Chapter 6
Alexis
Two days pass as I ride out the fever in Dex’s guest bedroom.
I press the thermometer under my tongue and wait, staring at the wall until it beeps. When I pull it out, the number finally reads normal. My throat still aches, but it’s nothing like before, and for the first time since I arrived, my stomach growls faintly.
I pick up my phone and text Mason that my fever is gone and not to worry. He responds immediately, and I smile. I managed to call him for a few minutes yesterday, and we texted back and forth. Mason doesn’t like it when I’m not okay.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand carefully, testing my balance. No dizziness. No chills.
Progress.
I crack open the bedroom door and peek into the hall. It’s quiet. Early morning quiet. The clock on the wall reads seven a.m., which means Dex is probably still asleep.
Perfect.
I need a shower, and I really don’t want to run into him half dressed and grumpy.
This whole situation still feels unreal. Living in a stranger’s apartment. Sharing space with a man who clearly can’t stand me, even if he insists on helping me anyway.
I tiptoe down the hall and slip into the bathroom, locking the door behind me out of pure habit.
The bathroom is unmistakably his.
Dark towels folded neatly on a shelf. A razor and aftershave lined up with military precision near the sink.
Men’s shampoo, soap, and a heavy-scented body wash that smells like cedar and something sharper, clean, grounded, him.
The shower is bigger than any I’ve ever had, with a tub deep enough to actually soak in.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and cringe.
I look awful.
My skin is pale, my blue eyes dull and shadowed. My nose is red from days of blowing it, and my hair sticks out in every direction like it’s given up on me entirely. I shake my head and turn away before I can spiral.
The water takes a second to heat, but when it does, I step under the spray and let out a long, shaky breath.
Warm.
I can’t remember the last time I stood under warm water without rushing. Without keeping one eye on the door and one ear tuned for footsteps. Without fear tightening my chest at every sound, wondering if Russell was coming back to the trailer.
I was twelve the first time he walked into the tiny bathroom of the trailer, knowing full well I was taking a shower.
I remember the way the curtain shifted when he pushed it aside, just enough to make me freeze, my hand clenching around the soap as my heart slammed against my ribs.
I screamed so loud my throat burned, and my mother came running, yelling at him to get out.
But I can never forget the way he looked at me.
That grin.
Like it was funny.
The memory makes my shoulders tense and my stomach turn, but the water keeps pouring, steady and constant.
No shouting. No slammed doors.
I close my eyes and let the heat sink into my skin, loosening muscles I didn’t realize were still clenched.
This isn’t the life I imagined I’d have once Mason went off to college.
But it’s better than the one I left behind.
I have a bed. A door that locks. A place where no bikers will ever set foot. I have a job, even if my new boss already gets on my nerves and his stupid nickname makes me want to throw something at him.
Still, it’s better than last week.
No bikers here. No Russell.
And Mason is safe.
For now, that has to be enough.
After my long, relaxing shower, I tiptoe back to my room and find my backpack sitting at the end of the bed.
On the chair are the clothes I was wearing when Dex found me, washed and dried, smelling faintly of his detergent.
I pull on clean underwear, my hoodie, and jeans, run my brush through my hair, dry it, then twist it up into a messy bun.
I itch for coffee and make my way over to the kitchen.
The space is surprisingly put together. Dark wood cabinets line the walls, worn just enough to show use but clearly well cared for.
The countertops are thick stone, solid and practical, free of clutter except for a coffee machine, a knife block, and a bowl of fruit that looks like it actually gets eaten.
Open shelves hold mismatched mugs and sturdy plates, nothing decorative for the sake of it, just things that belong.
A heavy wooden table sits near the window, its surface scarred with small nicks and scratches, like it’s seen real life instead of just photos.
The whole room smells faintly of coffee, clean soap, and something earthy, cedar or leather, like Dex himself.
I fumble with the coffee machine, my movements slow as I try to wake my body with heat and caffeine. Steam rises in lazy spirals, curling through the air, and I let it fill the room, wrapping around me.
Maybe I can survive today after all.
Then I hear the bathroom door open.
I look up, and my breath catches.
Dex steps out wearing nothing but a pair of loose, low-slung pants, water droplets still clinging to his skin, his hair damp from the shower. His abs catch the light as he moves, and I can’t help the quick swallow that betrays me.
