8. Rowan
8
ROWAN
Something pokes at my consciousness, dragging me from the deepest sleep I’ve had in months. Not sunlight—the room is still dark. Not noise—the apartment is silent except for my own breathing.
It’s the weight of eyes on me.
My lids flutter open, and I freeze. Three shadowy figures hover above my bed, their outlines barely visible in the predawn gloom. Every muscle in my body tenses as recognition hits.
Ryder. Brick. Maddox.
The Kane brothers are in my bedroom. Watching me sleep.
“You sleep like a dead person,” Maddox says, his voice too loud in the quiet room.
I jerk upright, clutching my blanket to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What the hell? How did you—” My voice comes out sleep-rough and panicked.
“Door was surprisingly easy to pick after yesterday’s repair job,” Maddox answers with a casual shrug, as if breaking into a woman’s apartment before dawn is perfectly normal behavior.
“What the actual fuck?” I scramble back until I hit the headboard, the blanket still gripped tight. My pajama top has ridden up during the night, and I’m painfully aware I’m wearing nothing underneath. “How long have you been standing there?”
Brick tilts his head, studying me with those intense green eyes. “Long enough to wonder if we needed to check your pulse.”
“Get out!” I snap, gesturing wildly toward the door. “You can’t just break into someone’s bedroom while they’re sleeping!”
Maddox looks at his brothers, eyebrow raised. “I told you guys breaking in was a bad idea.” That’s when I notice he’s holding one of my cupcakes from yesterday, already half-eaten.
“You’re eating my cupcakes?” My voice rises an octave. “While watching me sleep?”
“They’re really good,” he offers, as if that explains everything.
My brain scrambles to make sense of this bizarre scene. For one insane moment, I wonder if Tom’s stories about the brothers’ “sharing” habits have somehow manifested this surreal invasion. I push the thought away immediately. This isn’t about that. This is about three entitled men who think they own my space.
“Get up. Get ready.” Brick’s tone leaves no room for argument. “We have a long day ahead.”
I clutch the blanket tighter, suddenly very aware of what my body was doing in this very bed just hours ago.
“I told you yesterday,” Maddox says around a mouthful of cupcakes. “Six a.m.”
“It doesn’t give you the r?—”
“We knocked,” Brick cuts me off. “You didn’t answer. Had to make sure you weren’t trying to skip town on your debt.”
Ryder stands slightly apart from his brothers, saying nothing. His dark gray eyes scan my room with eerie intensity. When his gaze slides back to me, something in his expression makes heat climb my neck despite my anger.
“Fine,” I snap, needing them out of my personal space. “I’ll get ready. But you need to leave my room. Now.”
“Five minutes,” Brick says. “Or we come back in.”
The door closes behind them, and I collapse back against the pillows, my heart still racing. What kind of town have I landed in where men just let themselves into women’s apartments? Where businesses collect debts by kidnapping you at dawn?
The clock reads 5:17 a.m. No wonder I didn’t hear them knocking—if they ever did.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and immediately notice the state of my sheets. The evidence of last night’s activities is faint but unmistakable. Heat floods my face as I remember exactly what I was fantasizing about while making that mess.
The same three men who are now waiting in my living room.
Mortification battles with a strange, inappropriate thrill. Did they notice? Could they tell? God, I need to get those sheets in the wash immediately.
I gather my clothes and toiletries, then realize I’ve got another problem. The evidence of last night isn’t just on my sheets—it’s on me. My fingers still carry the faint scent of arousal, and the rest of me feels uncomfortably sticky.
I need a shower. I need to wash these sheets. I need these men out of my apartment so I can think straight.
First things first.
I strip the bed quickly, bundling the sheets into a tight ball. My laundry basket sits in the bathroom, but the washing machine is in a small alcove off the kitchen. Which means I have to walk past them.
In my pajamas. With nothing underneath.
My options are limited. I grab my towel and shower cap, planning my sprint to the bathroom. But the sheets need to go in the wash now before any of them might see.
Taking a deep breath, I wrap the towel securely around my body and tuck the corner in tight. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the thin cotton of my pajamas.
The living room falls silent as I emerge, sheets bundled against my chest, towel clutched with white knuckles. Three pairs of eyes snap to me immediately.
“Forgot something,” I mutter, skirting the edge of the room toward the kitchen.
