Chapter 4
Ash
Tuesday. Noon.
I pull into the lot and kill the engine, but I don't get off the bike right away. Just sit there for a minute, helmet in my hands, looking at the building.
It's a nondescript warehouse, the kind of place you'd drive past without a second glance. No sign out front, no indication of what's inside. Just a squat industrial building with a handful of motorcycles parked out front and a garage bay around the side.
What am I doing here?
I know what I'm doing. I'm here to see Jason. To eat food he made for me—food Robin said he's been practicing, four batches to get it right. To watch him light up when I compliment his cooking, watch him flush when I flirt with him, watch him want me the way he so obviously does.
I'm here to play with something I have no business touching.
Robin's right. I should stay away. Jason's soft and sweet and clearly the kind of person who falls hard and fast. He makes four batches of vindaloo for a guy he's met once. He looks at me like I'm something special when I've given him nothing but a few compliments and some charged eye contact.
He deserves someone who can catch him. Someone who knows how to stay. Someone who won't wake up one morning and realize they need to run.
That's not me. Has never been me.
But here I am anyway, sitting in this parking lot like a man about to make a terrible decision and fully aware of it.
First thing I check—the dent.
Gone. Paint touched up perfectly, blended so well you'd never know it was there. I crouch down to examine it up close, running my fingers over the panel. Professional work. Seamless. Probably cost Robin a fortune for the rush job, but my car is pristine again.
Good. One less thing to be irritated about.
I stop at Jason's bike on my way in. She's sitting in the lot like she's waiting for me, chrome gleaming in the midday sun.
Custom Harley Sportster S, and he's modified the hell out of it.
I circle her slowly, not touching—never touch another man's bike without permission—but taking in every choice.
Upgraded suspension. I can tell by the stance, the way she sits slightly lower in the rear than stock. Aftermarket exhaust, custom bend, probably hand-welded from the look of the joints. That would sound beautiful when she opens up, a deep throaty rumble instead of the stock rasp.
Hand-tooled leather seat with careful stitching that speaks to hours of patient work. Flame pattern, intricate and precise. Not the kind of thing you pay someone to do—the kind of thing you do yourself, late nights in a garage, because you want it exactly right.
The engine's been bored out. I noticed the sound difference on Sunday, that slightly deeper rumble that says someone's done internal work.
1250cc instead of standard, if I had to guess.
Smart choice—bigger would throw off the handling on a frame this size.
The SportSter's strength is its agility; going too big sacrifices that.
He could've made this a show bike. Chrome everything, flashy paint, the kind of machine that looks impressive parked but handles like a boat. Instead, he built a rider's bike. Function over flash. Performance over appearance.
Jason built this for himself, not to impress anyone. That tells me more about him than anything Robin's said.
Inside, the bar smells incredible.
Proper Indian spices hit me the moment I open the door—cumin and coriander and fenugreek and something with serious heat underneath.
Not the generic "curry powder" smell of cheap takeout, but the layered complexity of someone who knows what they're doing.
Toasted spices, bloomed in oil, built into something real.
My stomach growls. I skipped breakfast, too restless to eat, too busy pacing my empty house and wondering what the fuck I was doing. Now I'm regretting it. Whatever Jason's made, I want all of it.
Robin launches himself at me before I'm three steps through the door. I catch him automatically, wrapping him up in a hug that lifts his feet off the ground. He's lighter than he should be—always has been, burns through calories faster than he can eat them—but he's solid and warm and here.
"You came," he says into my shoulder.
"Said I would."
"You say a lot of things." There's no accusation in it, just fact. I've made promises before that I couldn't keep. Letters I said I'd write and didn't. Calls I said I'd make and forgot. Robin knows better than to trust my words without action to back them up.
Fair point.
I set him down and look at him properly. He seems good. Rested, despite the macaron disaster he was texting me about last night. Happy to see me in a way that makes some tension I've been carrying finally ease.
"You fixed the dent," I say.
"You gave me five days. It's been two."
"Overachiever."
"Learned from the best." He grins, and for a second he looks exactly like he did at twelve, all bravado and desperate need for approval. Then the moment passes and he's just Robin again—twenty-eight and still trying to figure out who he is.