Of course he has a six-pack.
I look back up and find him smirking at me knowingly.
Stupid bastard.
I look down at my mug, then take a sip.
Dex makes his way over to the coffee machine, and that’s when I see it.
His entire back has a big tattoo I know all too well… a hooded archangel, the sword piercing the scales, flames licking the edges.
My stomach drops.
My fingers tighten around the mug.
Cold spreads through my chest, slow and heavy.
“Michael’s Legion.”
The name comes out breathless, like it’s been dragged from somewhere deep in my chest.
Dex stills instantly, then turns to look at me.
“You know them.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
My pulse roars in my ears. I force myself to meet his gaze. “You’re one of them?”
“Was.”
He steps closer, coffee mug in hand, casual but watchful. Those green eyes don’t miss anything.
“They let you leave?” Confusion cuts through my dread. Leaving an MC isn’t something you do unless you’re in a body bag.
“They did.”
No explanation. Just that. His gaze stays on me, weighing, measuring, like he’s deciding what I’m worth knowing.
“You don’t like motorcycle clubs in general,” he says slowly, “or just the ML MC?”
I square my shoulders, refusing to step back even though every instinct screams at me to create distance.
“I hate all MC members.”
The words land harder than I expect.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged, and something shifts in his expression. It’s quick, almost gone before I can name it, but I catch it anyway. A flicker. Like I hit something real. Something that matters.
His jaw tightens.
So I did push a button.
Good.
The farther he stays, the less I risk.
Because who knows what he would do if he knew the truth. That the stepdaughter of his dear MC club’s biggest enemy is now hiding in his apartment.
I can’t risk that.
I have to keep my distance. Get through these three months. Then disappear and never look back.
“So you’re one of those,” Dex says quietly as he steps closer, his presence filling the space, harder now. Less teasing. More controlled.
“One of what?” My voice comes out hoarse. I swallow.
His scent hits me this close, sage, cedar-wood, leather, smoke. His hair is still damp from the shower, a curl brushing his forehead.
“One of those everything-is-black-or-white people,” he says, lips curving into a knowing smirk. “One of those who believe in rules. In lines that can’t be crossed. That everything is either good or bad, warm or cold, innocent or guilty… worthy or not worthy.”
His hand lifts, and for one terrifying second I think he’s going to cup my cheek.
Instead, he catches a stray strand of hair that slipped from my messy bun and tucks it gently behind my ear. His fingers barely graze my skin, but it feels like a brand.
“Maybe I am,” I say, lifting my chin even as my breath stutters. “And you’re not?”
My eyes betray me, sliding to his mouth. Full. Dangerous.
“I’m not.”
His voice drops as he leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “There’s blue, purple, green, yellow… there’s beauty in all of it. Freedom too, if you stop trying to control it.”
His words sink into me, slow and devastating as he brings his face in front of mine.
“Things aren’t always black or white,” he murmurs. “I live in the in-between. I take the white when I need it… but I’m not scared to turn to black when life calls for it.”
He steps back.
My thoughts scatter. His words wreak absolute havoc inside my chest.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he adds softly. “Colors have a habit of pulling people in.”
I scoff, even as my pulse betrays me. “I’m not interested in being pulled anywhere.”
“Sure you are.” His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before lifting again. “I bet you’ve lived your whole life choosing safe.” He tilts his head. “Don’t you ever wonder what dangerous feels like?”
My throat tightens. I hate that he sees too much, that he says it like an invitation instead of a warning.
“Gray is where the truth usually hides,” he says quietly now. Not teasing. Honest. Intimate. “Nothing is ever pure white or pure black, Tinker.”
I force myself to breathe. To remember everything I swore I’d never get close to again. Bikers. Clubs. Men who smell like temptation and ruin.
“I don’t belong in your gray,” I say, holding his gaze, refusing to give him even an inch.
His eyes soften, just a fraction.
“Maybe.” Then his mouth curves, quiet and unreadable. “But what if you’re already standing in it and you’re just too scared to look around and see it?”
I swallow.
I hate that a part of me wants to know the answer.
Dex takes a step back, turns, and walks back into the kitchen.
I don’t move at first.
My fingers curl slowly into my palms, nails pressing into my skin as something cold creeps up my spine, settling deep in my chest.
I’m trapped.
I ran from one MC member straight into the home of another.