12. Alexandra
The ride back feels like something out of a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.
The night still clings to me, salt air and wind and the low vibration of the motorcycle humming through my bones. I’ve been awake far too long. My body should be begging for rest. Instead, I feel wide open, charged with something restless and bright.
I keep replaying the moment at the overlook.
The way Stone leaned in. The way his breath hovered just close enough for me to feel it. How he stopped himself.
I know he wanted to kiss me. And a jagged, restless part of me wishes he hadn’t stopped. I don't know why, but I'm tired of questioning it.
Reality seeps back in as we roll into the clubhouse lot. The sky is a bruised, pale grey, the air turning thin and sharp. Stone cuts the ignition, and the sudden silence is deafening.
I slide off the bike, my boots hitting the pavement, and that’s when I feel it. The shift.
Stone’s shoulders lock. His head snaps sideways, his entire body going from “man” to “predator” in a heartbeat. I follow his gaze to a few men standing near the entrance, smoking. They’re dressed well—too well. They don’t have the grease and grit of the club; they have the polished, lethal look of corporate soldiers.
Stone’s jaw tightens so hard I can hear his teeth grind.
He reaches for my hand. It isn’t a gentle let’s go gesture. It’s decisive. He threads his fingers through mine, a silent claim that feels like the only natural thing in the world. He pulls me toward the door.
Every step feels like a statement.
Mine.
At the entrance, he stops suddenly and turns me into him, one hand sliding to my waist. My breath catches.
“Go find Ella, sweet,” he murmurs, voice low. “Stay with her.”
At the entrance, he stops and pivots, turning me into his chest. One hand slides to my waist, his palm a brand through my clothes.
“Go find Ella, sweet,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “Stay with her.”
Before I can blink, he leans down and presses a kiss to my temple. It’s brief, but it sends a flood of needy, unhelpful butterflies exploding through my ribs. Then he’s gone, releasing me into the heat of the clubhouse.
I walk back inside on legs that feel a little like glass, my skin still buzzing where his hand touched me. The heat of the clubhouse hits me all at once but it feels different now.
Ella is already behind the bar, hair pulled up, sleeves rolled, moving with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times. She looks up when she sees me.
“You survive the night?” Ella asks, sliding a rag across the bar.
“Barely,” I say, trying for casual. “Who were those guys outside?”
Her hand stills for half a second before she keeps wiping. “What guys?”
I lift a brow. “The ones who looked like they’d wandered into the wrong movie.”
Ella exhales through her nose. “You’re observant.”
“So?” I press.
She glances toward the long table, where Stone has just walked in with Bruiser and Riot. The unfamiliar men follow behind them, posture confident, voices low, their energy off in a way I can’t quite name. Like they’re wearing the wrong skin.
“There are rules,” Ella says carefully. “Club stuff stays with the brothers. Even I don’t get details.”
“That’s fair,” I say. “I’m not fishing. Just… curious.”
Engine appears beside her, crowding into her space like he owns it — which, judging by the way she leans into him, he does. He steals a fry off a nearby plate and shrugs.
“Eastern Europe,” he says easily. “They’re looking to set up a charter back home. That’s about all you need to know.”
Ella flicks a glance at him, then back to me. “Huh.”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s not exactly a secret.”
I glance back toward the table. The men have settled in together now, voices low, movements practiced. Stone doesn’t look away from them for long.
“Nothing to worry about?” I ask quietly.
Ella’s answer comes without hesitation. “No, not right now.”
I nod and grab another rag, helping her clean up the aftermath of the party — sticky counters, empty glasses, the dull ache of too much noise too late into the night. The normalcy of it all helps settle me, even with the weight of unfamiliar eyes in the room.
“So,” Ella says casually, sliding a crate beneath the bar. “Stone.”
I nearly drop the glass I’m holding. “What about him?”
She grins. “Just… Stone?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say too quickly.
Her smile widens. “Your ears are red.”
I turn away, cheeks burning.
