. Just for one lunch. For me.
Fine.
Love you big brother
Love you too. Stop matchmaking.
Never
I pocket my phone and finally start the bike.
The engine roars to life beneath me, familiar and grounding.
Whatever else has changed—and everything has changed—this is still the same.
The vibration, the power, the sense of controlled danger.
I know who I am when I'm riding. It's everywhere else I get lost.
---
Spice King is exactly how I remember it.
Same faded awning, red letters bleached pink by years of sun.
Same cracked parking lot with weeds pushing through the asphalt.
Same neon OPEN sign flickering in the window, one letter dimmer than the others.
I've been dreaming about this place for five years—literally dreaming, waking up in a tent or a barracks or a bombed-out building with the taste of their vindaloo on my tongue.
The restaurant is mostly empty at this hour. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner, that dead zone in the afternoon where restaurants survive on stragglers and people with nowhere else to be. A couple in the corner sharing a plate of naan. An old man by the window reading a newspaper. That's it.
I take a corner table with my back to the wall, facing the door.
Old habits. The kind you don't shake even when you're stateside, even when the worst threat in a strip mall Indian restaurant is probably heartburn.
My eyes track the exits automatically—front door, back hallway that probably leads to a kitchen exit, windows that could be broken in an emergency.
Sight lines. Cover positions. Fields of fire.
It's exhausting, the constant vigilance. But it's also why I'm still alive when so many others aren't.
The waiter recognizes me, which is strange. I've been gone five years, but he smiles and says "The usual?" like I was here last week.
"Yeah. Extra hot."
"You got it." He doesn't write anything down, just nods and heads for the kitchen.
I ate here at least once a week before deployment.
Sometimes more, when I couldn't face cooking or going home to an empty house.
The owners know me—know my order, know I like water with no ice, know I'll eat every bite and leave a good tip.
They sent me a card when I deployed, a whole thing signed by the staff, wishing me safe travels.
I still have it. Tucked into a book somewhere, one of the few personal items I kept.
The vindaloo arrives fast, steam rising off the plate in waves.
The smell alone makes my eyes water—tomato and chili and a complex blend of spices that I've never been able to fully identify.
First bite and my sinuses clear. Second bite and sweat prickles on my forehead.
Third bite and I'm finally, finally starting to feel like myself again.
This is what I needed. Something familiar. Something that burns going down and sits warm in my stomach, demanding attention. Something that doesn't require me to think about golden eyes and nervous hands and the way Jason's voice went rough when he talked about spicy food.
The hotter the better.
Fuck.