3. Stone
Letting go of her feels wrong.
Not dangerous-wrong or suspicious-wrong.
Just… wrong. Like stepping away from something fragile before you’re sure it can stand on its own.
She’s not alone. I make damn sure of that. Ink is still inside the infirmary, lingering near the door with his arms crossed, quiet and steady. Ella hovers nearby. Between the two of them, the woman sitting on the exam table is safe—for now.
Still, every instinct I have resists leaving.
Her hands are twisted together in her lap, knuckles pale. She looks smaller now that the panic has eased, like the adrenaline was the only thing holding her upright. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, chestnut strands catching the light when she moves, soft and slightly wild like she hasn’t had time to tame it for anyone else. Her eyes are green—sharp, vivid, too expressive for someone trying this hard to hold herself together. There’s nothing polished about her. No careful makeup, no calculated allure. Just quiet beauty worn raw, the kind you notice not because it demands attention, but because it feels real. Like something fragile that shouldn’t exist in a place like this.
Big eyes. Tear-reddened lashes. A mouth that trembles even when she’s not crying.
Beautiful.
The thought hits me uninvited, unwanted—and impossible to deny.
Not in a polished, high-maintenance way. Not the kind of beauty that demands attention the second she walks into a room. Hers is softer. Real. The kind that sneaks up on you when she looks at you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.
And when she ran toward us outside—hair loose, breath ragged, terror written all over her face—something in my chest locked onto her like a missile finding its target.
Protect.
I don’t know where that came from. I don’t get attached. I don’t react like that. Fear doesn’t usually pull at me—it sharpens me.
But the second I saw her stumble and fall, watched her curl in on herself between our bikes like she was trying to disappear, the world narrowed to one objective.
Get her inside. Get her safe.
Neon clears his throat softly behind me.
“Prez.”
I glance at him, then back at her one last time.
“You gonna be okay?” I ask gently. “I have to deal with this, but I’ll check on you as soon as I can. Make yourself at home, sweet.”
She nods, uncertainty flickering behind her eyes. “Y-yeah. I’ll be fine.”
It’s a lie, and we both know it—but it’s the best she’s got right now.
I step away before I change my mind.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click, sealing off the white sterility of the infirmary and the woman who already feels like a problem I don’t want to solve—but will anyway.
Neon falls into step beside me as we head down the hallway toward the bar. The music grows louder with every step, bass vibrating through the walls, voices bleeding together into a low, familiar hum. Normally, this sound settles me.
Tonight, it grates.
“Bruiser filled me in,” Neon says. “Girl came running in out of nowhere. Ella saw her go down hard outside. Guy followed her right up to the door.”
My jaw tightens.
“What kind of guy?”
“Not one of ours. Clean. Expensive jacket. The kind of prick who thinks he owns the sidewalk he’s standing on.”
Figures.
I think about the way she clutched my shirt when I pulled her close, like if she let go she’d fall apart entirely. The way her breathing stuttered before slowly evening out under my hands.
That wasn’t drama. That wasn’t attention-seeking.
That was fear etched into muscle and bone.
We push through the bar area. A few of the brothers straighten when they see us moving with purpose. They don’t ask questions. They don’t need to. Tension travels fast through a room like this.
Outside, the night air is cooler, carrying the familiar scents of oil, smoke, and asphalt.
Motorcycles line the curb, chrome flashing under the streetlights. Bruiser stands near the door, arms crossed, posture relaxed but alert. Riot is a few feet away with two prospects, their presence forming a quiet wall between the club and the street.
And then there’s him.
He’s pacing just beyond the reach of our lights, irritation rolling off him in waves. Tailored jacket. Neat hair. The kind of man who’s never had to raise his voice to be obeyed.
The moment he spots me, he stops pacing.
“You in charge?” he demands.
I walk toward him at an unhurried pace, boots steady against the pavement.
“They call me Stone,” I say. “I’m the president of the club.”
His lips thin. “Good. Then we can handle this like adults.”
“That depends,” I reply evenly. “What you’re doing outside my club.”
“I’m here for my student,” he snaps. “She ran in here after a misunderstanding.”
I stop a few feet from him.
“She didn’t look misunderstood,” I say calmly.
“That’s not your concern.”
“It became my concern when she crossed my threshold.”
He exhales sharply, clearly annoyed. “I’m Professor Justin Whitmore from Seaview University.” He hesitates, then adds, “The girl inside is Alexandra. Alexandra—” he waves a dismissive hand, “—something foreign. Exchange student.”
Alexandra.
The name settles into place like it’s always belonged there.
“She’s emotional,” Whitmore continues. “Unstable. These situations can escalate when boundaries blur. She panicked.”
My fingers curl slowly at my sides.
“She was terrified,” I say. “That doesn’t come from confusion.”
“You’re making assumptions.”
“I’m reading what’s in front of me.”
“You have no authority here,” he says coldly.
I step closer. Just enough that he has to tilt his head slightly to maintain eye contact.
“You’re standing outside my club,” I say quietly, “demanding access to a woman who ran in here shaking so hard she couldn’t breathe. You want to rethink your approach?”
For a moment, I think he might push it. Pride flares in his eyes. The kind that’s never been challenged by consequences.
He straightens, shoulders squaring like he’s decided dignity is something he can still salvage if he stands tall enough.
“She’s an exchange student,” he says, voice pitched to carry. “Which means she’s my responsibility. I can make a call. I can involve the university. Hell, I can involve the police if I think she’s in danger.”
A few heads turn.
“You can make whatever call you want,” I say evenly. “But you don’t decide where she stands. And you sure as hell don’t decide what danger looks like in my house.”
Justin’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick — the cuts, the silence, the fact that no one is backing him.
Then his gaze flicks past me—to Bruiser, to Riot, to the prospects standing like sentinels—and he recalculates.
“This isn’t over,” he mutters.
“It is for tonight,” I reply. “You leave. Now.”
He scoffs, spins on his heel, and stalks off down the street, anger stiffening every step.
I don’t move until he disappears into the dark.
Riot shifts beside me. He’s been with the club longer than most, built like a weapon and just as deliberate in how he uses it. As Sergeant at Arms, he’s the one who handles what needs handling — discipline, enforcement, the kind of violence that keeps the rest of us from needing it.
People who don’t know him see the scars, the permanent scowl, the way his hands never quite relax.
They miss the rest.
Riot doesn’t lose control. He chooses it. He’s the first to step in when things turn ugly and the first to stand down when they don’t. Loyal to the bone, protective in a way that doesn’t ask for recognition. He’s the kind of man you want at your back when lines get crossed — because once he decides someone’s a problem, they don’t get to be one for long.
“You want eyes on him?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Quiet ones.”
Riot nods and signals the prospects, who melt into the shadows without a word.
I turn back toward the door—already thinking about the woman inside, about Alexandra, about the way her body had relaxed against mine like it recognized something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.
That’s when Ink steps outside.
His expression is tight. Focused. Gone is the easy humor he usually wears like armor.
“Prez,” he says low.
Something in my gut goes cold.
“What is it?”
He glances back toward the infirmary door. Ink meets my eyes, voice dropping even further.
“You need to hear this.”