A little while later, two of the foreign men drift up to the bar. They move like they belong anywhere they choose to stand — relaxed, unhurried. One orders whiskey, the other beer, their English clipped but functional. Polite. Forgettable.
The moment Ella steps away for ice, they shift. The language changes.
Romanian.
My stomach drops so fast I have to brace my hands against the counter.
?Nu pare greu,” one of them murmurs, gaze sliding toward the long table where the patched men sit. ?Americanii au ?ncredere repede, mai ales cand recunosc un nume.” (It doesn’t seem hard. Americans trust quickly, especially when they recognize a name.)
The other nods, amused. ?Broken Halos,” he says softly, like it’s already been proven. (Broken Halos.)
?Totul e ?n mi?care?” (Everything in motion?)
?Da,” comes the easy reply. ?Am folosit deja numele lor pentru achizi?ie — nimeni n-a pus ?ntreb?ri. Actele sunt curate, armele sunt gata, iar cand intr? ?n State vor p?rea doar ca ?nc? un transport care trece prin teritoriu cunoscut.” (Yes. We already used their name for the acquisition — no one asked questions. The paperwork is clean, the weapons are ready, and once they enter the States they’ll look like just another shipment moving through familiar territory.)
My pulse hammers.
?Dac? func?ioneaz?,” the second adds, voice calm, calculating, ?putem construi pe asta. Droguri, fete. Mai mult decat arme. Numele deschide u?i, iar ei nici nu vor ?ti c? le-au f?cut.” (If it works, we can build on it. More than weapons. Drugs, girls. The name opens doors, and they won’t even know they’ve opened them.)
The first lifts his glass slightly. ?Iar dac? ceva iese la suprafa??, nu va fi despre noi. Va fi despre americani.” (And if anything comes to the surface, it won’t be about us. It’ll be about the Americans.)
They clink their drinks, satisfied, and take a long pull — like the risk has already been calculated and accepted.
The word girls lodges in my throat.
My stomach turns hard, acid rising fast enough that I have to swallow it back. Not shock — recognition. I grew up knowing this existed. In Romania, you learn early which doors don’t open twice, which offers come with hooks, which disappearances don’t make the news. Everyone knows someone who left and came back hollow. Or didn’t come back at all.
Hearing it said so casually — folded into business, into expansion — makes my skin crawl.
I press my palm flat to the bar, breathing through the wave of nausea. I can't show any reaction, they don't know I understood them.
This is rot. And the fact that they’re willing to drape it in someone else’s name — to let someone else take the fall while they stay clean. Not just someone else. Stone.
I keep my head down, hands moving on autopilot, heart hammering so hard I’m sure it must show. Every instinct screams at me to run, to interrupt, to do something — but I don’t. I listen.
They thank me in accented English, polite again, and drift back toward the table like nothing of consequence was said.
Like they didn’t just outline a plan to use Broken Halos’ name as cover. Like they didn’t just decide who would take the fall.
I watch Stone’s back as he talks to Bruiser, the weight of what I’ve heard settling heavy and cold in my chest.
I know I need to tell him.
And I know it can’t wait.
The thought of interrupting him, of walking straight into that circle of men, makes my nerves spike. But something else pushes through the fear. The memory of his hand on my waist. The way he watched the room. The way he protected me without question.
I straighten my shoulders, walk around the bar, and make a beeline for the head table before I can second-guess myself. Stone looks up, his eyes narrowing as I approach, but I don’t give him a chance to speak.
I don’t stop.
I turn and drop straight into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, my weight settling against him, one knee brushing his thigh, my hand finding his shoulder for balance. His body goes rigid beneath me—all heat and hard muscle. My hand finds his shoulder for balance.
I lean in close, my mouth near his ear.
“Are you done yet?” I murmur, not bothering to hide the impatience in my voice.
“I need you,” I add quietly. “Right now.”
The table goes silent.
Stone’s breath shifts against my neck.
And I know — without a doubt — that I have his attention.