Chapter 3
Violet
The ride should scare me.
It doesn’t.
The world blurs into streaks of black and silver, cold air biting everywhere it can reach. The engine vibrates deep and steady, the sound traveling up my spine and settling low in my stomach.
My arms are wrapped around him.
At first, I was careful. Afraid to press too close. Afraid he would notice how much of me was shaking.
But the second he accelerated onto the empty road, instinct took over. My fingers locked together over his stomach. My cheek brushed the solid plane of his back. My knees pressed in at his sides.
He didn’t say a thing.
He just rode.
He’s warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. Solid. Unmoving. The kind of steady that makes the world feel less dangerous.
I’ve never been on a bike before.
I’ve never been wrapped around a man like this before.
I’ve never felt this… aware of someone.
His scent is everywhere.
On the cut wrapped around me. In the fabric of his shirt under my palms. Clean. Warm. Something sharp beneath it.
Something that feels like him.
When we finally slow, trees replace buildings. Neon disappears. The road narrows and curves. My grip tightens without thinking.
“You good?” he calls back over his shoulder, voice rough but calm.
Good.
I don’t feel good.
I feel like something huge just happened and my body hasn’t caught up yet.
The bike turns onto a gravel drive. The sound changes. Crunching under tires. A cabin appears ahead, dark wood tucked into trees, porch light glowing low and steady.
He kills the engine.
Silence crashes in.
I don’t let go.
My hands are still locked around him.
He reaches back, fingers brushing my wrist.
“You can let go,” he says.
Heat floods my face under the helmet.
I peel my arms away slowly.
He swings off the bike first, boots hitting gravel. Then he turns to me.
For the first time, I really see him.
Not through club lights. Not through fear.
Just him.
His hair is dark and wind-tossed, pushed back from his face by speed and cold. It falls slightly over his forehead before he runs a hand through it. His jaw is shadowed, not clean shaven but not wild either. There’s a faint scar near his temple I didn’t notice before.
His eyes are darker in this light. Blue, but not soft blue. The kind of blue that looks like it has seen things.
He looks older than me.
At least a decade. Maybe closer to fifteen.
There are lines at the corners of his eyes that don’t belong to someone who has lived an easy life. His shoulders are broad. His chest solid under the thin fabric of his shirt. His hands look capable of breaking things without effort.
He doesn’t look like someone who should be anywhere near a girl like me.
And yet he came.
He steps closer and reaches for the helmet strap.
“Hold still.”
His fingers brush my jaw as he unfastens it. The touch is brief, practical.
My breath stutters anyway.
He lifts the helmet off and sets it on the bike.
The cold hits my skin immediately.
“Inside,” he says.
I nod.
He doesn’t touch me as we walk to the cabin, but he stays close enough that I feel him at my back.
He unlocks the door and pushes it open. The cabin is dark.
He steps inside first and flips the switch by the door. Soft light spills across wood floors and worn furniture.
Then he toes off his boots without ceremony.
I follow him in, closing the door behind us, my hands unsteady as I tug at the zipper of my own boots.
Warm air settles around us, carrying the scent of wood and something clean and masculine.
It’s small. Simple. Nothing polished or impressive. Just wood floors, a couch, a small kitchen area, a hallway leading somewhere deeper into the cabin. A fire pit in the corner with stacked logs beside it.
It feels… safe.
The word hits me before I can stop it.
Safe.
I slide the cut from my shoulders and hold it out to him.
He pauses, just briefly, before taking it back. His fingers brush mine.
He hangs it by the door, careful with it, then looks at me again.
Without the leather around me, I feel suddenly smaller.
The dress feels wrong.
Too short. Too tight. Too exposed.
I tug at the hem without thinking.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t look at my legs. Doesn’t say anything about how I look.
He disappears down the hallway and comes back a moment later with a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and thick socks folded over one arm.
“Bathroom’s there,” he says, nodding toward a door down the hallway.
I stare at the clothes.
They’re big.
They’re his.
“Thank you,” I manage.
My voice sounds smaller than I want it to.
I take the clothes and slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
The mirror over the sink is unforgiving.
My mascara is smudged under my eyes. My lips look swollen from biting them. My cheeks are still flushed from cold and adrenaline.
I look like someone who almost made a mistake she couldn’t undo.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face. It stings. Good. I scrub at the mascara until it fades and pat my skin dry.
Then I pull the dress over my head quickly, like it might burn if I move too slow.
Cool air brushes over my skin.
For a moment, I just stand there, bare and blinking under the harsh bathroom light.
Then I fold the dress carefully and set it on the counter.
My coat is still at the club. My phone and a little cash are tucked into the pockets of the dress.
I step into the sweatpants. They’re huge. I have to roll the waistband twice. The sweatshirt drops past my hips, sleeves swallowing my hands.
I look smaller in his clothes.
Softer.
Less like the girl in a black dress with pockets.
Less like someone a man like him would look at twice.
The thought lodges in my chest heavier than it should.
And for some reason, I hate that.
I replay the night in my head.
The way he walked in. The way his eyes found me without hesitation.
He recognized me too fast.
The thought settles heavy in my stomach.
He walked in like he knew exactly who to look for.
Our eyes locked and he didn’t hesitate.
He said my woman.
My chest tightens.
He only came because Derek told him to.
Of course he did.
A man like him wouldn’t look twice at a girl like me otherwise.
I’m twenty-three. I work at a supermarket. I live in a tiny apartment with a radiator that rattles all night.
He looks like he’s lived a whole other life.
One that doesn’t include girls who panic in club bathrooms.
I take a breath and open the door.
He’s at the stove.
Making tea.
The kettle hisses softly. He turns as I step out.
His eyes sweep over me once.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“I’m fine.”
It’s a lie, but it’s the best I can do.
He pours the tea into two mugs and hands one to me. Our fingers brush.
My skin feels too sensitive.
“Thank you,” I say again.
He shrugs like it’s nothing.
We stand there in the small kitchen, steam rising between us.
I take a sip.
It’s too hot. I don’t care.
“How did you know it was me?”
He goes still.
Then his gaze rises. Blue. Direct. Unblinking.
A low hum vibrates in his chest before he speaks.
“I’ve seen you before.”
My stomach drops.
“You… you watched me?”
He doesn’t flinch.
“Your brother asked me to keep an eye on you. We served together. I gave him my word.”
The words settle.
Of course.
Derek.
I stare down at my mug.
“So you came because you had to,” I say.
“It was a promise.”
That isn’t the same as choosing.
Heat crawls up my throat.
I nod anyway.
“That’s good,” I murmur. “I’m glad he found someone he could trust.”
Someone like you.
He studies me, too closely.
“You think that’s the only reason I walked into that club?”
I hesitate.
“You said it was a promise.”
“It was.”
Silence stretches.
“You didn’t have to carry me out,” I say quietly. “You could’ve just gotten me outside. I would’ve figured the rest out.”
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t leave things unfinished.”
My pulse skips.
“You said I was yours.”
“That man needed to hear it.”
“And me?”
The question slips out before I can stop it.
This time he takes longer.
“I went because I gave my word,” he says slowly. “What I did after that was my choice.”
The air shifts.
“Why?” I whisper.
His gaze locks on mine. No softness. No flinching.
“Because the second I saw his hand on you, it stopped being about your brother.”