Chapter Two
Marigold moves through the diner like she owns the air itself, bouncing from table to table with that bright, easy smile that makes people linger longer than they planned.
The bell over the door jingles every time someone steps inside, and no matter where she is, she calls out a greeting without missing a beat.
The sound of her voice always settles something in the room, loosening shoulders and softening conversations.
Plates clatter against the steel ledge as Pierre slides orders through, his gravelly shout of order up slicing through the low hum.
Steam billows out with each dish, thick with grease and spice, making my mouth water even though I’m not hungry.
Chairs scrape across tile and vinyl sighs as people settle in and slip away.
The whole diner thrums with a rhythm she sets without effort, a heartbeat everyone falls in step with.
My jaw tightens at how clean it looks. You could forget the blood here if you hadn’t stood where bullets ripped it open.
I tense when she laughs, head tipping back, something jagged twisting inside me.
My gaze lingers on her, remembering the small, silver scar beneath that sweet diner dress, puckered and forever.
If I brushed the fabric aside, it would ask everything of me, a reminder of how close I came to losing her before I ever learned her flavor.
The memory of her blood does something ugly and permanent inside me. It brands her as mine to protect. No patch or ink required. It’s a promise written so deep it’ll never fade.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, the sting of gunfire and blood burns my nose.
I hear glass shatter under my boots as I charge in, heart pounding loud enough to drown the world, desperate to find Marigold.
The terrified cries of Pope’s kids still crawl under my skin.
I’ll never shake the image of someone as massive as Pope begging Gavel not to die, hands pressed to wounds.
But what claws at me most is my own raw voice screaming for Marigold, and my knees nearly buckling when she stood and told me to stop.
“She brings this place to life,” Savior says, leaning his elbows on the table, eyes tracking Marigold as she moves through the diner.
A fierce, possessive ache coils deep in my chest. My woman.
She’s lived in my head for years, no matter how far she runs.
I’m done with her games, though. The way she lures me in with smoldering glances that promise every filthy thing I want, only to yank it all away the moment we get close to crossing her invisible line.
She slips back into her fortress, and I’m left to burn.
Every damn time.
When she retreats, I rip down the road on my bike, engine howling until the frustration shakes loose in the roar and rush.
If that fails, I chase distraction in the arms of any woman who’ll have me, losing myself in heat and skin until I can almost breathe.
But it never sticks. The hunger always returns, sharper than before, gnawing through me with teeth that never let go.
We’re trapped in this endless loop of lust and unfinished business, and it’s devouring me from the inside out.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back as the booth groans under my weight. “This place would be shit without her. She fits here.”
She glides through the diner, tray teetering above her head, slipping between tables and bodies like the floorplan is etched into her bones.
My jaw clenches as every instinct zeros in on her, tracking her every move.
I drag my teeth over my bottom lip, slow and hungry, letting my eyes linger where they want.
Her legs still ruin me. Four years ago, they were the first thing I saw.
The way her golden calves flexed, the soft jiggle of her thighs begging for my teeth.
Every inch of her became my new obsession, but when her eyes finally locked with mine, something inside me snapped.
That was when I knew she’d take something I’d never get back.
Everyone craves the light Marigold puts out because it’s easy. It’s comforting.
It’s the darker edge beneath it that ensnares me.
She wears tension like a secret, glimpsed only when she thinks no one’s watching.
The way she startles at sharp sounds, the way her eyes sweep every room, body wound as if bracing for trouble.
She’s fleeing something, and I see it, even if she stays silent.
Jealousy burns in my gut every time her attention slips from me. I hate how much I crave it, how hollow I feel when it’s gone.
She pauses at our booth, and my fists clench hard against my thighs, knuckles digging deep to keep me in check.
Her scent—coconut and toasted marshmallow—hits me like a punch, sweet and warm and almost too much.
I want to taste her skin, see if she’s as addictive as she smells, and shatter the fragile balance we’re barely holding onto.
“Joker,” she says, sliding him his plate with a grin. “Here’s your steak. Mooing and ready to walk off your plate just like you asked.”
She works her way around the table, serving my brothers, then tucks the tray under her arms and turns to me. “You sure you don’t want anything, big guy?”
I cross my arms, letting my gaze roam over her before meeting her eyes. “Oh, I want something, Goldie. The real question is…are you ready to take my order?”
Her sapphire eyes darken, heat sparking fierce and clear. She steps in, fingers threading through my hair, tipping my head back until my breath catches. My hand shoots out, gripping behind her knee to hold her close, and I swallow a desperate fucking sound at the feel of her skin against mine.
“And let you order the same thing you do from everyone else’s menu? No thanks,” she murmurs. “I’m a one-of-a-kind meal, baby. And that’s just not your flavor.”
