7. Rowan
7
ROWAN
Steam billows around me as I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body. The bathroom mirror shows a pink-cheeked version of myself, eyes a little too bright despite the exhaustion that should be dragging me down. What a day. What an absolutely insane day.
My mind keeps circling back to one detail that just won’t let go. Ryder Kane took my underwear. Just reached into my drawer, chose the expensive black lace panties I bought to remind myself I’m still a woman under all the running, and pocketed them like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The only time I’ve ever read about a man taking a woman’s underwear was in a book I picked up at a rest stop somewhere in Utah. The main character was a complete psychopath, but in that fictional, sanitized way that made heat pool in my belly despite knowing better. Now, it’s happened in real life, and I’m not sure what to do with the fact that my body’s reaction isn’t all that different.
I wring out my hair, patting it dry as I walk to my bedroom. The apartment feels bigger than it did this morning, emptier somehow. The broken door stands as evidence that today wasn’t just a bizarre dream.
When Tom came by to help—barely forty-eight hours after moving in, and I was already asking neighbors for help—his face showed no surprise when I explained what happened. He just nodded and pulled out his toolbox, as if bike owners breaking down doors was Tuesday’s regularly scheduled program in Wolf Pike.
“Kane brothers, huh?” he said as he measured the damaged frame. “Figured they’d come calling sooner or later. You hit their bikes?”
I froze, dish towel twisted between my fingers. “How did you?—”
“Small town.” He shrugged, fitting a new piece of wood into the splintered section.
The casual way he said it made my stomach drop. “Is everyone in town going to know by dinner?”
Tom laughed, tightening a screw. “Probably knew by lunch. But don’t worry too much about it. You’re not the first newcomer to have a run-in with the Black Wolves.”
“Black Wolves?” The name made my skin prickle. Different from the Vipers, but still predatory.
“Local MC.” He tested the door, making sure it swung properly. “Been the unofficial law around here for decades.”
I was perched on a kitchen stool, watching him work. “Are they…dangerous?”
His pause lasted just long enough to make my heart skip. “Depends on who you ask. And what you mean by dangerous.”
“I mean, should I be worried about what just happened?”
Tom wiped his hands on a rag, considering his words. “The Black Wolves keep order in Wolf Pike. Have since the seventies. Town’s too small, and too remote, for proper police presence, so they filled the gap. Traffic drugs out, keep bad elements away, and make sure businesses pay fair wages. They protect what’s theirs.”
My throat tightened. “And what’s theirs?”
“The town,” he said simply. “Everyone in it.”
Now, I slip into my most comfortable pajamas, the soft cotton a stark contrast to the black lace that’s currently in Ryder Kane’s possession. The thought sends another inappropriate shiver down my spine.
“Those Kane brothers,” Tom had continued, packing up his tools, “they’ve been gone five, six years. Nobody really knows where. Some say military contracts. Others say private security work overseas. Either way, they came back different. Focused. Started building businesses right away. Garage first. Now that diner they’re setting up. Won’t be the last, either.”
“They broke my door down because I hit their bikes,” I reminded him.
His smile was knowing in a way that made my cheeks heat. “Sure they did.”
Now, as I run a comb through my damp hair, his next words replay in my head with uncomfortable clarity.
“Thing about the brothers in this town—they’ve got patterns.” His face turned slightly pink. “Advantages and disadvantages to getting mixed up with them, depending on how you look at it.”
“What do you mean, patterns?”
He glanced toward his own apartment, lowering his voice. “They share. Women, I mean.”
The comb catches in a tangle. I wince, working it free. Share. Such a simple word for a concept that makes my stomach flip in ways it absolutely shouldn’t.
“Teller, Clay, and Kip were first,” Tom continued, face growing pinker. “Ayla was just supposed to be a nanny for that baby someone left on their doorstep. Next thing you know—” He snapped his fingers. “All three of them. Together.”
I stared at him, wondering if his wife knew just how much thought he’d put into the romantic lives of the town’s MC members.
“Then the Cross brothers with Evie,” he continued. “Single mother, two little girls. Running from her drug lord husband or something. Brought all kinds of mafia trouble to town, but the Wolves handled it. Now they’re all raising those kids together.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with my door,” I managed, though my face felt like it was on fire.
“Patterns, Rowan.” He tapped his temple. “Now there’s you and the Kane brothers.”
“I don’t—I’m not—” I sputtered. “I only just met them today when they broke in to confront me about their bikes!”
The look he gave me was almost pitying. “Patterns don’t lie. First day in town, and all three show up at your door? Trust me, I’ve lived here my whole life.”
I throw the comb onto my dresser with more force than necessary. What does Tom know? He’s just a nosy neighbor with too many theories about local motorcycle clubs and their dating habits.
“Wolf Pike’s different from other places,” he said, checking his work one final time. “People are free to live how they want here, love who they want. Nobody judges much.”
