23. Rowan
23
ROWAN
Sunlight streams through my new curtains—soft blue ones I splurged on last week—and for a moment, I just lie here, letting my body remember last night. My thighs ache pleasantly. There’s a delicious soreness between my legs that makes me press them together, savoring the remainder of Maddox’s touch.
God, his hands. The way he hoisted me onto that counter like I weighed nothing. The heat of his breath against my skin. The filthy promises he whispered as he took his time with me.
“You ever been worshiped before, Rowan?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, heat flooding my cheeks at the memory. No, I hadn’t, not before him.
When I try to sit up, my muscles protest, and I can’t help the small smile that curves my lips. It almost feels like a dream, except for the very real evidence my body provides. The marks he left on my inner thighs. The slight tenderness of my breasts from his attention. The way he flipped me over so effortlessly, taking me from behind, his chest pressed to my back, his lips at my ear.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. I shouldn’t be thinking about this. About him. About any of them.
Especially not since I’ve now slept with two of the three brothers.
Tom’s knowing smile flashes in my mind. “Patterns don’t lie.” Was this what he meant? Am I just the next in line to fall into this strange Wolf Pike tradition of one woman with multiple brothers?
The thought sends another curl of heat through my belly, shameful and exciting all at once.
I grab my phone from the nightstand to check the time, and the date catches my eye. Two weeks. I have exactly two weeks left of my debt to the Kane brothers. The realization hits me like a bucket of cold water, and I sit up straight, suddenly wide awake.
Six weeks have gone by in a blur of baking, deliveries, and increasingly complicated feelings. Six weeks, and I haven’t made a concrete plan for opening my bakery in the empty storefront downstairs.
What happened to me? I came to Wolf Pike with one goal—disappear, start over, and open a legitimate business. The perfect cover for someone on the run. And yet here I am, half-settled into an apartment with new curtains and kitchen upgrades, sleeping with two of my bosses, and no actual business plan in sight.
The truth is uncomfortable—I’ve gotten attached. Not just to the brothers, though that’s definitely part of it, but to this life. To having a place where I belong, even if it’s temporary.
To the regulars at the diner who know my name and leave generous tips. To the extra cash from overtime when the diner’s short-staffed, which happens more often now that I’ve been picking up additional shifts.
Between what’s left of my weekly pay after the brothers take what I owe, the tips, and side baking gigs like the weed brownies for Mae, I’m doing better financially than I expected. My emergency fund is growing steadily, even with the small improvements to the apartment.
But what happens when the two weeks are up? When I’ve paid my debt and have no more excuses to see them every day?
The idea of partnering with the brothers for a real bakery has crossed my mind more than once. The thought is both tempting and terrifying. Putting down those kinds of roots would mean trusting them completely. Trusting that they won’t discover who I really am. Trusting that my father won’t find me.
I drag myself out of bed, wincing at the pleasant ache between my thighs, and head for the shower. The hot water soothes my muscles but does nothing to clear my jumbled thoughts.
As I’m toweling off, my phone pings with a text from Kate next door:
Don’t forget Ben’s birthday cake for tomorrow! He’s been talking about Spider-Man nonstop.
I smile despite my inner turmoil. Ben is turning two, and Kate commissioned me to make a special cake for his party. It’s a small job, but it means something—people here trust me with their celebrations and memorable moments.
I dress quickly in comfortable clothes, knowing I’ll need to start the birthday cake preparations today. The kitchen is still tidy from when Maddox cleaned up after our…activities…last night. Another memory that sends heat flaring through me—how he tucked me in afterward and kissed me softly before leaving.
It was so different from that night with Ryder. The same intensity but wrapped in something warmer, something that made me feel cherished rather than just desired.
With Ryder, it was raw and primal, a claiming. With Maddox, it was playful and passionate, almost tender at times, despite the filthy words and exhibitionist fantasy.
I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. I need coffee and breakfast, not daydreaming about the Kane brothers and their different approaches to reducing me into a trembling mess.
The coffee machine hums to life, and I lean against the counter, trying to focus on practical matters. I need to check my supplies for Ben’s cake. I should stop by the store for more food since Maddox demolished my leftover lasagna. I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do when my two weeks are up.
Open my own place? Keep working at the diner? Both? Neither?
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour myself a generous cup, adding a splash of cream. The first sip helps clear my mind a little, but the fundamental problem remains: I’m afraid of building something permanent here because I’ve grown too attached—to this town, to this life, to three brothers who’ve gotten under my skin in very different ways.
I’m halfway through my second cup when my phone rings. The number isn’t saved in my contacts, but something about it looks vaguely familiar. Probably another commission request. People in town are starting to know I bake on the side.
“Hello?” I answer, setting my mug down.
There’s a pause, just long enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Then—
“Rowan.” My father’s voice, cold and precise, slices through the quiet of my kitchen. “You little piece of?—”
I drop the phone like it’s burned me, my heart hammering against my ribs. How? How did he find this number? I’ve been so careful, changing burners every few weeks and never using the same one for too long.
His voice continues, tinny but distinct, spilling threats from the phone on my floor. I snatch it up, hands shaking so badly I can barely press the power button. It’s not enough. He’s found this number. He could trace it, track it, find me.
In a surge of panic, I grab a hammer from my kitchen drawer and smash the phone, again and again, until it’s nothing but broken plastic and shattered glass. Only then does his voice finally stop.
I sink to the floor, back against the cabinets, knees pulled to my chest. After all these months of running, of building a new life, of thinking I was finally safe—he’s found me.
Or at least he’s getting closer.
I need to run. I need to warn Emma. I need to disappear again before he can trace this call, before his men show up at my door.
But as I sit on the floor, surrounded by the remnants of my destroyed phone, a different thought surfaces: I don’t want to run. Not this time.
I’m tired of running. Tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of giving up pieces of myself every time I start to build something good.
For the first time since I left San Francisco, I don’t want to run away.
I want to stand my ground.