10. Alexandra
Rasmus stood in the doorway of the clubhouse like a glitch in the system.
He was exactly what I expected him to be: tall, composed, and dressed in a charcoal overcoat that looked far too expensive for a place that smelled like chain lube. He looked like a piece of Copenhagen architecture dropped into a scrapyard. He didn't flinch at the roar of the bikes outside or the heavy stares from the guys at the pool table; he just stood there, his gaze methodically sweeping the room with a quiet, sharp focus.
When his eyes finally landed on mine, I saw it—a split second where pure, raw relief flooded his face. Then, just as quickly, he pulled the mask back on, smoothing his expression into something polite and neutral for the benefit of the room.
I took a step toward him, my boots feeling loud on the floorboards.
“Alexandra?” he asks, his accent unmistakable.
“Lex. Yes. Rasmus?”
He smiles, relief breaking through again. “Finally. My mother was losing her mind.”
“I can imagine,” I say, returning the smile. “You got here fast.”
He shrugs out of his coat, casual about it. “I was already in the neighborhood. I train a few blocks from here. Thought I’d check in before heading home.”
“That explains it,” I say. “Efficient.”
He hums, amused. “Something like that.”
We move toward a quieter corner near the bar. I’m acutely aware of Stone’s presence the entire time. He hasn’t moved from where he was standing earlier, but I can feel his attention like a physical thing — heavy and unblinking. Watching. Assessing.
Rasmus notices.
“This is… an interesting place,” he says carefully.
“That’s one word for it.”
He listens as I give him the condensed version. Justin. The threats. The run. Ending up here. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t doubt me, just nods slowly like he’s filing everything away.
“You could stay with me,” he says once I finish. “At least for a few days. I have a spare room. It would be quieter.”
The offer is genuine, sensible. Exactly what I should say yes to.
I shake my head.
“I feel safe here,” I say, surprising myself with how easily the words come. “They’re… looking out for me.”
His gaze flicks, briefly, to Stone. “I can see that.”
“I really appreciate it,” I add. “I just—right now, I don’t want to move again.”
Rasmus studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay. But this isn’t off the table. Any time. Day or night.”
He slips his phone back into his pocket. “You have my number. Use it.”
“I will,” I promise.
“I’ll pick you up Monday morning,” he says. “We’ll go to the university together. You won’t have to do it alone.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For coming.”
“Of course,” he replies. “You’re under my mother’s protection now. That’s not something I argue with.”
He gives me one last look — careful, searching — then turns and heads for the door.
I don’t miss it this time.
Stone is watching.
He doesn’t move as Rasmus passes him. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even shift his stance. But something in his posture loosens — just a fraction — like a held breath finally let go.
Rasmus leaves alone.
When the door closes behind him, the space he occupied fills quickly with noise and movement. The bar is packed now. Music thumps louder. Laughter spills over itself. The party is in full swing.
I spot Stone near the pool table now, a couple of women lingering too close to him. One touches his arm, fingers sliding over his inked skin like she has every right to be there. Another presses in, laughing at something he didn’t say.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
He doesn’t touch them back.
His eyes find me across the room.
Something hot and unfamiliar twists low in my stomach, sharp enough to make me look away first.
I turn back to the bar, helping Ella pour drinks, trying to stay grounded in the routine. For a while, it works. Until a man I do not recognize stumbles up beside me, breath heavy with alcohol.
“Hey,” he slurs, breath heavy with alcohol. “You been standing here all night.”
I force a polite smile, the kind I’ve perfected since starting this job. “I’m working.”
“Then take a break,” he insists, swaying closer. His fingers reach out, clumsy at first, then more deliberate as they close around my wrist. “Come dance.”
My stomach tightens. “No,” I say sharply, pulling back.
He laughs, the sound too loud, too close. “Don’t be like that. Just one song.”
The music surges, bass vibrating through the floor, through my bones. His hand slides higher, thumb brushing my skin in a way that makes my pulse spike and my thoughts scatter.
“That’s enough.”
Stone is there suddenly, his voice low and even, cutting clean through the noise. One second the man’s grip is on me, the next Stone’s hand is wrapped around his wrist, peeling it away with controlled force.
“She said no,” Stone says.
The man scoffs, trying to laugh it off. “Relax, man. I was just—”
Stone steps closer, invading his space without raising his voice. “You’re done.”
Something in his tone lands hard. Whatever bravado the man had drains out of him. He mutters a curse under his breath and stumbles away into the crowd, swallowed by bodies and sound.
Stone turns back to me.
His hand doesn’t drop right away. His thumb brushes lightly over the inside of my wrist, right where the man grabbed me. Checking, like he needs to be sure without making a show of it.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod, even though my breath is still uneven. “Yeah.”
His hand lingers a second longer than necessary.
The music swells again, the crowd pressing in as if nothing happened. As if this is all just part of the night.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks.
I look up at him, already knowing my answer.
“Yes,” I say instantly.
He nods once and takes my hand — not tentative this time — his grip firm as he leads me through the crush of bodies toward the door. The contact sends a current up my arm. He doesn’t let go until the door swings open and cool night air spills in around us.
The noise of the clubhouse died the second the heavy door thudded shut behind us.
The parking lot was a pool of shadows, smelling of cooling asphalt and damp night air. His bike was waiting there—a low, matte-black silhouette that looked more like a predator than a machine. It sat hunched against the pavement, all chrome and muscle, looking like it had been carved out of the night itself.
Stone stopped beside the kickstand and turned to me. He didn't speak. He just stood there for a long, heavy beat, his gaze tracking over my face like he was looking for a crack he hadn't noticed before. He looked… undecided. Like he was weighing the risk of what came next.
"Helmet," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp in the stillness.
He lifted it from the leather seat and held it out. It was heavy, still warm from the sun or the engine. As I reached for it, our fingers brushed—just a second of skin against skin—and a sharp, electric jolt shot straight up my arm, settling right in the center of my chest.
I forgot how to breathe for a second..
“Put it on,” he adds, voice low.
I do, my movements clumsy, nerves making my hands fumble with the strap. He steps in without asking, fastening it for me. His knuckles graze my jaw and I go still.
“Too tight?” he asks.
“No.”
His gaze lingers, searching my face. “You sure?”
I nod.
He steps back, just enough to break the moment. “Okay. Get on.”
I hesitate and Stone notices. Of course he does.
“Foot on the peg first,” he says, slower now. “Take your time.”
I follow his instructions, the bike shifting slightly as I settle behind him. He waits until I’m steady before swinging a leg over, the space between us narrowing.
“Sit close,” he says. “Closer than that.”
Heat rushes to my face as I inch forward, my knees brushing his hips.
“Hold on to me,” he continues. “Not the bike.”
I wrap my arms around his waist, my palms flattening against his jacket. His body goes still under my touch.
“For balance,” he adds, after a beat. The pause gives him away.
The engine rumbles to life, deep and powerful, the vibration traveling through both of us. Stone’s hand comes back briefly, resting over mine — a warning or reassurance, I’m not sure.
“If you need me to slow down,” he says quietly, “tap my side.”
I nod, though I don’t think I could let go if I tried.
As we pull away from the clubhouse, the lights shrinking behind us, I tighten my grip, pressing closer as the road opens up ahead.