He was in the middle of another observation when Annie appeared in my doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “Tom, are you gossiping again?”
The way he jumped was almost comical. “Just explaining town dynamics to our new neighbor.”
“Mm-hmm.” Annie didn’t look convinced. “I’m sure that’s all you were doing. Come on, dinner’s ready.”
He left with a friendly wave and one final piece of advice: “Just keep an open mind. Wolf Pike has a way of giving people what they need, not what they think they want.”
I crawl into bed, pulling the blankets up despite the warmth of the night. My mind won’t stop replaying the day—the crash, the panic, the three brothers filling my doorway like they owned it.
The worst part is the curiosity that won’t leave me alone. I reach for my burner phone on the nightstand, hesitate, then grab it anyway. I’ve connected to the building’s Wi-Fi, a small indulgence that could be a security risk, but I need some normalcy after three months of paranoia.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type: What’s it called when multiple men share one woman?
The results make my cheeks burn. Polyandry. Reverse Harem and MFM relationships. I click through a few articles, each more explicit than the last. The heat that’s been simmering low in my belly all evening intensifies with each paragraph describing the dynamics, benefits, and logistics of such arrangements.
I toss the phone away like it’s suddenly burning hot, as if Dad might somehow know what I’ve been reading. What am I doing? I barely know these men. To them, I’m just a debtor who destroyed their property. A problem to solve.
But the image of Ryder sliding my underwear into his pocket makes that analysis feel weak. Why would he do that if I was just a problem? What possible reason could anyone have for taking a stranger’s underwear except…
My mind fills in scenarios I have no business imagining. Three pairs of hands. Three mouths. Three very different men all focused on one woman. The way Tom described it—like it was the most natural progression in the world.
My hand slides beneath the blankets almost of its own accord.
Fingers graze over bare skin, teasing along the waistband of my pajama shorts. A shiver runs through me as I press my thighs together, already aching, already wet from thoughts I shouldn’t be entertaining. But the need is there, insistent and thrumming through my veins like a drug.
I slip past the fabric, fingertips skimming over slick heat. My breath catches, my pulse hammering against my ribs as I spread my legs, giving myself over to the moment. The first slow stroke is a tease, a whisper-light touch that makes me bite my lip and arch my hips, needing more.
Ryder Kane. His name pulses in my mind like a forbidden mantra, his gray eyes flashing as he slid my underwear into his pocket. Did he bring them to his mouth? Inhale the scent of me? Wrap the delicate lace around his fist while he stroked himself?
The thought makes my fingers press deeper, seeking. A moan slips free before I can stop it, the quiet room amplifying the desperate sound. My clit is swollen, throbbing, so sensitive that the next touch sends sparks of pleasure rocketing up my spine.
I circle slowly, teasing myself the way I imagine he would—deliberate, controlled, making me beg before giving in.
But he wouldn’t be alone. No, not just Ryder. There would be two more. Three men, all watching. Their hands would be everywhere, their mouths hot against my skin, claiming, marking, possessing.
I slide a finger inside, then another, gasping at the stretch. My walls pulse around the intrusion, greedy for more. I rock my hips against my touch, grinding down, chasing something just out of reach. My other hand moves up, slipping beneath my sleepwear to pinch a tight nipple. The added sensation makes my legs shake, the pleasure too much, not enough, almost .
I imagine them—Ryder, dominant and smug, guiding my wrist, making me move slower, torturing me with restraint. His brothers, watching, murmuring filthy praise about how wet I am, how desperate. The weight of their gazes alone is enough to push me closer, closer.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my hips snapping up as I stroke my clit harder, faster. The pressure builds, white-hot, coiling low and tight, threatening to break. My thighs tremble, my breath hitching, the orgasm barreling toward me with devastating force.
Then—release.
It crashes over me, violent and all-consuming, dragging a raw moan from my throat as I shatter. My back bows off the mattress, fingers still working, milking every last wave of pleasure until I’m wrung out, shaking, spent.
I collapse against the sheets, my chest rising and falling in rapid pants. The air is thick with the scent of sex, and my skin is flushed, damp, and trembling with the aftershocks. My fingers are slick, my body boneless, a satisfied hum vibrating in my throat.
And yet, as exhaustion pulls me under, one last sinful thought lingers:
If just the fantasy of them can do this to me, what would the reality feel like?
I’m just a woman. Wanting. Taking. Having.
My limbs feel heavy with satisfied exhaustion. Sleep that had seemed impossibly distant now pulls at me with gentle insistence. I curl onto my side, mind still filled with images of three very different brothers and the way they looked at me.
Maybe this strange town with its motorcycle club protectors and brothers who share isn’t the worst place to make a fresh start. Maybe Tom is right about patterns.
Maybe I should keep an open mind.
Sleep claims me before I can decide if that’s wisdom or madness.