Toby appears next, more restrained but still wrapping around me for a long hug. He smells like Knox now—that wild cat scent mixed with his own familiar softness. Claimed. Mated. The marks on his neck have faded to pale bruises, almost healed before Knox gives him some new ones.
"Glad you're here," he murmurs.
"Wouldn't miss it."
I keep my arm around Robin's shoulders as we move toward the bar proper.
Old habit, from when he was small enough to tuck under my arm and I was the only thing standing between him and our parents' chaos.
He's too tall for it now, has to hunch slightly to make it work, but neither of us mentions it.
Knox is watching from the office doorway, protective but not interfering. We've reached some kind of understanding, I think. He knows I'm not a threat to his mate. I know he'll take care of Toby. There's respect there, grudging but real.
The other lions are scattered around—Vaughn at the bar polishing glasses, Silas in his corner with a book, Ezra doing something on his phone. They all glance up when I enter, sizing me up. Then they go back to what they were doing. Not hostile. Just watchful.
Good. Watchful is appropriate. They don't know me yet.
And Jason.
Jason's in the kitchen, visible through the pass-through window, and he's—
Fuck.
He's in his element. Moving between stove and counter with easy confidence, stirring pots, adjusting heat levels, tasting from a wooden spoon with focused concentration. No hesitation, no uncertainty—just smooth competence, the kind that comes from years of practice.
His hair's pushed back from his face, slightly damp at the temples from the steam.
There's a smudge of something yellow on his cheek—turmeric, probably—and a streak of something red on his forearm that might be chili paste.
He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that's somehow gotten splattered with various cooking stains, and he looks more relaxed than I've ever seen him.
Until he notices me watching.
Then the flush starts, creeping up his neck like sunrise, and he nearly drops the spoon. His hand fumbles, catches it, and he turns quickly back to the stove like he can pretend I didn't see.
Too late. I saw everything.
"Smells good," I tell him.
He beams like I just handed him a medal. The flush is still there, but now it's competing with genuine pleasure. "It's almost ready. Five minutes."
"Take your time."
But he's already moving faster, plating things, arranging dishes with the kind of care that speaks to pride in the work.
I watch him and think about what Robin said.
He's domestic as fuck. Yeah. He is. Makes four batches of vindaloo to impress someone he barely knows. Lights up when that someone notices.
And somehow that's not a turnoff—it's the opposite.
"Beer?" Robin offers, steering me toward the table Toby's setting.
"Water's fine."
Robin rolls his eyes but gets me water without comment. He knows better than to push. I take the seat that lets me watch the kitchen, watch Jason, and try not to be too obvious about it.
I'm probably being obvious. I don't care.
Jason brings out the food, and fuck, it's beautiful.
Vindaloo in a deep red sauce that smells properly spicy, steam rising from the bowl in fragrant waves.
Perfect naan, golden-brown and slightly charred in spots the way it should be.
Fluffy basmati rice, each grain separate and distinct.
Raita with cucumber and mint, cool and creamy.
Mango chutney that catches the light like amber.
Lime pickle, sharp and bright. A little dish of fresh cilantro for garnish.
Everything arranged on the table with careful attention, dishes positioned for easy sharing. He's thought about this. Planned how it would look, how it would flow. This isn't just food—it's a presentation.
"This is incredible," I say after the first bite.
The vindaloo is exactly right. Layers of spice that build on each other—the initial heat hitting my tongue, then the depth of toasted cumin underneath, then something almost sweet that might be the tomato base or might be magic. The kind of food that makes you close your eyes and pay attention.
Better than Spice King. Better than most restaurants I've been to, and I've been to a lot of them, chasing this exact taste across three continents.
Jason flushes, pleased but deflecting. "It's not that hard once you understand the spice combinations."
"Don't do that."
He blinks. "Do what?"
"Downplay it. This is exceptional. The heat balance is perfect—most people fuck up vindaloo by just making it hot without depth. They think spicy means painful, so they dump in chilies and call it a day. You've got actual complexity here. Layers. The kind of thing that takes real skill."