The washing machine seems miles away as I feel their gazes tracking my movement. The towel suddenly feels too short, too precarious, as I bend to open the washer door. I shove the sheets in haphazardly, acutely aware of three sets of broad shoulders and watchful eyes behind me.
“Detergent,” I murmur, reaching for the shelf above. The towel slips slightly, and I clutch it with one hand while the other fumbles blindly for the soap. “Could one of you?—”
“Got it.” Maddox materializes beside me, reaching easily for the bottle I can’t quite grasp. His proximity makes my skin prickle.
I take the detergent without meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”
“No problem, sweetheart.” His voice has dropped an octave, and the casual endearment sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine.
I pour too much soap into the machine, slam the door, and twist the dial with shaking hands. The ancient washer groans to life.
“Could you please stop gawking at me?” I say to the room at large, still facing the washing machine. “A little decency would be nice.”
“Sorry.” Brick’s voice sounds anything but sorry. “Didn’t realize morning laundry was part of the agenda.”
When I turn, all three have at least made a show of looking elsewhere, though I can tell it’s costing them effort. I scurry back to the bathroom, feeling their attention like physical weight despite their averted eyes.
Once safely behind the locked door, I lean against it, my heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear or anger.
The shower can’t get hot enough to wash away the inappropriate heat pooling in my belly. I scrub every inch of my skin, washing away all traces of last night’s pleasure and this morning’s embarrassment.
By the time I emerge, pink-skinned and clean, I’ve got my composure back. I dig through my limited wardrobe and pull out the denim shorts I’ve had since before running.
They sit higher on my thighs than I remember, hugging curves that haven’t diminished despite months of gas station meals and stress. I thought I’d waste away during all this running, but my body stubbornly maintains its hourglass shape, hips and ass refusing to shrink no matter how irregular my meals become.
I tug the shorts down slightly, but they immediately ride back up. With a sigh, I pull on a simple white T-shirt that somehow looks tight across my chest despite being a size large. Three months on the run was supposed to make me disappear in more ways than one, but my body didn’t get the memo.
The sneakers are practical, at least, though they do nothing to downplay the curves that make blending in so difficult. I study myself in the mirror with a critical eye.
The outfit is cute, but draws attention in ways that someone in hiding probably shouldn’t risk. Still, there’s something defiant in dressing for myself instead of for survival or my father’s approval.
As I’m finishing my hair, I remember the perfume buried in my makeup bag.
The saleswoman had sworn by it, claiming her husband couldn’t keep his hands off her whenever she wore it. I bought it in a moment of defiance against Dad’s rules—a small act of femininity he couldn’t control. I never had a chance to wear it since the club had strict rules about personal scents interfering with business.
I dab it on my wrists and neck, inhaling the soft, sweet notes. It’s not about them, I tell myself. It’s about reclaiming something of myself after months of running.
“We don’t have all day,” Brick’s voice carries through the door.
I grab my small purse, checking that my burner phone and emergency cash are safely inside. One deep breath, and I open the door.
Three sets of eyes lock onto me immediately, tracking my movement from head to toe. I watch tension visibly leave their shoulders as they inhale, catching the delicate notes of my perfume.
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Brick’s eyes narrow as they reach my bare legs.
“Your shorts are way too short,” he says flatly. “We’re serving food at the diner, not ass.”
Maddox chokes on a laugh while Ryder’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly.
Heat floods my face. “Excuse me?”
“Kitchen safety,” Brick elaborates, crossing his arms. “Hot oil. Boiling water. You need pants, not…” He gestures at my legs with a dismissive wave.
“I’m a baker, not a fry cook,” I argue, but even as I say it, I know he’s right. The shorts are a kitchen accident waiting to happen.
“Five grand says you’re whatever we need you to be today and for the next two months,” Maddox reminds me with a grin. “Including properly dressed.”
I throw my hands up in surrender. “Fine! Give me one minute.”
Back in my room, I swap the shorts for comfortable jeans, muttering curses under my breath. The audacity of these men, breaking into my apartment at dawn, watching me sleep, criticizing my clothes…
And why does being ordered around by Brick send a little thrill through me?
When I emerge again, Brick gives my outfit a critical once-over before nodding. “Better. Let’s go.”
As they usher me toward the door, I catch a glimpse of the kitchen clock. 5:46 a.m. The sun isn’t even up yet, and already these three have turned my world upside down.