Chapter Six #2
Why the hell did I think they would? I knew damn well I’d never resist her.
After leaving her place, I went straight to the House of Saints with every intention of fucking her out of my system.
Found a townie who ticked all the necessary boxes: attractive, soft smile, smelled good, eyes full of invitation.
My charm routine was half-assed at best, words sliding from my mouth on autopilot while half my brain stayed tangled up in Marigold’s scent, Marigold’s laugh, Marigold’s goddamn everything.
Not that it mattered to the woman across from me. They never care about the effort. They see the kutte, the patch, and me, and decide they’ve scored a story to tell in the morning.
I told myself the spark would ignite once she was naked beneath me. But she excused herself to the restroom, and when she returned, she brushed me off like I was invisible and made a quick escape.
She didn’t say why. Didn’t look back. She was just gone, leaving me stranded in that booth with questions swirling. That doesn’t happen. Ever.
I tilt my head, eyes searching Marigold as if her skin might hold the answer. Suspicion throbs slow and steady behind my eyes.
Was she there? Did she have a hand in the woman fleeing the bar like she’d caught fire?
No, that’s impossible. Marigold doesn’t drive, and there’s no damn way she could have gotten there fast enough to interfere. But there is someone else who could have.
My little shadow.
They haunt my every step, always watching, lingering just out of sight like a damn ghost with an obsession. Since they’ve already staked their claim, I wouldn’t be surprised if they chased off anyone foolish enough to get near.
The thought sends a dark, possessive satisfaction curling deep in my gut.
I move to step toward Marigold, but Blackjack blocks my way. He stands there, stone-faced and unreadable, holding a small black cat plushie in one huge hand. A ribbon circles its neck, a folded note tucked beneath the bow.
My stomach knots, heat blooming sharp and electric through me.
“Awe,” I drawl, forcing a smirk that feels a little too tight. “You got yourself a secret admirer, brother?”
Blackjack’s eyes stay on mine, flat and knowing. “Not mine.”
He offers the plushie, and every conversation in the common room falters, then falls silent. The hush slams into my ears, heavy as water.
My laugh comes out rougher than I intended as I take the toy. Receiving something like this in front of my brothers should piss me off. Should. Instead, a slow, dangerous warmth spreads through my chest.
The plushie is absurdly soft, with fur so smooth it's expertly crafted. It gazes up at me with oversized sapphire eyes, their brightness so uncanny it steals my breath.
My gaze snaps straight to Marigold.
Those eyes…
Jesus fuck. My stomach flips, muscles tensing.
They look like hers.
She stays propped against the wall, lost in Birdie’s words, while I try to hide the chaos building inside me just a few feet away.
Muted conversations roar in my ears as I unfold the note. The handwriting is delicate, almost innocent, crowned with a tiny heart as if this is sweet, not deeply deranged.
Just something cute to keep you warm at night until I can join you.
My body betrays me before my brain reacts. A sharp, involuntary twitch low in my groin and heat dragging tight through my abdomen.
Shit.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I want this?
My grip tightens around the note, paper crinkling between my fingers.
The handwriting scrapes at my mind, unearthing a weird, nagging sense of déjà vu. It’s just ink from some obsessed stranger, nothing more. But I’ve been staring at this same pretty script for months, and it’s starting to feel like it knows me back.
That logic does nothing to stop the slow, cold awareness creeping up my spine.
It isn’t exactly fear or annoyance twisting inside me. It’s something far more volatile and consuming. It's a feeling that makes my pulse race.
Interest. Raw and real. Dangerous, too.
So I force my face blank, unimpressed. No way in hell am I letting these assholes see my pulse spike over a damn plush toy and a vaguely suggestive note from my stalker.
I don’t have to glance around the room to know all eyes are on me. Their thick, predatory curiosity saturates the air. Of course they are. Why the hell wouldn’t they be? A fucking outlaw biker getting a plushie from a stalker?
I fold the note once, then again, slow and deliberate, pretending I’m not torn between burning it to ash or hiding it away for safekeeping.