She bites my bottom lip, quick and fierce, then slips away, hips swaying like she didn’t just wreck my control for everyone to see.
Laughter erupts from the booth from Joker, Savior, Butcher, and Pretty Boy. I must look stunned. Four years. Four damn years, and that’s the most she’s ever touched me. Now I’m starving for more.
“You’re in so much trouble,” Pretty Boy crows.
Beside me, Butcher inhales sharply. I glance over to find his eyes locked on the tiny, black-haired woman setting trays of baked goods into the glass case by the bar. Her curls spill down her back, skin pale enough to look almost ghostly.
“Who is that?” he asks, reverent.
“First time you’ve been in here since Marigold hired Snow?” I say.
“If I’d known she was here, I’d never leave this fucking place.” He shoulder-checks me. “Let me out. I wanna say hi.”
“Play nice,” I tell him, standing so he can slide out.
“I always play nice,” he replies with a wicked grin.
I watch, curious, as he approaches her. She greets him with that soft, storybook smile, and something about it flips a switch. His posture goes rigid, arms crossing over his chest as his expression darkens. Sunshine to grump in seconds.
Oh, this shit’s gonna be good.
The sensation of Marigold’s eyes on me pulls my attention back. She’s leaning against the counter, chin in her hand, staring at me. I lift a brow, daring her, but she just blows out a breath and shakes her head.
I need something—anything—to prove she gives a damn.
So, I do the dumbest thing I can think of.
A group of women in bikini tops and sun-warmed skin slides onto the stools near the bar. One catches my gaze and holds it, so I let a smirk touch my lips. She brightens, chest arching for me to notice. I do, but my body barely responds. No spark, no heat—just the dull annoyance of routine.
She twirls a strand of red hair around her finger and leans closer, so I can hear her. “You look like you know what’s good here.”
My gaze flicks, unbidden, to the counter.
Marigold’s watching, that knowing smirk twisting something sharp in my gut.
“I know what’s best here,” I say, stepping into her space and pulling the menu close. “You can’t go wrong, but if you want the real deal? Hamburger steak and mashed potatoes.”
She laughs softly, her breath brushing my jaw. “What about the salads?”
I snort. “Wouldn’t know. I like all the shit that’s bad for me.”
I let the double meaning hang thick in the air. Her breath catches, and she shivers, pressing in until her skin is warm against my arm. “I can be really bad for you,” she whispers.
Before she can get any closer, I step back, trailing a finger down her shoulder as I go. “Sure you can, darlin’. Give me your number, and we’ll see just how bad you can be.”
Her friend slides her a pen as if this is a rehearsed routine. She scribbles fast, pressing the napkin into my hand like it’s a promise. “Call me.”
“Sure thing.”
I tuck the napkin in my pocket and turn to find Marigold gone.
My shoulders slump as I head back to the booth, irritation simmering hot and restless beneath my skin.
Joker squints at me. “You don’t have much up here, do you?” He taps his temple. “Trying to make Marigold jealous like that? That’s suicide, brother. Ever seen her when she’s pissed?” He shudders theatrically. “She’s likely to cut your balls off in your sleep and keep ‘em in a jar or some shit.”
“At least she’d be touching them,” I mutter, even as I instinctively shift at the thought.
Savior claps my shoulder. “I’ll give a hell of an eulogy.”
I laugh it off, then sober. “You all notice anything off at the club last night?”
“When?” Joker asks.
“At the fire pit. Shit feels off. I swear someone had eyes on me, but when I checked the camera feed this morning, I didn’t find anything. The perimeter was filled with shadows.”
“Could someone have been hiding in them?” Savior sets his fork down. “No alarms went off last night.”
“Nah. Probably just my fucking head playing games.”
I don’t tell them about the notes or the gifts. Or how the idea of being watched should scare me, but it doesn’t. Because none of it feels like a threat at all. Just a devotion that soaks into my soul.
“We’ll keep an eye out. See if we notice anything off,” Joker says, before diving back into his food.
The sun’s dipping low when we finally head out. I swing a leg over my bike and turn the ignition.
Nothing.
I try again.
Nothing.
“All good, brother?” Pretty Boy asks.
It takes me seconds to spot what’s missing. A slow, satisfied grin spreads across my face as I straighten up. She can act like my stunt didn’t rattle her, but this? This is all the proof I need.
She stole my spark plug.
I pull out my phone with a laugh and call Saint’s Garage. “Yo, Ducky,” I greet. “I’m gonna need a spark plug for my bike brought to the diner. Seems mine has gone missing.”
He snickers. “You piss off someone in your harem?”
“No harem. Just one loaded pistol.”
I hang up, grinning to myself.
Things between Goldie and me just got a hell of a lot more interesting.