Chapter Ten
The wind slices my cheeks as I twist the throttle.
I surrender to the speed, hoping it will strip away the fog and tunnel my world down to nothing but asphalt and horizon.
But the speed does nothing today. The fog continues to crowd in, sharper than the wind, and my chest tightens with a frustrated ache.
I called Marigold again before leaving the docks, a last desperate attempt for her voice instead of cold, mechanical silence. Same routine for two days. She lets it ring, just long enough for me to picture her staring at my name, then cuts me off, exiling me to the void.
Ignoring a phone is easy. Facing six-feet-plus of scarred leather when he strides into your workplace is a lot fucking harder.
Something about the night at her house is still sitting wrong with me. I know she's physically fine. She was at work the next morning, moving through her shift, upright and breathing. But that grip on my gut hasn't loosened, and I've learned not to argue with it.
Other than club runs, I’ve never gone this long without seeing her. Every nerve in my body is howling for her presence.
I should have been here yesterday. But Pope had me elbow-deep in Everglades land disputes, dealing with contractors who were more afraid of gators than they were of the Saint’s Outlaws.
By the time I’d handled it, I was hollowed out and bone-tired.
Instead of the warmth of her skin, I spent the night tangled in my sheets with a damn cat plushie.
A pathetic substitute, but the weight of it in the dark was the only thing that settled the vibration in my blood.
The diner is busy when I pull in. That's normal. What hits me the moment I step through the door isn't.
The life is gone.
Not the customers, not the noise, but the thing that makes this place feel the way it does.
That particular current running underneath everything.
Conversations are lower than usual, more careful, like people are unconsciously matching the energy of the room without knowing why.
I scan through the bodies until I find her.
I hunt for that familiar spark, the wild light only she carries. When I spot her, my heart seizes.
This isn’t her.
Marigold moves through the diner like something that learned how to imitate her but didn't quite get it right.
The vivaciousness—that specific, unhinged, lit-up quality she carries like it costs her nothing—it's gone.
She doesn't call out when I walk in. Just glances up, clocks me as another customer at the door, and turns back to the person she's already with.
The smile she gives them is constructed.
Assembled from the right parts in the right order.
The moment she turns away, it falls off her face completely.
She's not here.
Her body is running the route, but nobody's home behind her eyes.
Something is wrong. Very fucking wrong. And if my suspicions about my shadow are right, I know exactly what killed the sun.
Marigold grabs my mug and silverware with mechanical precision, gliding to my booth as the wood protests beneath me. Silent, she turns for the coffee pot. Steam curls between us, and I let my gaze devour her, searching for any sign of the woman I know.
It’s the same face, same hands, same everything on the outside. But now there’s a barricade, thrown up quick and locked down tight. Something she built in a hurry, and it’s holding me out.
“Do you want your normal?”
Her voice is flat, dead air. She’s looking at me, but she’s looking through me, as if I’m just another piece of the furniture. I fucking hate it. I want to reach out, grab her by the waist, and shake her until that chaotic spark flares back to life.
“What I want,” I say, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous vibration, “is for you to talk to me.”
That fake, plastic smile slides back into place. It’s an insult.
“Sorry, sir. That’s not what I get paid for. There are plenty of locals who I’m sure would be delighted to keep you company.”
The 'sir' hits me like a physical strike. My dick kicks behind my denim, a primal, jagged reaction to the submission in the word, but the rest of me is seeing red. I hate the distance. I hate the formality. Most of all, I hate that she’s treating me like a stranger.
For the first time since I hauled her into my orbit, I’m hitting a wall I can’t climb. There’s no spark to fan, no darkness to coax out of the shadows. There’s just… a void.
I reach out, my fingers circling her wrist. She doesn't flinch. She stills, the movement of the coffee pot stopping mid-air. Her eyes finally lock onto mine, and the emptiness in them is scary as fuck. It’s a flat, dead landscape where her fire used to be.
“What’s going on, Goldie?” My voice softens, coaxing. Right now, I’m not the club’s secretary. I’m just a man, reaching for his woman in the dark.
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a specimen under glass. “I don’t know what you mean.”
"Yeah, you do. You're not yourself."
Then I see it. A flash, quick and involuntary, something alive moving behind her eyes before she can pull it back.
There you are.
This time, the smirk curling her lips is something else entirely. Bold, a touch rebellious. This is the real her.
“God forbid a girl have an off day, huh?”
“Is that what this is?” I keep hold of her wrist, feeling her pulse jump. I'm pushing, wanting to provoke her. "The whole diner can feel your off day, Goldie."
Something shifts in her face. She snaps, her voice sweet and sharp at the edges. "Well then. Let me just smile and make everyone happy, shall I?" She yanks her wrist from my grip. "I'll get your order in."
I lean back, arms crossing over my kutte. I have to press the bruise, see if she’ll snap. I want a reaction. “Good. That’s what we pay you for, right?”
Come on, baby. Give me the fire. Burn me.
“You’re right.” She nods, her expression smoothing back into that terrifyingly calm surface.
“It is. The club doesn't need some pathetic girl hanging on to them without pulling her weight.” She pauses, her voice stressing the word until it feels like a needle under my skin. “Better get back to work.” She winks, a gesture that’s more of a warning than a flirt. “Be good.”
The second the word pathetic left her mouth, my internal alarms went off. It was the exact word I’d used to dismiss the plushie at the club. The way she emphasized it… it wasn’t an accident. That was a targeted strike.
The connection is screaming at me now. My shadow. My stalker. My Goldie.
My gaze clings to her as she threads through the tables, tracking the sway of her hips with a focus that borders on obsession. I log every movement, every subtle shift, until someone steps in and blurs the view.
Someone steps into my line of sight, blocking her out.
I scowl, head jerking up. A groan nearly escapes. I am so damn tired of the endless parade of women in this town who treat one and done like it’s just the start of a bargain. I made it clear the moment I left their beds. Once is enough.
The only exceptions are the sweetbutts. That's a different arrangement, and everyone understands what it is.
And Marigold.
When I finally get her under me—and I will—she won't be an exception to any rule. She'll be the reason the rules stop mattering. I'll keep her there until she forgets what air tastes like without me in it.