Chapter Eleven #2
"Good," he says. "That's what we pay you for, right?"
Welp.
So much for that.
"You're right." I nod, very pleasantly. "It is. The club doesn't need some pathetic girl hanging around without pulling her weight." A wink. "Better get back to work. Be good."
I don't give him room to respond. I turn on my heel and walk over to the counter to place his order with Pierre, very dignified, not looking back.
From the corner of my eye, I watch one of his old flames slide up to his booth. She’s leaning in, using every weapon in her arsenal to get a rise out of him. Normally, it would work. Tomcat is like an overeager puppy around a willing woman, except it’s his dick wagging instead of a tail.
But he doesn't budge. He scowls, dismissing her with a coldness that mirrors my own. I feel a treacherous tendril of warmth slip through my ribs.
He didn't want her.
Surprising.
Damn him.
The other brothers start filtering in just as she stomps off, and his eyes cut straight to mine like he knew exactly where I'd be looking. The smile that crosses his face when he catches me is slow and unbearably smug.
Then, the arrogant bastard sends a kiss sailing my way.
I think I swoon.
Maybe.
Physically impossible to confirm, given the current numbness situation, but the evidence suggests yes.
Outwardly, I raise one brow, put my nose in the air, and rotate away from him with great dignity to go check on my other tables.
The other brothers cycle in and out all day.
Tomcat stays.
And watches.
He's not even trying to be subtle about it. I can feel his eyes moving over me every time I cross the room, tracking me through the diner with that focused, patient quality that does things to my composure I refuse to acknowledge.
Is she my stalker?
Is she not?
I can feel the questions coming off him from across the room, batting against me every time I get too close.
And honestly? I'm a little aggravated. I'm not ready for him to figure it out yet.
That's my reveal, and he's out here trying to steal it with his stupid pretty eyes and his stupid patience and his stupid…
I refill someone's coffee and smile at them very normally.
He can wait.
A girl’s entitled to her secrets.
The sun has finally surrendered to the night when the commotion in front of the house pulls me out of the office. The air in the diner is thick, charged with heated electricity.
“Stop,” Butcher snarls.
He looms over Snow, his face carved with irritation.
I caught her singing earlier. Sweet, airy notes that don’t belong in a place this rough. If I had to bet, that purity scraped against his nerves. Whatever it is about her that needles him, he’s clueless about how to handle it, and that makes him reckless.
“No,” she chirps, her voice a bright defiant spark. “I like singing, and I’m good at it. Take your ornery self somewhere else if it hurts your ears.”
Unbothered, she resumes scrubbing the counter, her hum steady and defiant. Butcher’s face twists, the warning sign of a man about to do something spectacularly stupid. I stride over, but I’m a heartbeat too slow. The brute lunges, his hand clamping around Snow’s wrist like a shackle.
She lets out a small, startled cry.
A fuse blows somewhere deep inside me.
Before I even register the choice, my knife is out, pressed against his crotch, and I’m glaring up at a man who is, by any measure, a giant.
Wow. He really is a mountain.
I click my tongue against my teeth, the sound sharp in the sudden silence of the diner.
"You shouldn't touch a woman without her permission, Butcher.
" I keep my voice pleasant. Conversational.
"Now, I'm perfectly happy to provide a complimentary castration right here, but I don't think any of us actually want that.
So, how about you apologize to the princess, and then I don't have to die today. Does that work for everyone?"
These men are family to me, but Snow is something else. She’s a tiny bird with a broken wing, still determined to sing. The day I saw her for what she was, I tucked her under my own wing. Letting the wolves close would make me a lousy protector.
Just call me Prince Charming.
Butcher goes quiet for a moment. Something moves through his expression. The anger drains away, leaving something that looks almost like grief underneath. He didn’t mean to hurt her. He just doesn't know how to handle something so soft.
Hopeless, hopeless men.
"Sorry, Snow," he says, voice rough with it. "Didn't mean to harm you."
I snap the knife shut and tap his chest, right above his heart, my irritation giving way to satisfaction at his apology. “Good boy.” Then I turn to Snow, letting my voice turn gentle. “You alright?”
“I’m okay, Mari.” She gives me that smile, only slightly wobbly at the edges. "He just caught me off guard."
I give her head a quick, awkward pat and face the table of Saint’s Outlaws. I wag a finger. “Behave. Learn how to woo a woman, for goodness’ sake.”
Before they can even respond, I leave. If I stay in the middle of the macho posturing any longer, I cannot promise I'll be pleasant about it, and if I'm not pleasant to the bad men, then I end up as shark food.
Basic math. Duh.
I gnaw my thumbnail as I wander back toward the office.
That picture lingers at the edge of my thoughts, exactly where it’s been haunting me all day.
Should I tell Pope?
You can’t guard against threats you don’t see coming.
If someone’s after Tomcat, or me, or both, the club deserves a heads-up.
But I don’t even know what I’m dealing with yet.
Damon was my first suspect—he always is.
The slow poison of his mind games is his calling card.
But this? This feels different. Smaller. Pettier.
Stay away from him.
It reeks of cattiness. The jealous hiss of a woman convinced Tomcat belongs to her.
Probably.
Maybe.
Okay. Sixty-forty. Maybe fifty-fifty.
Either way, do they need to know yet?
What if they do, though?
I bite down harder on my thumbnail.
The diner empties out gradually, the brothers filtering away without much noise, and my eyes drift to the back booth.
Tomcat's gone.
The booth sits empty, a cold, abandoned coffee mug the only trace left behind. Panic stabs through the ice I’ve built around my heart. For the first time in two days, numbness fails me. I hate it. I hate not having eyes on him.
Thought vanishes and instinct takes over. Three strides and I’m in the office, lungs gulping stale air as I grab my phone. My fingers fly across the screen, heart pounding a wild rhythm as I pull up the tracker.
He’s a pulsing red dot on a digital map. Just riding. The route is aimless, a jagged line through the streets of Coral Cay that says he’s got too much on his mind to go home.
“Hey, Becca,” I call out, my voice sounding tight and unfamiliar even to me. “I need you and Pierre to close down tonight. Can you handle it?”
“Sure thing, boss.” Becca pauses, her eyes searching mine. “Everything okay?”
My brows pull together. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
Her expression flickers through emotions I cannot name before settling. Maybe sadness. Maybe something close to pity. I have no idea how to handle either, so I just stare back.
Her smile returns, gentler than before. "Go on. We've got it." When her hand finds my arm, its warmth feels almost unfamiliar. "Be safe, okay?"
What a strange day.
"Thank you," I manage, and then I'm out the door.
Anticipation sparks inside me on the walk home. It is sharp and electric, burning away the dull static that has haunted me all day. Amazing, really, how the thought of watching over him jolts my nerves. Two days of emptiness, and now this.
I change fast. Helmet on. Fireblade between my legs and the engine alive underneath me, and I'm cutting through the dark after that little dot on my screen before I've thought too hard about any of it.
I close the gap slowly. He drifts without purpose, restless, and I slip into the familiar rhythm of trailing him. It feels effortless, as if this was always meant to be my role.
He turns toward the clubhouse eventually, and I hang back, keeping my distance, watching the dot settle.
But when the Saint’s Outlaws clubhouse looms from the shadows, icy dread floods my veins.
I’m not the only shadow Tomcat has.
Another shape lurks in the darkness. Another pair of eyes tracks him from the trees. The realization is not just a sting. It is a gut-deep violation of everything I am.
Someone else is in my territory.
Someone else is watching my man.