Cypher is the first one to break.
“Cute handwriting,” he says, leaning back against the bar next to his partners with a shit-eating grin. “Real romantic serial killer vibes.”
A few chuckles ripple through the room, but I don’t move my eyes away from the plushie I’m holding by the ear. It dangles loosely from my hand like it bores the hell out of me instead of feeling weirdly, disturbingly personal. “It’s pathetic.”
The dismissive words slide out easily, as if my brain isn’t still replaying the phrase "keep you warm at night" on a very inappropriate loop.
Pope snorts. “Your stalker sounds real concerned about your sleeping arrangements, Tomcat.”
Laughter erupts, voices overlapping, as my brothers continue to rib me.
They’re loving this shit.
Ducky leans in, eyes locked on the plushie with open curiosity. Instinctively, I draw it closer with a small, possessive gesture I barely register.
“You gonna cuddle it, brother?” he asks, grin wicked.
I look down at the ridiculously soft cat, fighting a smirk because damn, it’s cute. The fur glides under my thumb, absurdly gentle, and something dark and amused stirs in my chest. A wild warmth spreads as I stare at the damn thing.
Because this woman, this unseen, obsessive little shadow, has balls. Balls bigger than some men I know.
“Yeah,” I deadpan, lifting my gaze. “That’s exactly what I’m not going to do. There are more fun ways to keep me warm at night.”
My brothers explode into laughter right on cue, just like I expect them to. It’s a textbook Tomcat line. Polished, cocky, and dripping with that carefully curated playboy bullshit I’ve spent years perfecting.
But the truth is, I probably damn well would cuddle this fucking thing.
All damn night.
Underneath the noise, a subtle shift creeps in. Their eyes flick to the plushie, amusement sharpening into something tense. The air tightens, laughter fading into watchful silence.
Pope’s laughter fades first. “Gate camera catch anything?”
Grins fade as silence settles after Pope’s question. Laughter is one thing, but a security breach is a whole different beast.
Cypher is already moving, fingers flying across his laptop. The blue glow of the screen reflects along his skin. Camera angles flood the display—gates, perimeter, drive—every inch of club surveillance cycles in rapid succession.
He glances at Pope, then me, and shakes his head slowly. “Nothing.”
My spine goes rigid before I can stop it. Something sharp and electric snaps awake inside me. No footage. No vehicle. No sign of approach. Nothing to track, nothing to hunt.
Instead of fear or anger, a dark, unsettling thrill curls through my chest. This means whoever my stalker is got past club surveillance.
She, and I’m definitely leaning more toward my stalker being a woman, got close.
She got close enough to touch our fucking gate.
Without anyone seeing, without anyone hearing, without a single goddamn trace of her existence except the gift now sitting in my hand.
Jesus Christ. Who the hell are you, little shadow?
Tension surges through the room, thick and sudden.
Butcher straightens from the couch, his earlier irritation morphing into something edged and lethal.
Basilisk’s scowl turns vicious, the scar along his face glaring menacingly, his fists clenched beside his thighs as his gaze slices through the room like he expects an enemy to materialize out of thin air.
“Shit ain’t cute anymore,” Gavel mutters, patting Lovelyn on the head before standing, shoulders tight.
I drop the note onto the table like it suddenly weighs too damn much. “It’s just some obsessed chick.”
Outwardly, I act dismissive, but inside, my pulse hums erratically, and my thoughts spiral between anticipation, fear, and reluctant excitement.
This isn’t just an obsession. This is skill.
It’s precision. Someone who knows how to move unseen and get close.
That realization unsettles and excites me at once.
Fuck.
I can’t decide if that irritates me or turns me on.
Across the room, Marigold watches me in silence, her sapphire eyes glittering with something raw and wounded. But beneath that, something darker and sharper flickers in her gaze.
It sends a strange, tightening heat through my chest.
My grip tightens on the plush before I toss it on the table like it means nothing and turn back to my brothers.